E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Jennifer Goslee, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY TALES
by
JULIANA HORATIA EWING.
London:
Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge,
Northumberland Avenue, W.C.
New York: E. & J.B. Young & Co.
[Published under the direction of the General Literature Committee.]
DEDICATED TO MY DEAR SISTER, UNDINE MARCIA GATTY.
J.H.E.
"Know'st thou not the little path
That winds about the Ferny brae,
That is the road to bonnie Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae."
_Thomas the Rhymer_.
PREFACE.
As the title of this story-book may possibly suggest that the tales
are old fairy tales told afresh, it seems well to explain that this is
not so.
Except for the use of common "properties" of Fairy Drama, and a
scrupulous endeavour to conform to tradition in local colour and
detail, the stories are all new.
They have appeared at intervals during some years past in "AUNT JUDY'S
MAGAZINE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE," and were written in conformity to certain
theories respecting stories of this kind, with only two of which shall
the kindly reader of prefaces be troubled.
First, that there are ideas and types, occurring in the myths of all
countries, which are common properties, to use which does not lay the
teller of fairy tales open to the charge of plagiarism. Such as the
idea of the weak outwitting the strong; the failure of man to choose
wisely when he may have his wish; or the desire of sprites to exchange
their careless and unfettered existence for the pains and penalties of
humanity, if they may thereby share in the hopes of the human soul.
Secondly, that in these household stories (the models for which were
originally oral tradition) the thing most to be avoided is a
discursive or descriptive style of writing. Brevity and epigram must
ever be soul of their wit, and they should be written as tales that
are told.
The degree in which, if at all, the following tales fulfil these
conditions, nursery critics must decide.
There are older critics before whom fairy tales, as such, need excuse,
even if they do not meet with positive disapprobation.
On this score I can only say that, for myself, I believe them to
be--beyond all need of defence--most valuable literature for the
young. I do not believe that wonder-tales confuse children's ideas of
truth. If there are young intellects so imperfect as to be incapable
of distinguishing between fancy and falsehood, it is surely most
desirable to develop in them the power to do so; but, as a rule, in
childhood we appreciate the distinction with a vivacity which, as
elders, our care-clogged memories fail to recall.
Moreover fairy tales have positive uses in education, which no
cramming of facts, and no merely domestic fiction can serve.
Like Proverbs and Parables, they deal with first principles under the
simplest forms. They convey knowledge of the world, shrewd lessons of
virtue and vice, of common sense and sense of humour, of the seemly
and the absurd, of pleasure and pain, success and failure, in
narratives where the plot moves briskly and dramatically from a
beginning to an end. They treat, not of the corner of a nursery or a
playground, but of the world at large, and life in perspective; of
forces visible and invisible; of Life, Death, and Immortality.
For causes obvious to the student of early myths, they foster sympathy
with nature, and no class of child-literature has done so much to
inculcate the love of animals.
They cultivate the Imagination, that great gift which time and
experience lead one more and more to value--handmaid of Faith, of
Hope, and, perhaps most of all, of Charity!
It is true that some of the old fairy tales do not teach the high and
useful lessons that most of them do; and that they unquestionably deal
now and again with phases of grown-up life, and with crimes and
catastrophes, that seem unsuitable for nursery entertainment.
As to the latter question, it must be remembered that the brevity of
the narrative--whether it be a love story or a robber story--deprives
it of all harm; a point which writers of modern fairy tales do not
always realize for their guidance.
The writer of the following tales has endeavoured to bear this
principle in mind, and it is hoped that the morals--and it is of the
essence of fairy tales to have a moral--of all of them are beyond
reproach.
For the rest they are committed to the indulgence of the gentle
reader.
Hans Anderssen, perhaps the greatest writer of modern fairy tales, was
content to say:
"FAIRY TALE NEVER DIES."
J.H.E.
CONTENTS.
PAGE GOOD LUCK IS BETTER THAN GOLD
THE HILLMAN AND THE HOUSEWIFE
THE NECK, A LEGEND OF A LAKE
THE NIX IN MISCHIEF
THE COBBLER AND THE GHOSTS
THE LAIRD AND THE MAN OF PEACE
THE OGRE COURTING
THE MAGICIANS' GIFTS
THE WIDOWS AND THE STRANGERS
KIND WILLIAM AND THE WATER SPRITE
MURDOCH'S RATH
THE LITTLE DARNER
THE FIDDLER IN THE FAIRY RING
"I WON'T"
THE MAGIC JAR
THE FIRST WIFE'S WEDDING-RING
THE MAGICIAN TURNED MISCHIEF-MAKER
KNAVE AND FOOL
UNDER THE SUN
GOOD LUCK IS BETTER THAN GOLD.
There was once upon a time a child who had Good Luck for his godfather.
"I am not Fortune," said Good Luck to the parents; "I have no gifts to
bestow, but whenever he needs help I will be at hand."
"Nothing could be better," said the old couple. They were delighted.
But what pleases the father often fails to satisfy the son: moreover,
every man thinks that he deserves just a little more than he has got,
and does not reckon it to the purpose if his father had less.
Many a one would be thankful to have as good reasons for contentment
as he who had Good Luck for his godfather.
If he fell, Good Luck popped something soft in the way to break his
fall; if he fought, Good Luck directed his blows, or tripped up his
adversary; if he got into a scrape, Good Luck helped him out of it;
and if ever Misfortune met him, Good Luck contrived to hustle her on
the pathway till his godson got safely by.
