to teach him!), so when he came to years of discretion, he earned his
living by running messages for his neighbours; and Pat could always be
trusted to make the best of a bad bargain, and bring back all the
change, for he was the soul of honesty and good-nature.
It's no wonder then that he was beloved by every one, and got as much
work as he could do, and if the pay had but fitted the work, he'd have
been mighty comfortable; but as it was, what he got wouldn't have kept
him in shoe-leather, but for making both ends meet by wearing his
shoes in his pocket, except when he was in the town, and obliged to
look genteel for the credit of the place he came from.
Well, all was going on as peaceable as could be, till one market-day,
when business (or it may have been pleasure) detained him till the
heel of the evening, and by nightfall, when he began to make the road
short in good earnest, he was so flustered, rehearsing his messages to
make sure he'd forgotten nothing, that he never bethought him to leave
off his brogues, but tramped on just as if shoe-leather were made to
be knocked to bits on the king's highway.
And this was what he was after saying:
"A dozen hanks of grey yarn for Mistress Murphy."
"Three gross of bright buttons for the tailor."
"Half an ounce of throat drops for Father Andrew, and an ounce of
snuff for his housekeeper," and so on.
For these were what he went to the town to fetch, and he was afraid
lest one of the lot might have slipped his memory.
Now everybody knows there are two ways home from the town; and that's
not meaning the right way and the wrong way, which my grandmother
(rest her soul!) said there was to every place but one that it's not
genteel to name. (There could only be a wrong way _there_, she said.)
The two ways home from the town were the highway, and the way by
Murdoch's Rath.
Murdoch's Rath was a pleasant enough spot in the daytime, but not
many persons cared to go by it when the sun was down. And in all the
years Pat was going backwards and forwards, he never once came home
except by the high-road till this unlucky evening, when, just at the
place where the two roads part, he got, as one may say, into a sort of
confusion.
"Halt!" says he to himself (for his own uncle had been a soldier, and
Pat knew the word of command). "The left-hand turn is the right one,"
says he, and he was going down the high-road as straight as he could
go, when suddenly he bethought himself. "And what am I doing?" he
says. "This was my left hand going to town, and how in the name of
fortune could it be my left going back, considering that I've turned
round? It's well that I looked into it in time." And with that he went
off as fast down the other road as he started down this.
But how far he walked he never could tell, before all of a sudden the
moon shone out as bright as day, and Pat found himself in Murdoch's
Rath.
And this was the smallest part of the wonder; for the Rath was full of
fairies.
When Pat got in they were dancing round and round till his feet
tingled to look at them, being a good dancer himself. And as he sat on
the side of the Rath, and snapped his fingers to mark the time, the
dancing stopped, and a little man comes up, in a black hat and a green
coat, with white stockings, and red shoes on his feet.
"Won't you take a turn with us, Pat?" says he, bowing till he nearly
touched the ground. And, indeed, he had not far to go, for he was
barely two feet high.
"Don't say it twice, sir," says Pat. "It's myself will be proud to
foot the floor wid ye;" and before you could look round, there was Pat
in the circle dancing away for bare life.
At first his feet felt like feathers for lightness, and it seemed as
if he could have gone on for ever. But at last he grew tired, and
would have liked to stop, but the fairies would not, and so they
danced on and on. Pat tried to think of something _good_ to say, that
he might free himself from the spell, but all he could think of was:
"A dozen hanks of grey yarn for Missis Murphy."
"Three gross of bright buttons for the tailor."
"Half an ounce of throat drops for Father Andrew, and an ounce of
snuff for his housekeeper," and so on.
And it seemed to Pat that the moon was on the one side of the Rath
when they began to dance, and on the other side when they left off;
but he could not be sure after all that going round. One thing was
plain enough. He danced every bit of leather off the soles of his
feet, and they were blistered so that he could hardly stand; but all
the little folk did was to stand and hold their sides with laughing at
him.
At last the one who spoke before stepped up to him, and--"Don't break
your heart about it, Pat," says he; "I'll lend you my own shoes till
the morning, for you seem to be a good-natured sort of a boy."
Well, Pat looked at the fairy man's shoes, that were the size of a
baby's, and he looked at his own feet; but not wishing to be uncivil,
"Thank ye kindly, sir," says he. "And if your honour 'll be good
enough to put them on for me, maybe you won't spoil the shape." For he
thought to himself, "Small blame to me if the little gentleman can't
get them to fit."
With that he sat down on the side of the Rath, and the fairy man put
on the shoes for him, and no sooner did they touch Pat's feet, than
they became altogether a convenient size, and fitted him like wax.
