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.