In games of hazard the godfather played over his shoulder. In matters
of choice he chose for him. And when the lad began to work on his
father's farm the farmer began to get rich. For no bird or field-mouse
touched a seed that his son had sown, and every plant he planted
throve when Good Luck smiled on it.
The boy was not fond of work, but when he did go into the fields, Good
Luck followed him.
"Your christening-day was a blessed day for us all," said the old
farmer.
"He has never given me so much as a lucky sixpence," muttered Good
Luck's godson.
"I am not Fortune--I make no presents," said the godfather.
When we are discontented it is oftener to please our neighbours than
ourselves. It was because the other boys had said--"Simon, the
shoemaker's son, has an alderman for his godfather. He gave him a
silver spoon with the Apostle Peter for the handle; but thy godfather
is more powerful than any alderman"--that Good Luck's godson
complained, "He has never given me so much as a bent sixpence."
By and by the old farmer died, and his son grew up, and had the
largest farm in the country. The other boys grew up also, and as they
looked over the farmer's boundary-wall, they would say:
"Good-morning, Neighbour. That is certainly a fine farm of yours. Your
cattle thrive without loss. Your crops grow in the rain and are reaped
with the sunshine. Mischance never comes your road. What you have
worked for you enjoy. Such success would turn the heads of poor folk
like us. At the same time one would think a man need hardly work for
his living at all who has Good Luck for his godfather."
"That is very true," thought the farmer. "Many a man is prosperous,
and reaps what he sows, who had no more than the clerk and the sexton
for gossips at his christening."
"What is the matter, Godson?" asked Good Luck, who was with him in the
field.
"I want to be rich," said the farmer.
"You will not have to wait long," replied the godfather. "In every
field you sow, in every flock you rear there is increase without
abatement. Your wealth is already tenfold greater than your father's."
"Aye, aye," replied the farmer. "Good wages for good work. But many a
young man has gold at his command who need never turn a sod, and none
of the Good People came to _his_ christening. Fortunatus's Purse now,
or even a sack or two of gold--"
"Peace!" cried the godfather; "I have said that I give no gifts."
Though he had not Fortunatus's Purse, the farmer had now money and to
spare, and when the harvest was gathered in, he bought a fine suit of
clothes, and took his best horse and went to the royal city to see the
sights.
The pomp and splendour, the festivities and fine clothes dazzled him.
"This is a gay life which these young courtiers lead," said he. "A man
has nothing to do but to enjoy himself."
"If he has plenty of gold in his pocket," said a bystander.
By and by the Princess passed in her carriage. She was the King's only
daughter. She had hair made of sunshine, and her eyes were stars.
"What an exquisite creature!" cried the farmer. "What would not one
give to possess her?"
"She has as many suitors as hairs on her head," replied the bystander.
"She wants to marry the Prince of Moonshine, but he only dresses in
silver, and the King thinks he might find a richer son-in-law. The
Princess will go to the highest bidder."
"And I have Good Luck for my godfather, and am not even at court!"
cried the farmer; and he put spurs to his horse, and rode home.
Good Luck was taking care of the farm.
"Listen, Godfather!" cried the young man. "I am in love with the
King's daughter, and want her to wife."
"It is not an easy matter," replied Good Luck, "but I will do what I
can for you. Say that by good luck you saved the Princess's life, or
perhaps better the King's--for they say he is selfish--"
"Tush!" cried the farmer. "The King is covetous, and wants a rich
son-in-law."
"A wise man may bring wealth to a kingdom with his head, if not with
his hands," said Good Luck, "and I can show you a district where the
earth only wants mining to be flooded with wealth. Besides, there are
a thousand opportunities that can be turned to account and influence.
By wits and work, and with Good Luck to help him, many a poorer man
than you has risen to greatness."
"Wits and work!" cried the indignant godson. "You speak well--truly! A
hillman would have made a better godfather. Give me as much gold as
will fill three meal-bins, and you may keep the rest of your help for
those who want it."
Now at this moment by Good Luck stood Dame Fortune. She likes handsome
young men, and there was some little jealousy between her and the
godfather so she smiled at the quarrel.
"You would rather have had me for your gossip?" said she.
"If you would give me three wishes, I would," replied the farmer
boldly, "and I would trouble you no more."
"Will you make him over to me?" said Dame Fortune to the godfather.
"If he wishes it," replied Good Luck. "But if he accepts your gifts he
has no further claim on me."
"Nor on me either," said the Dame. "Hark ye, young man, you mortals
are apt to make a hobble of your three wishes, and you may end with a
sausage at your nose, like your betters."
"I have thought of it too often," replied the farmer, "and I know what
I want. For my first wish I desire imperishable beauty."
"It is yours," said Dame Fortune, smiling as she looked at him.
"The face of a prince and the manners of a clown are poor partners,"
said the farmer. "My second wish is for suitable learning and courtly
manners, which cannot be gained at the plough-tail."
"You have them in perfection," said the Dame, as the young man thanked
her by a graceful bow.
"Thirdly," said he, "I demand a store of gold that I can never
exhaust."
"I will lead you to it," said Dame Fortune; and the young man was so
eager to follow her that he did not even look back to bid farewell to
his godfather.
He was soon at court. He lived in the utmost pomp. He had a suit of
armour made for himself out of beaten gold. No metal less precious
might come near his person, except for the blade of his sword. This
was obliged to be made of steel, for gold is not always strong enough
to defend one's life or his honour. But the Princess still loved the
Prince of Moonshine.