And, more than that, when he stood up, he didn't feel his blisters at
all.
"Bring 'em back to the Rath at sunrise, Pat, my boy," says the little
man.
And as Pat was climbing over the ditch, "Look round, Pat," says he.
And when Pat looked round, there were jewels and pearls lying at the
roots of the furze-bushes on the ditch, as thick as peas.
"Will you help yourself, or take what's given ye, Pat?" says the fairy
man.
"Did I ever learn manners?" says Pat. "Would you have me help myself
before company? I'll take what your honour pleases to give me, and be
thankful."
The fairy man picked a lot of yellow furze-blossoms from the bushes,
and filled Pat's pockets.
"Keep 'em for love, Pat, me darlin'," says he.
Pat would have liked some of the jewels, but he put the furze-blossoms
by for love.
"Good-evening to your honour," says he.
"And where are you going, Pat, dear?" says the fairy man.
"I'm going home," says Pat. And if the fairy man didn't know where
that was, small blame to him.
"Just let me dust them shoes for ye, Pat," says the fairy man. And as
Pat lifted up each foot he breathed on it, and dusted it with the tail
of his green coat.
"Home!" says he, and when he let go, Pat was at his own doorstep
before he could look round, and his parcels safe and sound with him.
Next morning he was up with the sun, and carried the fairy man's
shoes back to the Rath. As he came up, the little man looked over the
ditch.
"The top of the morning to, your honour," says Pat; "here's your
shoes."
"You're an honest boy, Pat," says the little gentleman. "It's
inconvenienced I am without them, for. I have but the one pair. Have
you looked at the yellow flowers this morning?" he says.
"I have not, sir," says Pat; "I'd be loth to deceive you. I came off
as soon as I was up."
"Be sure to look when you get back, Pat," says the fairy man, "and
good luck to ye."
With which he disappeared, and Pat went home. He looked for the
furze-blossoms, as the fairy man told him, and there's not a word of
truth in this tale if they weren't all pure gold pieces.
Well, now Pat was so rich, he went to the shoemaker to order another
pair of brogues, and being a kindly, gossiping boy, the shoemaker soon
learned the whole story of the fairy man and the Rath. And this so
stirred up the shoemaker's greed that he resolved to go the very next
night himself, to see if he could not dance with the fairies, and have
like luck.
He found his way to the Rath all correct, and sure enough the fairies
were dancing, and they asked him to join. He danced the soles off his
brogues, as Pat did, and the fairy man lent him his shoes, and sent
him home in a twinkling.
As he was going over the ditch, he looked round, and saw the roots of
the furze-bushes glowing with precious stones as if they had been
glow-worms.
"Will you help yourself, or take what's given ye?" said the fairy man.
"I'll help myself, if you please," said the cobbler, for he
thought--"If I can't get more than Pat brought home, my fingers must
all be thumbs."
So he drove his hand into the bushes, and if he didn't get plenty, it
wasn't for want of grasping.
When he got up in the morning, he went straight to the jewels. But not
a stone of the lot was more precious than roadside pebbles. "I ought
not to look till I come from the Rath," said he. "It's best to do like
Pat all through."
But he made up his mind not to return the fairy man's shoes.
"Who knows the virtue that's in them?" he said. So he made a small
pair of red leather shoes, as like them as could be, and he blacked
the others upon his feet, that the fairies might not know them, and at
sunrise he went to the Rath.
The fairy man was looking over the ditch as before.
"Good-morning to you," said he.
"The top of the morning to you, sir," said the cobbler; "here's your
shoes." And he handed him the pair that he had made, with a face as
grave as a judge.
The fairy man looked at them, but he said nothing, though he did not
put them on.
"Have you looked at the things you got last night?" says he.
"I'll not deceive you, sir," says the cobbler. "I came off as soon as
I was up. Sorra peep I took at them."
"Be sure to look when you get back," says the fairy man. And just as
the cobbler was getting over the ditch to go home, he says:
"If my eyes don't deceive me," says he, "there's the least taste in
life of dirt on your left shoe. Let me dust it with the tail of my
coat."
"That means home in a twinkling," thought the cobbler, and he held up
his foot.
The fairy man dusted it, and muttered something the cobbler did not
hear. Then, "Sure," says he, "it's the dirty pastures that you've come
through, for the other shoe's as bad."
So the cobbler held up his right foot, and the fairy man rubbed that
with the tail of his green coat.
