Mull. One of them who was known as Lovely _Mairearad_[24] had a fairy
sweetheart, who came where she was, unknown to anyone, until one
day she confided the secret to her sister, who was called Ailsa[25]
(_Ealasaid_), and told her how she dearly loved her fairy sweetheart.
“And now, sister,” she said, “you will not tell any one.” “No,” her
sister answered, “I will not tell any one; that story will as soon
pass from my lips as it will from my knee (_o’m ghlùn_)”; but she did
not keep her promise; she told the secret of the fairy sweetheart to
others, and when he came again, he found that he was observed, and he
went away and never returned, nor was he seen or heard of ever after
by any one in the place. When the lovely sister came to know this, she
left her home and became a wanderer among the hills and hollows, and
never afterwards came inside of a house door, to stand or sit down,
while she lived. Those who herded cattle (_ag uallach threud_) tried
frequently to get near her and persuade her to return home, but they
never succeeded further than to hear her crooning a melancholy song
in which she told how her sister had been false to her, and that the
wrong done to her would be avenged on the sister or her descendants, if
a fairy (_neach sìth_) has power. On hearing that Ailsa was married,
she repeated, “Dun Ailsa is married and has a son Torquil, and the
evil will be avenged on her or on him (_phòs, phòs Ealasaid Odhar,[26]
&c._).” What she hummed in her mournful song was:--
My mother’s place is deserted, empty and cold,
My father, who loved me, is asleep in the tomb,
Friendless and solitary I wander through the fields,
Since there is none in the world of my kindred
But a sister without pity.
She asked, and I told, out of the fulness of my joy;
There was none nearer of kin to know my secret;
But I felt, and this brought the tears to my eyes,
(_lit._, raindrip on my sight),
That a story comes sooner from the lip than from the knee.
She was then heard to utter these wishes--
May nothing on which you have set your expectations ever grow,
Nor dew ever fall on your ground.
May no smoke rise from your dwelling,
In the depth of the hardest winter,[27]
May the worm be in your store,
And the moth under the lid of your chests.
If a fay-being has power,
Revenge will be taken though it may be on your descendants.
Tha suidheag mo mhàthar gu fàs, falamh, fuar,
Tha m’ athair ’thug luaidh dhomh ’n a shuain fo ’n lic.
Gun daoine gun duine na raoin tha mi ’siubhal,
’S gun ’s an t-saoghal do ’m chuideachd
Ach piuthar gun iochd.
Dh’ iarr ise ’s thug mise do mheud mo thoil-inntinn;
’S mi gun neach ’bu disle g’ an innsinn mo rùn;
Ach dh’ fhairich mi sid ’s thug e snidh’ air mo léirsinn
Gur luaithe ’thig sgeul o ’n bheul na o ’n ghlùn.
An sin thuirt i na guidheachan so:--
“Na-na-chinn ’s na-na-chuir thu t-ùidh,
’S na-na-shil an driùchd ad shlios,
’S na-na-rug ad bhothan smùid
Ann an dùlachd crùth an crios;
Gu ’n robh a’ chnuimheag ann ad stòr
’S an leòmann fo bhòrd do chist’;
Ma tha cumhachd aig neach sìth,
Dìolar ge b’ ann air do shliochd.”
Ailsa (_Ealasaid_) married, and had one son. In some way her afflicted
sister heard of this, and she then added to her song--
Dun Ailsa has married,
And she has a son Torquil.
Brown-haired Torquil who can climb the headland
And bring the seal off the waves,
The sickle in your hand is sharp,
You will in two swaths reap a sheaf.
Phòs, phòs Ealasaid Odhar,
’S tha mac aice--Torcuil.
Torcuil donn ’dhìreadh sròin,
’S a bheireadh ròn bhàrr nan stuadh,
Bu sgaiteach do chorran ’n ad dhòrn
’S dheanadh tu dhà dhlòth an sguab.
Whatever gifts the brown-haired only child of her sister was favoured
with, besides others, he was a noted reaper, but this gift proved fatal
to him (_dh’ fhòghainn e dha_). When he grew up to manhood, he could
reap as much as seven men, and none among them could compete with him.