"Stuff and nonsense!" said the King. "I shall give you to the Prince
of Gold."
"I wish I had the good luck to please her," muttered the young Prince.
But he had not, for all his beauty and his wealth. However, she was to
marry him, and that was something.
The preparations for the wedding were magnificent.
"It is a great expense," sighed the King, "but then I get the Prince
of Gold for a son-in-law."
The Prince and his bride drove round the city in a triumphal
procession. Her hair fell over her like sunshine, but the starlight of
her eyes was cold.
In the train rode the Prince of Moonshine, dressed in silver, and
with no colour in his face.
As the bridal chariot approached one of the city gates, two black
ravens hovered over it, and then flew away, and settled on a tree.
Good Luck was sitting under the tree to see his godson's triumph, and
he heard the birds talking above him.
"Has the Prince of Gold no friend who can tell him that there is a
loose stone above the archway that is tottering to fall?" said they.
And Good Luck covered his face with his mantle as the Prince drove
through.
Just as they were passing out of the gateway the stone fell on to the
Prince's head. He wore a casque of pure gold, but his neck was broken.
"We can't have all this expense for nothing," said the King:
so he married his daughter to the Prince of Moonshine. If one
can't get gold one must be content with silver.
"Will you come to the funeral?" asked Dame Fortune of the godfather.
"Not I," replied Good Luck. "I had no hand in _this_ matter."
The rain came down in torrents. The black feathers on the ravens'
backs looked as if they had been oiled.
"Caw! caw!" said they. "It was an unlucky end."
However, the funeral was a very magnificent one, for there was no
stint of gold.
THE HILLMAN AND THE HOUSEWIFE.
It is well known that the Good People cannot abide meanness. They like
to be liberally dealt with when they beg or borrow of the human race;
and, on the other hand, to those who come to them in need, they are
invariably generous.
Now there once lived a certain Housewife who had a sharp eye to her
own interests in temporal matters, and gave alms of what she had no
use for, for the good of her soul. One day a Hillman knocked at her
door.
"Can you lend us a saucepan, good Mother?" said he. "There's a wedding
in the hill, and all the pots are in use."
"Is he to have one?" asked the servant lass who had opened the door.
"Aye, to be sure," answered the Housewife. "One must be neighbourly."
But when the maid was taking a saucepan from the shelf, she pinched
her arm, and whispered sharply--"Not that, you slut! Get the old one
out of the cupboard. It leaks, and the Hillmen are so neat, and such
nimble workers, that they are sure to mend it before they send it
home. So one obliges the Good People, and saves sixpence in tinkering.
But you'll never learn to be notable whilst your head is on your
shoulders."
Thus reproached, the maid fetched the saucepan, which had been laid by
till the tinker's next visit, and gave it to the dwarf, who thanked
her, and went away.
In due time the saucepan was returned, and, as the Housewife had
foreseen, it was neatly mended and ready for use.
At supper-time the maid filled the pan with milk, and set it on the
fire for the children's supper. But in a few minutes the milk was so
burnt and smoked that no one could touch it, and even the pigs refused
the wash into which it was thrown.
"Ah, good-for-nothing hussy!" cried the Housewife, as she refilled the
pan herself, "you would ruin the richest with your carelessness.
There's a whole quart of good milk wasted at once!"
"_And that's twopence_," cried a voice which seemed to come from the
chimney, in a whining tone, like some nattering, discontented old body
going over her grievances.
The Housewife had not left the saucepan for two minutes, when the
milk boiled over, and it was all burnt and smoked as before.
"The pan must be dirty," muttered the good woman, in great vexation;
"and there are two full quarts of milk as good as thrown to the dogs."
"_And that's fourpence_," added the voice in the chimney.
After a thorough cleaning, the saucepan was once more filled and set
on the fire, but with no better success. The milk was hopelessly
spoilt, and the housewife shed tears of vexation at the waste, crying,
"Never before did such a thing befall me since I kept house! Three
quarts of new milk burnt for one meal!"
"_And that's sixpence_," cried the voice from the chimney. "_You
didn't save the tinkering after all Mother_!"
With which the Hillman himself came tumbling down the chimney, and
went off laughing through the door.
But thenceforward the saucepan was as good as any other.
THE NECK.
A Legend of a Lake.
On a certain lake there once lived a Neck, or Water Sprite, who
desired, above all things, to obtain a human soul. Now when the sun
shone this Neck rose up and sat upon the waves and played upon his
harp. And he played so sweetly that the winds stayed to listen to him,
and the sun lingered in his setting, and the moon rose before her
time. And the strain was in praise of immortality.
Furthermore, out of the lake there rose a great rock, whereon dwelt an
aged hermit, who by reason of his loneliness was afflicted with a
spirit of melancholy; so that when the fit was on him, he was
constantly tempted to throw himself into the water, for his life was
burdensome to him. But one day, when this gloomy madness had driven
him to the edge of the rock to cast himself down, the Neck rose at the
same moment, and sitting upon a wave, began to play. And the strain
was in praise of immortality. And the melody went straight to the
heart of the hermit as a sunbeam goes into a dark cave, and it
dispelled his gloom, and he thought all to be as well with him as
before it had seemed ill. And he called to the Neck and said, "What is
that which thou dost play, my son?"
And the Neck answered, "It is in praise of immortality."