When all was done the cobbler's feet seemed to tingle, and then to
itch, and then to smart, and then to burn. And at last he began to
dance, and he danced all round the Rath (the fairy man laughing and
holding his sides), and then round and round again. And he danced till
he cried out with weariness, and tried to shake the shoes off. But
they stuck fast, and the fairies drove him over, the ditch, and
through the prickly furze-bushes, and he danced away. Where he danced
to, I cannot tell you. Whether he ever got rid of the fairy shoes, I
do not know. The jewels never were more than wayside pebbles, and they
were swept out when his cabin was cleaned, which was not too soon, you
may be sure.
All this happened long ago; but there are those who say that the
covetous cobbler dances still, between sunset and sunrise, round
Murdoch's Rath.
THE LITTLE DARNER.
In days gone by there lived a poor widow who had brought up her only
child so well that the little lass was more helpful and handy than
many a grown-up person.
When other women's children were tearing and dirtying their clothes,
clamouring at their mothers' skirts for this and that, losing and
breaking and spoiling things, and getting into mischief of all kinds,
the widow's little girl, with her tiny thimble on her finger, could
patch quite neatly. She was to be trusted to put anything in its
proper place, and when meals were over she would stand on a little
stool at the table washing up the dishes. Moreover, she could darn
stockings so well that the darn looked like a part of the stocking.
The slatternly mothers, who spoiled and scolded their children by
turns, and had never taught them to be tidy and obedient, used often
to quote the widow's little girl to their troublesome brats, and say,
"Why don't you help your mother as the widow's daughter helps her?"
Thus it came about that the helpless, useless, untidy little girls
hated the very name of the widow's daughter, because they were always
being told of her usefulness and neatness.
Now the widow's child often earned a few pence by herding sheep or
pigs for the farmers, or by darning stockings for their wives, and as
she could be trusted, people were very glad to employ her. One day she
was keeping watch over five little pigs in a field, and, not to waste
time, was darning a pair of stockings as well, when some of the little
girls who had a spite against her resolved to play her a trick.
Near the field where the little maid and the pigs were there was a
wood, into which all children were strictly forbidden to go. For in
the depths of the wood there lived a terrible Ogre and Ogress, who
kidnapped all children who strayed near their dwelling. Every morning
the Ogre threw a big black bag over his shoulder, and stalked through
the forest, making the ground shake as he walked. If he found any
truant children he popped them into his bag, and when he got home his
wife cooked them for supper.
The trick played upon the widow's daughter was this. Five little girls
came up to the field where she was herding the five little pigs, and
each chasing a pig, they drove them into the Ogre's wood. In vain the
little maid called to her flock; the pigs ran in a frightened troop
into the wood, and she ran after them. When the five little girls saw
that she had got them together again, they ran in to chase them away
once more, and so they were all in the wood together, when the ground
shook under them, upsetting the six little girls and the five little
pigs; and as they rolled over the Ogre picked them up, and put them
one after another into his bag.
When they were jolting about with the pigs in the poke as the Ogre
strode homewards, the five spiteful children were as sorry as you
please; and as the pigs were always fighting and struggling to get to
the top, they did not escape without some scratches. And their
screams, and the squealing of the little pigs made such a noise that
the Ogre's wife heard it a mile and a half away in the depths of the
wood; and she lighted a fire under the copper, and filled it with
water, ready to cook whatever her husband brought home.
As for the widow's little daughter she pulled her needle-book from her
pocket, and every now and then she pushed a needle through the sack,
that it might fall on the ground, and serve as a guide if she should
ever have the chance of finding her way home again.
When the Ogre arrived, he emptied the sack, and sent the six little
girls and the five little pigs all sprawling on to the floor, saying:
"These will last us some time. Cook the fattest, and put the rest
into the cellar. And whilst you get dinner ready, I will take another
stroll with the bag. Luck seldom comes singly."
When he had gone, the Ogress looked over the children, and picked out
the widow's daughter, saying:
"You look the most good-humoured. And the best-tempered always make
the best eating."
So she set her down on a stool by the fire till the water should boil,
and locked the others up in the cellar.
"Tears won't put the fire out," thought the little maid. So instead of
crying she pulled out the old stocking, and went on with her darning.
When the Ogress came back from the cellar she went up to her and
looked at her work.
"How you darn!" she cried. "Now that's a sort of thing I hate. And the
Ogre does wear such big holes in his stockings, and his feet are so
large, that, though my hand is not a small one, I cannot fill out the
heel with my fist, and then who's to darn it neatly I should like to
know?"
"If I had a basin big enough to fill out the heel, I think I could do
it," said the little maid.