He was then told that a strange woman was seen coming to the harvest
fields in autumn, after the reapers had left, and that she would reap a
field before daylight next morning, or any part of the ripe corn that
the reapers could not finish that day, and in whatever field she began,
she left the work of seven reapers, finished, after her. She was known
as the Maiden of the Cairn (_Gruagach[28] a’ chùirn_), from being seen
to come out of a cairn over opposite. One evening then, brown-haired
Torquil, who desired to see her at work, being later than usual of
returning home, on looking back saw her beginning in his own field.
He returned, and finding his sickle where he had put it away, he took
it with him, and after her he went. He resolved to overtake her and
began to reap the next furrow, saying, “You are a good reaper or I will
overtake you;” but the harder he worked, the more he saw that instead
of getting nearer to her, she was drawing further away from him, and he
then called out to her,
“Maiden of the cairn, wait for me, wait for me.” (_’Ghruagach a’
chùirn, fuirich rium, fuirich rium._)
She said, answering him,
“Handsome brown-haired youth, overtake me, overtake me.” (_’Fhleasgaich
a’ chuil-duinn, beir orm, beir orm._)
He was confident that he would overtake her, and went on after her till
the moon was darkened by a cloud; he then called to her,
“The moon is clouded (_lit._ smothered by a cloud), delay, delay.”
(_Tha ’ghealach air a mùchadh fo neòil, fuirich rium, fuirich rium._)
“I have no other light but her, overtake me, overtake me,” she said.
He did not, nor could he, overtake her, and on seeing again how far she
was in advance of him, he said, “I am weary with yesterday’s reaping,
wait for me, wait for me.” She answered, “I ascended the round hill
of steep summits (_màm cas nan leac_), overtake me, overtake me;” but
he could not. He then said, “My sickle would be the better of being
sharpened (_air a bhleath_), wait for me, wait for me.” She answered,
“My sickle will not cut garlic, overtake me, overtake me.” At this she
reached the head of the furrow, finished reaping, and stood still where
she was, waiting for him. When he reached the head of his own furrow,
he caught the last handful of corn,[29] to keep it, as was the custom,
it being the “Harvest Maiden” (_a’ mhaighdean-bhuana_), and stood with
it in one hand and the sickle in the other. Looking at her steadily in
the face, he said,
“You have put the old woman far from me, and it is not my displeasure
you deserve.” (_Chuir thu a’ chailleach fada uam ’s cha b’ e mo ghruaim
a thoill thu._)[30]
She said,
“It is an evil thing early on Monday to reap the harvest maiden.”
(_’S dona ’n ni_ (var., _mì-shealbhach_) _moch Di-luain dol a bhuain
maighdein._)
On her saying this, he fell dead on the field and never more drew
breath. The Maiden of the Cairn was never afterwards seen, nor heard
of; and that was how the sister’s wishes ended.
NOTES:
[23] Boats made of twigs and covered with hides, the hairy side of the
skin being uppermost, could go long distances over rough seas.
[24] This name is sometimes rendered in English, Margaret. Erraid Isle
(_Eilean earraid_) is in the Sound of Iona, south of Mull.
[25] The rock of Ailsa in the firth of Clyde is called in Gaelic _Creag
Ealasaid_, and _Ealasaid a’ chuain_ (Ailsa of the sea). A round grey
rock lying near the shore in Mannal, south side of Tiree, is called
_Sgeir Ealasaid_, the Ailsa rock. The name _Ealasaid_ is in English
also Elizabeth and Elspeth.
[26] _Odhar_, dun or grey, is applied to cattle; as, _bò mhaol odhar_,
a dun hornless cow; _gabhar mhaol odhar_, a grey goat: it is sometimes
used as an expression of contempt, as _creutair odhar_, a dun
creature. The diminutive of _odhar_, _odhrag_, is a pet name for a cow.
[27] The words of the first four lines of “the wishes,” are, as regards
their form in the Gaelic text, almost unintelligible; they merely
represent the sounds uttered by the reciter, without being correct
either in form or composition. The sounds belonging to the first line
might, for instance, have been represented thus:--_’Na ana-chìnnt ’s ’n
a an-shocair dhuit d’ ùidh_: perhaps the utterance was intentionally
ambiguous.--(Ed.)
[28] _Gruagach_, the supernatural being, in this instance was said
to be a woman; but _gruagach_ usually meant a chief. (See Vol. IV.,
Argyllshire series, p. 193.)
[29] There was a custom at one time, that the last handful of corn that
was cut, and which finished the harvest, was taken home by the reaper,
who was usually the youngest person in the family who could reap. The
bunch was tastefully decorated and kept, at least till the following
year, as the harvest maiden.