Then said the hermit, "I beg that thou wilt play frequently beneath
this rock; for I am an aged and solitary man, and by reason of my
loneliness, life becomes a burden to me, and I am tempted to throw it
away. But by this gracious strain the evil has been dispelled.
Wherefore I beg thee to come often and to play as long as is
convenient. And yet I cannot offer thee any reward, for I am poor and
without possessions."
Then the Neck replied, "There are treasures below the water as above,
and I desire no earthly riches. But if thou canst tell me how I may
gain a human soul, I will play on till thou shalt bid me cease."
And the hermit said, "I must consider the matter. But I will return
to-morrow at this time and answer thee."
Then the next day he returned as he had said, and the Neck was
waiting impatiently on the lake, and he cried, "What news, my father?"
And the hermit said, "If that at any time some human being will freely
give his life for thee, thou wilt gain a human soul. But thou also
must die the selfsame day."
"The short life for the long one!" cried the Neck; and he played a
melody so full of happiness that the blood danced through the hermit's
veins as if he were a boy again. But the next day when he came as
usual the Neck called to him and said, "My father, I have been
thinking. Thou art aged and feeble, and at the most there are but few
days of life remaining to thee. Moreover, by reason of thy loneliness
even these are a burden. Surely there is none more fit than thou to be
the means of procuring me a human soul. Wherefore I beg of thee, let
us die to-day."
But the hermit cried out angrily, "Wretch! Is this thy gratitude?
Wouldst thou murder me?"
"Nay, old man," replied the Neck, "thou shalt part easily with thy
little fag-end of life. I can play upon my harp a strain of such
surpassing sadness that no human heart that hears it but must break.
And yet the pain of that heartbreak shall be such that thou wilt not
know it from rapture. Moreover, when the sun sets below the water, my
spirit also will depart without suffering. Wherefore I beg of thee,
let us die to-day."
"Truly," said the hermit, "it is because thou art only a Neck, and
nothing better, that thou dost not know the value of human life."
"And art thou a man, possessed already of a soul, and destined for
immortality," cried the Neck, "and dost haggle and grudge to benefit
me by the sacrifice of a few uncertain days, when it is but to
exchange them for the life that knows no end?"
"Our days are always uncertain," replied the hermit; "but existence is
very sweet, even to the most wretched. Moreover, I see not that thou
hast any claim upon mine." Saying which he returned to his cell, but
the Neck, flinging aside his harp, sat upon the water, and wept
bitterly.
Days passed, and the hermit did not show himself, and at last the Neck
resolved to go and visit him. So he took his harp, and taking also the
form of a boy with long fair hair and a crimson cap, he appeared in
the hermit's cell. There he found the old man stretched upon his
pallet, for lie was dying. When he saw the Neck he was glad, and said,
"I have desired to see thee, for I repent myself that I did not
according to thy wishes. Yet is the desire of life stronger in the
human breast than thou canst understand. Nevertheless I am sorry, and
I am sorry also that, as I am sick unto death, my life will no longer
avail thee. But when I am dead, do thou take all that belongs to me,
and dress thyself in my robe, and go out into the world, and do works
of mercy, and perchance some one whom thou hast benefited will be
found willing to die with thee, that thou mayst obtain a soul."
"Now indeed I thank thee!" cried the Neck. "But yet one word
more--what are these works of which thou speakest?"
"The corporal works of mercy are seven," gasped the hermit, raising
himself on his arm. "To feed the hungry and give the thirsty drink, to
visit the sick, to redeem captives, to clothe the naked, to shelter
the stranger and the houseless, to visit the widow and fatherless, and
to bury the dead." Then even as he spoke the last words the hermit
died. And the Neck clothed himself in his robe, and, not to delay in
following the directions given to him, he buried the hermit with pious
care, and planted flowers upon his grave. After which he went forth
into the world.
Now for three hundred years did the Neck go about doing acts of mercy
and charity towards men. And amongst the hungry, and the naked, and
the sick, and the poor, and the captives, there were not a few who
seemed to be weary of this life of many sorrows. But when he had fed
the hungry, and clothed the naked, and relieved the sick, and made
the poor rich, and set the captive free, life was too dear to all of
them to be given up. Therefore he betook himself to the most miserable
amongst men, and offering nothing but an easy death in a good cause,
he hoped to find some aged and want-worn creature who would do him the
kindness he desired. But of those who must look forward to the fewest
days and to the most misery there was not one but, like the fabled
woodcutter, chose to trudge out to the end his miserable span.
So when three hundred years were past, the Neck's heart failed him,
and he said, "All this avails nothing. Wherefore I will return to the
lake, and there abide what shall befall." And this he accordingly did.
Now one evening there came a tempest down from the hills, and there
was a sudden squall on the lake. And a certain young man in a boat
upon the lake was overtaken by the storm. And as he struggled hard,
and it seemed as if every moment must be his last, a young maid who
was his sweetheart came down to the shore, and cried aloud in her
agony, "Alas, that his young life should be cut short thus!"
"Trouble not thyself," said the Neck; "this life is so short and so
uncertain, that if he were rescued to-day he might be taken from thee
to-morrow. Only in eternity is love secure. Wherefore be patient, and
thou shalt soon follow him."
"And who art thou that mockest my sorrow?" cried the maiden.
"One who has watched the passing misfortunes of many generations
before thine," replied the Neck.