[30] It was also a custom in other times for old women to go about
asking charity, and if infirm, they were carried about from house to
house and villages, and whoever was last in a township to finish the
reaping of his corn had to maintain one that year, and the same thing
might happen to him the next year. When the run-rig system was common,
the last furrow of corn was sometimes left standing as no one could be
got to own it, through fear of having to keep the old woman for a year.
THE DARK, OR PITCH-PINE, DAUGHTER OF THE NORSE KING,
AND HOW SHE THINNED THE WOODS OF LOCHABER.
When the Norsemen came, and their visits were frequent and numerous,
to this country and these islands, to lay claim to and take possession
of the land, the fame they gathered for themselves through their
indulgence in every manner of cruel spoliation, and slaughter of the
people wherever they landed, was that they were a bold, courageous,
hardy, rough (“The Norsemen a rough band”), peremptory and unscrupulous
race, and more than that, it was attributed to them that they practised
witchcraft, charms, and enchantments, and had much of other unhallowed
learning among them. The Norse King’s eldest daughter was particularly
noted for her knowledge of the “Black Art.” There was no accident or
mischance that befell friends, or destruction that overtook enemies,
or any luck or good fortune that attended either friend or foe, but
it was said that she was the cause of it, or had some hand in it. She
was famed at home and abroad, far and wide, for her skill among cows
and cattle, she was said to possess every variety of dairy knowledge
in her father’s kingdom. There was no charm or evil eye that fell on
any living creature in the fold but she could dispel and avert, nor
hurt nor injury they got but she could heal, nor dizziness nor fits
into which they fell, from which she could not restore them, until
it was said of her that the lowing of cattle, the incoherent cry of
calves, and the rough cry of yearlings was to her the sweetest and most
soothing music, and that she would answer the call of cattle, though
she might be lost in the midst of the northern woods, and the cry from
the nethermost part of the farthest off quarter of the universe. She
knew the herb that had the property of taking its qualities from milk,
as well as she was acquainted with the spells by which its virtues
could be restored, and every charm and invocation that was practised or
then esteemed. The flowers of the meadows and woods were as familiar to
her as the ridges of corn or a grain on straw, and there was not a leaf
on tree, bush, or shrub, with whose properties she was not acquainted.
Her father’s kingdom was clothed with pine wood, and was then as now
famous for the fine quality of the wood from which most of the wealth
of the kingdom was obtained.
One of those times when the Norsemen came to Scotland to take
possession of and sub-divide the land thus taken, they observed that
the pine wood of Lochaber was growing so fast, and extending so far,
that in time it might supersede the Black Forests of Sweden. But on
this occasion the northern forces were driven back. On reaching home
they reported the matter to the king, and their opinion, that the
increase of the wood must be checked, otherwise his northern woods
would be of little esteem.
It occurred to the King to consult his daughter on the matter, since
she was learned, and to get knowledge from her of the best method of
thinning and destroying the Scottish wood. She gave him the desired
information, but said that she must be the bearer of the method and
must necessarily go to Scotland herself. She obtained the King’s
permission and made preparations for the journey.
From the gifts she possessed, neither sea nor land, air nor earth
could hinder her progress until she accomplished her purpose. When she
reached Lochaber the method she adopted was to kindle a fire in the
selvage of her dress, and she then began to go through the woods, and
as she could travel in the clouds as well as on the ground, when she
ascended and whirled in the air, the sparks of fire that flew from her
dress were blown hither and thither by the wind and set the woods on
fire, until the whole country was almost in a blaze, and so darkened
by the smoke, that one could hardly see before them; and, from being
blackened more than any tree in the forest, by the smoke and soot of
the fiery furnace which surrounded her, she was known and spoken of by
the name of “Dark, or Pitch Pine.” The people gathered to watch her,
but from the rapidity of her ascent and the swiftness with which she
descended, they could not grasp her any more than they could prevent
her, and were at a loss what to do. At last, they sought instruction
from a learned man in the place. He advised them to collect a herd of
cattle in a fold, wherever she would stand still, and whenever she
heard the lowing of the cattle she would descend, and when she was
within gun-shot they were to fire at her with a silver bullet, when she
would become a faggot of bones. They followed this advice and began to
gather cattle and follow after her until the pinfold large and small
was full set in the “Centre of Kintail.” Whenever she heard the cry of
the herd she descended and they aimed at her with the silver bullet,
as the wise man told them to do, and she fell gently among them. Men
lifted the remains and carried them to Lochaber, and to make sure that
dead or alive she would do no more injury to them, they buried her in
Achnacarry; and the person from whom the story was first heard nine
years ago [1880] said that he could put his foot on the place where she
was buried.