And when the maiden looked, and saw one like a little old man wringing
out his beard into the lake, she knew it was a Neck, and cried, "Now
surely thou art a Neck, and they say, 'When Necks play, the winds
wisht;' wherefore I beg of thee to play upon thy harp, and it may be
that the storm will lull, and my beloved will be saved."
But the Neck answered, "It is not worth while."
And when the maiden could not persuade him, she fell upon her face in
bitter grief, and cried, "Oh, my Beloved! Would GOD I could die for
thee!"
"And yet thou wouldst not if thou couldst," said the Neck.
"If it be in thy power to prove me--prove me!" cried the maiden; "for
indeed he is the only stay of aged parents, and he is young and
unprepared for death. Moreover his life is dearer to me than my own."
Then the Neck related his own story, and said, "If thou wilt do this
for me, which none yet has done whom I have benefited, I will play
upon my harp, and if the winds wisht, thou must die this easy death;
but if I fail in my part, I shall not expect thine to be fulfilled.
And we must both abide what shall befall, even as others." And to this
the maiden consented most willingly. Only she said, "Do this for me, I
beg of thee. Let him come so near that I may just see his face before
I die." And it was so agreed.
Then the aged Neck drew forth his harp and began to play. And as he
played the wind stayed, as one who pauses to hearken with cleft lips,
and the lake rose and fell gently, like the bosom of a girl moved by
some plaintive song, and the sun burst forth as if to see who made
such sweet music. And so through this happy change the young man got
safe to land. Then the Neck turned to the maiden and said, "Dost thou
hold to thy promise?" And she bowed her head.
"In the long life be thy recompense!" cried the Neck, fervently, and
taking his harp again, he poured his whole spirit into the strain. And
as he played, it seemed as if the night wind moaned among pine-trees,
but it was more mournful. And it was as the wail of a mother for her
only son, and yet fuller of grief. Or like a Dead March wrung from the
heart of a great musician--loading the air with sorrow--and yet all
these were as nothing to it for sadness. And when the maiden heard it,
it was more than she could bear, and her heart broke, as the Neck had
said. Then the young man sprang to shore, and when she could see his
face clearly, her soul passed, and her body fell like a snapped flower
to the earth.
Now when the young man knew what was befallen, he fell upon the Neck
to kill him, who said, "Thou mayest spare thyself this trouble, for in
a few moments I shall be dead. But do thou take my robe and my harp,
and thou shalt be a famous musician."
Now even as the Neck spoke the sun sank, and he fell upon his face.
And when the young man lifted the robe, behold there was nothing under
it but the harp, across which there swept such a wild and piteous
chord that all the strings burst as if with unutterable grief.
Then the young man lifted the body of his sweetheart in his arms, and
carried her home, and she was buried with many tears.
And in due time he put fresh strings to the harp, which, though it was
not as when it was in the hands of the Neck, yet it made most
exquisite music. And the young man became a famous musician. For out
of suffering comes song.
Furthermore, he occupied himself in good works until that his time
also came.
* * * * *
And in Eternity Love was made secure.
THE NIX IN MISCHIEF.
A certain lake in Germany was once the home of a Nix, who became tired
of the monotony of life under water, and wished to go into the upper
world and amuse himself.
His friends and relations all tried to dissuade him. "Be wise," said
they, "and remain where you are safe, seeing that no business summons
you from the lake. Few of our kindred have had dealings with the human
race without suffering from their curiosity or clumsiness; and, do
them what good you may, in the long run you will reap nothing but
ingratitude. From how many waters have they not already banished us?
Wherefore let well alone, and stay where you are."
But this counsel did not please the Nix--(as, indeed, there is no
reason to suppose that advice is more palatable under water than on
dry land)--and he only said, "I shall not expect gratitude, for I have
no intention of conferring benefits; but I wish to amuse myself. The
Dwarfs and Kobolds play what pranks they please on men and women, and
they do not always have the worst of it. When I hear of their
adventures, the soles of my feet tingle. This is a sign of travelling,
and am I to be debarred from fun because I live in a lake instead of a
hill?"
His friends repeated their warnings, but to no purpose. The Nix
remained unconvinced, and spent his time in dreaming of the clever
tricks by which he should outwit the human race, and the fame he would
thereby acquire on his return to the lake.
Mischief seldom lacks opportunity, and shortly after this it happened
that a young girl came down to the lake for water to wash with; and
dipping her pail just above the Nix's head, in a moment he jumped in,
and was brought safe to land. The maid was Bess, the washerwoman's
daughter; and as she had had one good scolding that morning for
oversleeping herself, and another about noon for dawdling with her
work, she took up the pail and set off home without delay.
But though she held it steadily enough, the bucket shook, and the
water spilled hither and thither. Thinking that her right arm might be
tired, she moved the weight to her left, but with no better success,
for the water still spilled at every step. "One would think there were
fishes in the pail," said Bess, as she set it down. But there was
nothing to be seen but a thin red water-worm wriggling at the bottom,
such as you may see any day in a soft-water tub. It was in this shape,
however, that the Nix had disguised himself, and he almost writhed out
of his skin with delight at the success of his first essay in
mischief.
When they once more set forward the Nix leaped and jumped harder than
ever, so that not only was the water spilled, but the maiden's dress
was soaked, and her tears dropped almost as fast as the wet dripped
from her clothes.
"The pail is bewitched!" cried the poor girl. "How my mother will beat
me for this! And my back aches as if I were carrying lead, and yet the
water is nearly all gone."
"This is something like fun!" laughed the Nix. "When I go home and
relate _my_ adventures, no dwarfs pranks will be named again!" But
when Bess looked into the pail, he was the same slimy, stupid-looking
worm as before. She dared not return to the lake for more
water--"for," said she, "I should be as much beaten for being late as
for bringing short measure, and have the labour to boot." So she took
up her burden again, and the Nix began his dance afresh, and by the
time they came to their journey's end, there was not a quart of water
in the pail.
"Was ever a poor woman plagued with such a careless hussy?" cried the
mother when she saw the dripping dress; and, as Bess had expected, she
seasoned her complaints with a hearty slap. "And look what she calls a
pailful of water!" added the mother, with a second blow.
"Late in the morning's unlucky all day," thought poor Bess, and, as
her mother curled her, she screamed till the house rang with the
noise; for she had good lungs, and knew that it is well to cry out
before one gets too much hurt.
Meanwhile the Nix thought she was enduring agonies, and could hardly
contain his mischievous glee; and when the woman bade her "warm some
water quickly for the wash," he was in no way disturbed, for he had
never seen boiling water, and only anticipated fresh sport as he
slipped from the pail into the kettle.
"Now," cried the mother sharply, "see if you can lift _that_ without
slopping your clothes."
"Aye, aye," laughed the Nix, "see if you can, my dear!" and as poor
Bess seized it in her sturdy red hands he began to dance as before.
But the kettle had a lid, which the pail had not. Moreover Bess was a
strong, strapping lass, and, stimulated by the remembrance of her
mother's slaps, with a vigorous effort she set the kettle on the fire.
"I shall be glad when I'm safely in bed," she muttered. "Everything
goes wrong to-day."
"It is warm in here," said the Nix to himself, after a while; "in
fact--stuffy. But one must pay something for a frolic, and it tickles
my ears to hear that old woman rating her daughter for my pranks. Give
me time and opportunity, and I'll set the whole stupid race by the
ears. There she goes again! It is worth enduring a little discomfort,
though it certainly is warm, and I fancy it grows warmer."
By degrees the bottom of the kettle grew quite hot, and burnt the Nix,
so that he had to jump up and down in the water to keep himself cool.
The noise of this made the woman think that the kettle was boiling,
and she began to scold her daughter as before, shouting, "Are you
coming with that tub to-night or not? The water is hot already."
This time the Nix laughed (as they say) on the other side of his
mouth; for the water had now become as hot as the bottom of the
kettle, and he screamed at the top of his shrill tiny voice with pain.
"How the kettle sings to-night!" said Bess, "and how it rains!" she
added. For at that moment a tremendous storm burst around the house,
and the rain poured down in sheets of water, as if it meant to wash
everything into the lake. The kettle now really boiled, and the lid
danced up and down with the frantic leaping and jumping of the
agonized Nix, who puffed and blew till his breath came out of the
spout in clouds of steam.
"If your eyes were as sharp as your ears you'd see that the water is
boiling over," snapped the woman; and giving her daughter a passing
push, she hurried to the fire-place, and lifted the kettle on to the
ground.
But no sooner had she set it down, than the lid flew off, and out
jumped a little man with green teeth and a tall green hat, who ran out
of the door wringing his hands and crying--
"Three hundred and three years have I lived in the water of this lake,
and I never knew it boil before!"
As he crossed the threshold, a clap of thunder broke with what sounded
like a peal of laughter from many voices, and then the storm ceased as
suddenly as it had begun.
The woman now saw how matters stood, and did not fail next morning to
fasten an old horseshoe to the door of her house. And seeing that she
had behaved unjustly to her daughter, she bought her the gayest set
of pink ribbons that were to be found at the next fair.
It is on record that Bess (who cared little for slaps and sharp
speeches) thought this the best bargain she had ever made. But whether
the Nix was equally well satisfied is not known.
THE COBBLER AND THE GHOSTS.
Long ago there lived a cobbler who had very poor wits, but by strict
industry he could earn enough to keep himself and his widowed mother
in comfort.
In this manner he had lived for many years in peace and prosperity,
when a distant relative died who left him a certain sum of money. This
so elated the cobbler that he could think of nothing else, and his
only talk was of the best way of spending the legacy.
His mother advised him to lay it by against a rainy day.
"For," said she, "we have lived long in much comfort as we are, and
have need of nothing; but when you grow old, or if it should please
Heaven that you become disabled, you will then be glad of your
savings."
But to this the cobbler would not listen. "No," said he, "if we save
the money it may be stolen, but if we spend it well, we shall have
the use of what we buy, and may sell it again if we are so minded."
He then proposed one purchase after another, and each was more foolish
than the rest. When this had gone on for some time, one morning he
exclaimed: "I have it at last! We will buy the house. It cannot be
stolen or lost, and when it is ours we shall have no rent to pay, and
I shall not have to work so hard."
"He will never hit on a wiser plan than that," thought the widow; "it
is not to be expected." So she fully consented to this arrangement,
which was duly carried out; and the bargain left the cobbler with a
few shillings, which he tied up in a bag and put in his pocket, having
first changed them into pence, that they might make more noise when he
jingled the bag as he walked down the street.
Presently he said; "It is not fit that a man who lives in his own
house, and has ready money in his pocket too, should spend the whole
day in labouring with his hands. Since by good luck I can read, it
would be well that I should borrow a book from the professor, for
study is an occupation suitable to my present position."