The Norse King was amazed at his daughter not returning, and at his
not receiving any account from her. He sent abroad to get tidings of
her. When the news of the disaster that happened to her was brought
to him, he sent a boat and crew to bring her home, but the Lochaber
women by their incantations destroyed those whom he sent. The boat was
wrecked, and the men lost, at the entrance to Locheil. The next ships
that came were not more successful. The third time the King sent out
his most powerful fleet. What they did then was to send and try through
spells to dry up the wells of the Fairy Hill of Iona. The virtue of
these wells was that wind could be obtained from any desired quarter by
emptying them in the direction of the wind wished for. When the ships
were seen approaching, the wells began to be emptied, and before the
last handful was flung out, the storm was so violent, and the ships
so near, that the whole fleet was driven on the beach under the Fairy
Hill, and the power and might of the Norsemen was broken and so much
weakened that they did not return again to infest the land.
AN DUBH GHIUBHSACH, NIGHEAN RIGH LOCHLAINN,
AGUS MAR A CHRIONAICH I COILLE LOCHABAIR.
Mar thàinig na Lochlannaich an toiseach, ’s bu bhitheanta sin, air
feadh nan dùthchannan ’s nan eileinean so, a thogail chòraichean ’s a
ghabhail sealbh air fearann, ’s e an cliù a choisinn iad dhaibh féin,
leis gu ’n robh iad ris a h-uile seòrsa léir-chreach ’s milleadh air
muinntir nan àiteachan a bha iad a’ ruigheachd, gu ’n robh iad ’n an
daoine dalma, misneachail, cruaidh-chridheach, borb. “Lochlannaich, a’
bhuidheann bhorb,” neo-easmaileach, neo-thròcaireach ’s a thuilleadh
air sin, bha e air chur as an leth gu ’n robh buidseachd agus
druidheachd ’s iomadh eòlas toirmisgte eile ’n am measg.
Bha ’n nighean a bu sine aig Righ Lochlainn sònraichte ainmeil air
son na bh’ aice de ’n “Sgoil Dubh.” Cha robh sgiorradh no tubaist a
thachaireadh do chàirdean, no sgrios a thigeadh air naimhdean, no math
no rath a dh’ éireadh do h-aon diù, nach robh e air a ràdhainn gur i
b’ aobhar-cinn dha, no gu ’n robh làmh thaobh-eiginn aice ann. Bha i
aig an tigh ’s uaithe fada ’s farsuinn comharraichte air son sgil am
measg cruidh ’s feudail; ’s ann aice bha gach seòrsa eòlas cruidh ’an
rìoghachd a h-athar. Cha robh sian no sùil a laidheadh air creutair
beo ’s a’ bhuaile nach togadh i, no tuaineal no ceangal ’s an rachadh
iad nach fhuasgladh i, gus an abairteadh gur e geumnaich cruidh,
blaomannaich laogh agus ràcaireachd ghamhna an t-aon cheòl cadail a bu
bhinn leatha, ’s gu ’m freagradh i ’n uair a chluinneadh i ’n spréidh
ged bhiodh i ’n a suain an teis-meadhon coille dhubh a h-athar ’s an
geum o cheann ìochdar iomall an domhain.
B’ aithne dh’ i an lus a bheireadh an toradh as a’ bhainne co math ’s
a b’ aithne dh’ i na h-eòlais a thilleadh air ais e, agus gach seòrsa
sian agus oradh a bha air a chleachdainn no air a chunntas feumail ’s
an àm. Bha gach luibh ’s a’ mhachair no ’s a’ choille co-ionnan dh’
i ri arbhar nan imirean no spilgean cònlaich, ’s cha robh duilleag
air craoibh, no preas, no dris, nach b’ aithne dh’ i. ’S an àm so bha
dùthaich a h-athar còmhdaichte le coille ghiubhais, agus iomraideach
(mar tha fhathast) air son co math ’s a bha a fiodh, ’s bha neart de
bheartais na rìoghachd ’tighinn a stigh air a tailibh.