Accordingly, he went to the professor, whom he found seated in his
library, and preferred his request.
"What book do you want?" asked the professor.
The cobbler stood and scratched his head thoughtfully. The professor
thought that he was trying to recall the name of the work; but in
reality he was saying to himself: "How much additional knowledge one
requires if he has risen ever so little in life! Now, if I did but
know where it is proper to begin in a case full of books like this!
Should one take the first on the top shelf, or the bottom shelf, to
the left, or to the right?"
At last he resolved to choose the book nearest to him; so drawing it
out from the rest, he answered--
"This one, if it please you, learned sir." The professor lent it to
him, and he took it home and began to read.
It was, as it happened, a book about ghosts and apparitions; and the
cobbler's mind was soon so full of these marvels that he could talk of
nothing else, and hardly did a stroke of work for reading and
pondering over what he read. He could find none of his neighbours who
had seen a ghost, though most had heard of such things, and many
believed in them.
"Live and learn," thought the cobbler; "here is fame as well as
wealth. If I could but see a ghost there would be no more to desire."
And with this intent he sallied forth late one night to the
churchyard.
Meanwhile a thief (who had heard the jingle of his money-bag)
resolved to profit by the cobbler's whim; so wrapping himself in a
sheet, he laid wait for him in a field that he must cross to reach the
church.
When the cobbler saw the white figure, he made sure, that he had now
seen a ghost, and already felt proud of his own acquaintance, as a
remarkable character. Meanwhile, the thief stood quite still, and the
cobbler walked boldly up to him, expecting that the phantom would
either vanish or prove so impalpable that he could pass through it as
through a mist, of which he had read many notable instances in the
professor's book. He soon found out his mistake, however, for the
supposed ghost grappled him, and without loss of time relieved him of
his money-bag. The cobbler (who was not wanting in courage) fastened
as tightly on to the sheet, which he still held with desperate
firmness when the thief had slipped through his fingers; and after
waiting in vain for further marvels, he carried the sheet home to his
mother, and narrated his encounter with the ghost.
"Alack-a-day! that I should have a son with so little wit!" cried the
old woman; "it was no ghost, but a thief, who is now making merry with
all the money we possessed."
"We have his sheet," replied her son; "and that is due solely to my
determination. How could I have acted better?"
"You should have grasped the man, not the sheet," said the widow,
"and pummelled him till he cried out and dropped the money-bag."
"Live and learn," said the cobbler. The next night he went out as
before, and this time reached the churchyard unmolested. He was just
climbing the stile, when he again saw what seemed to be a white figure
standing near the church. As before, it proved solid, and this time he
pummelled it till his fingers bled, and for very weariness he was
obliged to go home and relate his exploits. The ghost had not cried
out, however, nor even so much as moved, for it was neither more nor
less than a tall tombstone shining white in the moonlight.
"Alack-a-day!" cried the old woman, "that I should have a son with so
little wit as to beat a gravestone till his knuckles are sore! Now if
he had covered it with something black that it might not alarm timid
women or children, that would at least have been an act of charity."
"Live and learn," said the cobbler. The following night he again set
forth, but this time in another direction. As he was crossing a field
behind his house he saw some long pieces of linen which his mother had
put out to bleach in the dew.
"More ghosts!" cried the shoemaker, "and they know who is behind them.
They have fallen flat at the sound of my footsteps. But one must
think of others as well as oneself, and it is not every heart that is
as stout as mine." Saying which he returned to the house for something
black to throw over the prostrate ghosts. Now the kitchen chimney had
been swept that morning, and by the back door stood a sack of soot.
"What is blacker than soot?" said the cobbler; and taking the sack, he
shook it out over the pieces of linen till not a thread of white was
to be seen. After which he went home, and boasted of his good deeds.
The widow now saw that she must be more careful as to what she said;
so, after weighing the matter for some time, she suggested to the
cobbler that the next night he should watch for ghosts at home; "for
they are to be seen," said she, "as well when one is in bed as in the
fields."
"There you are right," said the cobbler, "for I have this day read of
a ghost that appeared to a man in his own house. The candles burnt
blue, and when he had called thrice upon the apparition, he became
senseless."
"That was his mistake," said the old woman. "He should have turned a
deaf ear, and even pretended to slumber; but it is not every one who
has courage for this. If one could really fall asleep in the face of
the apparition, there would be true bravery."
"Leave that to me," said the cobbler. And the widow went off
chuckling, to herself, "If he comes to any mischance by holding his
tongue and going to sleep, ill-luck has got him by the leg, and
counsel is wasted on him."
As soon as his mother was in bed, the cobbler prepared for his watch.
First he got together all the candles in the house, and stuck them
here and there about the kitchen, and sat down to watch till they
should burn blue. After waiting some time, during which the candles
only guttered with the draughts, the cobbler decided to go to rest for
a while. "It is too early yet," he thought; "I shall see nothing till
midnight."
Very soon, however, he fell asleep; but towards morning he awoke, and
in the dim light perceived a figure in white at his bedside. It was a
blacksmith who lived near, and he had run in in his night-shirt
without so much as slippers on his feet.
"The ghost at last!" thought the cobbler, and, remembering his
mother's advice, he turned over and shut his eyes.
"Neighbour! neighbour!" cried the blacksmith, "your house is on fire!"
"An old bird is not to be caught with chaff," chuckled the cobbler to
himself; and he pulled the bed-clothes over his head.