Uair de na h-uairean sin thàinig na Lochlannaich do Albainn a thoirt
a mach fearainn ’s a dheanamh roinn na còrach air na gheibheadh iad,
’s thug iad fainear gu ’n robh coille ghiubhais Lochabair a’ fàs ’s
a’ gabhail roimpe co mòr ’s gu ’m faodtadh e ’bhi gu ’n cuireadh i
stad air coille dhubh na Suain. Chaidh feachd Lochlannach an uair so
thilleadh air ais an taobh a thàinig iad, ’s ’n uair a ràinig iad
dhachaidh dh’ innis iad do ’n righ mar bha iad ’am beachd a thachradh
’s gu ’m feumadh stad a chur air cinneas na coille Albanaich neo nach
bitheadh mòran meas air a’ chonnadh aige-san. ’S e smuaintich an
righ bho ’n a bha h-uile ionnsachadh aig a nighean gu ’n cuireadh e
’chomhairle rithe, ’s gu ’m faigheadh e fiosrachadh uaipe ’d e an dòigh
a b’ fhearr ’s a bu luaithe air a’ choille Albanaich a dheanamh na bu
lugha ’s a crìonadh. Dh’ innis i dha, ach gu ’m bitheadh aice fhéin ri
dol ann. Fhuair i cead o ’n Rìgh, ’s rinn i deas air son falbh; ’s leis
na cumhachdan a bh’ aice cha chuireadh muir no tìr, talamh no adhar,
stad air a ceum gus an ruigeadh i ceann thall a’ ghnothaich.
’N uair a ràinig i Lochabair ’s e ’n dòigh a ghabh i, dh’ fhadaidh i
teine ’an iomall a gùin ’s ghabh i gu siubhal roimh ’n choille, ’s
leis gu robh comas aice falbh anns na neòil co math ’s air an talamh,
dhìreadh i suas agus ’n uair bha i ’dìreadh ’s a’ cur cuairteig anns an
adhar, bha na sradagan teine a bha ’falbh as a gùn a’ dol gach taobh
leis a’ ghaoith ’s a’ lasadh na coille gus an robh an dùthaich uile gu
bhi ’n a caoirean teintich ’s co dùinte le deathaich ’s gur gann a bu
léir do dhuine lias, ’s a chionn gu ’n robh i fhéin air fàs anns an
deathaich ’s anns an t-sùith na bu duibhe na craobh ’s a’ choille, ’s e
“An Dubh Ghiùbhsach” a theireadh iad rithe.
Bha muinntir na dùthcha cruinn còmhla ’g a feitheamh ’s cha chumadh iad
sealladh oirre leis co àrd ’s a rachadh i anns na speuran ’s co luath
’s a thèarnadh i gu talamh. Cha b’ urrainn iad greim fhaighinn oirre
na bu mhotha na b’ urrainn iad stad a chur oirre, ’s cha robh fios aca
’d e a dhèanadh iad. Mu dheireadh chaidh iad air son fòghluim gu duine
ionnsaichte a bha ’s an dùthaich. Thuirt esan riu, buaile cruidh a
chruinneachadh far an stadadh i, ’s ’n uair a chluinneadh i ’n fheudail
’s a’ bhuar gu ’n tèarnadh i; ’s an uair a bhiodh i mar urchair gunna
uapa iad a losgadh oirre le peileir airgid, ’s gu ’n rachadh i ’n a
cual chnàmh. Ghabh iad a chomhairle ’s thòisich iad air togail chreach
’s air ise leantuinn gus an robh a’ bhuaile làn-suidhichte le crodh
ann an Crò-Chintàile. Co luath ’s a chuala ise a’ gheumnaich theirinn
i ’s loisg iad oirre leis a’ pheileir airgid mar dh’ iarr an duine
glic orra, ’s thuit i ’n a ceòsaich ’n am measg. Thog iad eadar dhaoine
am pronnan a bh’ aca dhi ’s thug iad leo do Lochabair i, ’s chum gu
’m bitheadh iad cinnteach nach dèanadh i cron beò no marbh dhoibh
tuilleadh, thìodhlaic iad i ann an Achanacairidh; ’s am fear bho ’n
deachaidh an naigheachd a chluinntinn an toiseach--anns a’ bhliadhna
1880--bha e ’g ràdhainn gu ’m b’ urrainn dha a chas a chur air an uaigh
anns an do chuireadh i.
Bha ioghnadh air Righ Lochlainn nach robh a nighean a’ tilleadh no
sgeul uaipe. Chuir e forfhais a mach, ’s trà chualaic e mar thachair
dhi, chuir e bàta ’s sgioba air son a toirt dachaidh, ach dh’ fhoghain
mnathan Lochabair le ’n ubagan dh’ i. Chaidh a briste ’s na daoine
chall, aig bun Lochiall. Cha d’ ràinig an ath chabhlach na bu mhò. ’S
an treasa uair trà chuir an Righ mach feachd na rioghachd ’s e rinn
iadsan, chuir iad eòlas a thaomadh tobraichean Dhun-I, ’s bha e ’n cois
an eòlais, rathad ’s am bith a rachadh na tobraichean a thaomadh gu ’m
faighteadh a’ ghaoth a dh’ iarrtadh. ’N uair fhuaradh sealladh air a’
chabhlach, thòisichear air taomadh an tobair, ’s mu ’n robh a’ bhoiseag
mu dheireadh as, bha a’ ghaoth co làidir ’s a’ chabhlach co dlùth ’s gu
’n do bhrisdeadh iad air cladach an Dùin, ’s chaidh cumhachd ’s feachd
nan Lochlannach lughdachadh co mòr ’s nach do thill iad riamh tuilleadh
a dheanamh dòlais no a thoirt sgrios air an tìr.
O’NEIL,
AND HOW THE HAIR OF HIS HEAD WAS MADE TO GROW.
There was a smith, before now, in Ireland, who was one day working in
the smithy, when a youth came in, having two old women with him.
He said to the smith,
“I would be obliged to you,” he said, “if you would let me have a while
at the bellows and anvil.”
The smith said he would. He then caught the two old women, threw a hoop
about their middle, and placed them in the smithy fire, and blew the
bellows at them, and then took them out and made one woman, the fairest
that eye ever saw, from the two old women.
When the smith laid down at night, he said to his wife,
“A man came the way of the smithy to-day, having with him two old
women; he asked from me a while of the bellows and anvil, and he made
the fairest woman that man’s eye ever saw, out of the two old women. My
own mother and your mother are here with us, and I think I will try to
make one right woman of the two since I saw the other man doing it.”
“Do,” she said, “I am quite willing.”
Next day he took out the two old women, put the hoop about their
middle, and threw them in the smithy fire. It was not long before it
became likely that he would not have even the bones of them left. The
smith was in extremity, not knowing what to do, but a voice came behind
him,
“You are perplexed, smith, but perhaps I will put you right.” With that
he caught the bellows and blew harder at them; he then took them out
and put them on the anvil, and made as fair a woman out of the two old
wives. Then he said to the smith,
“You had need of me to-day, but,” said he, “you better engage me; I
will not ask from you but the half of what I earn, and that this will
be in the agreement, that I shall have the third of my own will.” The
smith engaged him.
At this time O’Neil sent abroad word that he wanted one who would make
the hair of his head to grow, for there was none on the head of O’Neil
or O’Donnell, his brother, and that whoever could do it, would get the
fourth part of his means. The servant lad said to the smith,
“We had better go and make a bargain with O’Neil that we will put hair
on his head,” and they did this. “Say you to him,” said the servant
lad, “that you have a servant who will put hair on his head for the
fourth part of what he possesses.”
O’Neil was agreeable to this, and the servant lad desired to get a room
for themselves, and asked a cauldron to be put on a good fire. It was
done as he wished. O’Neil was taken in and stretched on a table. The
servant lad then took hold of the axe, threw off O’Neil’s head, and put
it face foremost in the cauldron. After some time he took hold of a
large prong which he had, and he lifted up the head with it, and hair
was beginning to come upon it. In a while he lifted it up again with
the same prong, this time a ply of the fine yellow hair would go round
his hand. Then he gave the head such a lift, and stuck it on the body.
O’Neil then called out to him to make haste and let him rise to his
feet, when he saw the fine yellow hair coming in into his eyes. He did
as he had promised; he gave the smith and the servant lad the fourth
part of his possessions. When they were going home with the cattle the
servant lad said to the smith,
“We are now going to separate, we will make two halves or divisions of
the cattle.”
The smith was not willing to agree to this, but since it was in his
bargain he got the one half. They then parted, and the animal the smith
would not lose now, he would lose again, he did not know where he was
going before he reached home, and he had only one old cow that he did
not lose of the cattle.