"Neighbour!" roared the blacksmith, snatching at the quilt to drag it
off, "are you mad? The house is burning over your head. Get up for
your life!"
"I have the courage of a general, and more," thought the cobbler; and
holding tightly on to the clothes he pretended to snore.
"If you will burn, bum!" cried the blacksmith angrily, "but I mean to
save my bones"--with which he ran off.
And burnt the cobbler undoubtedly would have been, had not his
mother's cries at last convinced him that the candles had set fire to
his house, which was wrapped in flames. With some difficulty he
escaped with his life, but of all he possessed nothing remained to him
but his tools and a few articles of furniture that the widow had
saved.
As he was now again reduced to poverty, he was obliged to work as
diligently as in former years, and passed the rest of his days in the
same peace and prosperity which he had before enjoyed.
THE LAIRD AND THE MAN OF PEACE.
In the Highlands of Scotland there once lived a Laird of Brockburn,
who would not believe in fairies. Although his sixth cousin on the
mother's side, as he returned one night from a wedding, had seen the
Men of Peace hunting on the sides of Ben Muich Dhui, dressed in green,
and with silver-mounted bridles to their horses which jingled as they
rode; and though Rory the fiddler having gone to play at a christening
did never come home, but crossing a hill near Brockburn in a mist was
seduced into a _Shian_[1] or fairy turret, where, as all decent bodies
well believe, he is playing still--in spite, I say, of the wise saws
and experience of all his neighbours, Brockburn remained obstinately
incredulous.
[Footnote 1: _Shian_, a Gaelic name for fairy towers, which by day are
not to be told from mountain crags.]
Not that he bore any ill-will to the Good People, or spoke uncivilly
of them; indeed he always disavowed any feeling of disrespect towards
them if they existed, saying that he was a man of peace himself, and
anxious to live peaceably with whatever neighbours he had, but that
till he had seen one of the _Daoiné Shi_[2] he could not believe in
them.
[Footnote 2: _Daoiné Shi_ (pronounced _Dheener Shee_) = Men of Peace.]
Now one afternoon, between Hallowmas and Yule, it chanced that the
Laird, being out on the hills looking for some cattle, got parted from
his men and dogs and was overtaken by a mist, in which, familiar as
the country was to him, he lost his way.
In vain he raised his voice high, and listened low, no sound of man or
beast came back to him through the thickening vapour.
Then night fell, and darkness was added to the fog, so that Brockburn
needed to sound every step with his _rung_[3] before he took it.
[Footnote 3: _Rung_ = a thick stick.]
Suddenly light footsteps pattered beside him, then Something rubbed
against him, then It ran between his legs. The delighted Laird made
sure that his favourite collie had found him once more.
"Wow, Jock, man!" he cried; "but ye needna throw me on my face. What's
got ye the night, that _you_ should lose your way in a bit mist?"
To this a voice from the level of his elbow replied, in piping but
patronizing tones;
"Never did I lose my way in a mist since the night that Finn crossed
over to Ireland in the Dawn of History. Eh, Laird! I'm weel acquaint
with every bit path on the hill-side these hundreds of years, and I'll
guide ye safe hame, never fear!"
The hairs on Brockburn's head stood on end till they lifted his broad
bonnet, and a damp chill broke out over him that was not the fog. But,
for all that, he stoutly resisted the evidence of his senses, and only
felt about him for the collie's head to pat, crying:
"Bark! Jock, my mannie, bark! Then I'll recognize your voice, ye ken.
It's no canny to hear ye speak like a Christian, my wee doggie."
"I'm nae your doggie, I'm a Man of Peace," was the reply. "Dinna
miscall your betters, Brockburn: why will ye not credit our existence,
man?"
"Seein's believin'," said the Laird, stubbornly; "but the mist's ower
thick for seein' the night, ye ken."
"Turn roun' to your left, man, and ye'll see," said the Dwarf, and
catching Brockburn by the arm, he twisted him swiftly round three
times, when a sudden blaze of light poured through the mist, and
revealed a crag of the mountain well known to the Laird, and which he
now saw to be a kind of turret, or tower.
Lights shone gaily through the crevices or windows of the _Shian_,
and sounds of revelry came forth, among which fiddling was
conspicuous. The tune played at that moment was "Delvyn-side."
Blinded by the light, and amazed at what he saw, the Laird staggered,
and was silent.
"Keep to your feet, man--keep to your feet!" said the Dwarf, laughing.
"I doubt ye're fou, Brockburn!"
"I'm nae fou," said the Laird, slowly, his rung grasped firmly in his
hand, and his bonnet set back from his face, which was deadly pale.
"But--man-_is yon Rory?_ I'd know his fiddle in a thousand."
"Ask no questions, and ye'll be tellt no lees," said the Dwarf. Then
stepping up to the door of the _Shian_, he stood so that the light
from within fell full upon him, and the astonished Laird saw a tiny
but well-proportioned man, with delicate features, and golden hair
flowing over his shoulders. He wore a cloak of green cloth, lined with
daisies, and had silver shoes. His beautiful face quivered with
amusement, and he cried triumphantly, "D'ye see me?--d'ye see me noo,
Brockburn?"
"Aye, aye," said the Laird; "and seein's believin'."
"Then roun' wi' ye!" shouted the Man of Peace; and once more seizing
the Laird by the arm, he turned him swiftly round--this time, to the
right--and at the third turn the light vanished, and Brockburn and
the Man of Peace were once more alone together in the mist.