The Ogress scratched her big ear thoughtfully for a minute, and then
she said:
"To lose a chance is to cheat oneself. Why shouldn't this one darn
while the others boil? Yes, I think you shall try. Six days ought to
serve for mending all the stockings, though the Ogre hasn't a whole
pair left, and angry enough he'll be. And when household matters are
not to his mind he puts that big sack over my head, and ties it round
my neck. And if you had ever done housework with your head in a poke,
you'd know what it is! So you shall darn the stockings, and if you do
them well, I'll cook one of the others first instead of you."
Saying which, the Ogress fetched one of the Ogre's stockings, and the
widow's child put a big basin into the heel to stretch it, and began
to darn. The Ogress watched her till she had put all the threads one
way, and when she began to run the cross threads, interlacing them
with the utmost exactness, the old creature was delighted, and went to
fetch another child to be cooked instead of the widow's.
When the other little girl came up, she cried and screamed so that the
room rang with her lamentations, and the widow's child laid down her
needle and ceased working.
"Why don't you go on darning?" asked the Ogress.
"Alas! dear mother," said she, "the little sister's cries make my
heart beat so that I cannot darn evenly."
"Then she must go back to the cellar for a bit," said the Ogress.
"And meanwhile I'll sharpen the knife."
So after she had taken back the crying child, and had watched the
little girl, who now darned away as skilfully as ever, the Ogress took
down a huge knife from the wall, and began to sharpen it on a
grindstone in a corner of the kitchen. As she sharpened the knife, she
glanced from time to time at the little maid, and soon perceived that
she had once more ceased working.
"Why don't you go on darning?" asked the Ogress.
"Alas! dear mother," said the child, "when I hear you sharpening that
terrible knife my hands tremble so that I cannot thread my needle."
"Well, it will do now," growled the Ogress, feeling the edge of the
blade with her horny finger; and, having seen the darning-needle once
more at work, she went to fetch up one of the children. As she went,
she hummed what cookmaids sing--
"Dilly, dilly duckling, come and be killed!"
But it sounded like the wheezing and groaning of a heavy old door upon
its rusty hinges.
When she came in, with the child in one hand, and the huge knife in
the other, she went up to the little darner to look at her work. The
heel of the Ogre's stocking was exquisitely mended, all but seven
threads; but the little maid sat idle with her hands before her.
"Why don't you go on darning?" asked the Ogress.
"Alas! dear mother," was the reply, "when I think of my little
playmate about to die, the tears blind my eyes, so that I cannot see
what stitches I take. Wherefore I beg of you, dear mother, to cook one
of the little pigs instead, that I may be able to go on with my work,
and that a pair of stockings may be ready to-morrow morning when the
Ogre will ask for them; so my playmate's life will be spared, and your
head will not be put into a poke."
At first the Ogress would not hear of such a thing, but at last she
consented, and made a stew of one of the little pigs instead of
cooking the little girl.
"But supposing the Ogre goes to count the children," said she; "he
will find one too many."
"Then let her go, dear mother," said the widow's daughter; "she will
find her way home, and you will never be blamed."
"But she must stir the stew with her forefinger first," said the
Ogress, "that it may have a human flavour."
So the little girl had to stir the hot stew with her finger, which
scalded it badly; and then she was set at liberty, and ran home as
hard as she could; and as the little maid's needles sparkled here and
there on the path, she had no difficulty in finding her way.
The Ogre was quite contented with his dinner, and the Ogress got great
praise for the way in which she had darned his stockings. Thus it went
on for four days more. As the widow's little girl wouldn't work if her
companions were killed, the Ogress cooked the pigs one after another,
and the children were all sent away with burnt forefingers.
When the fifth had been dismissed, and all the pigs were eaten, the
Ogress said:
"To-morrow you will have to be stewed, and now I wish I had kept one
of the others that I might have saved you altogether to work for me.
However, there is one comfort, the stockings are finished."
But meanwhile the other children had got safely home, and had told
their tale. And all the men of the place set off at once to attack the
Ogre, and release the widow's child. Guided by the needles, they
arrived just as the Ogress was sharpening the big knife for the last
time.
So they killed the Ogre and his wife, and took the industrious little
maid back to her mother.
The other little girls were now very repentant; and when their
fingers were well, they all learned to darn stockings at once.
And as there was now no danger about going into the wood, it was no
longer forbidden. And this being the case, the children were much less
anxious to play there than formerly.
THE FIDDLER IN THE FAIRY RING.
Generations ago, there once lived a farmer's son, who had no great
harm in him, and no great good either. He always meant well, but he
had a poor spirit, and was too fond of idle company.
One day his father sent him to market with some sheep for sale, and
when business was over for the day, the rest of the country-folk made
ready to go home, and more than one of them offered the lad a lift in
his cart.
"Thank you kindly, all the same," said he, "but I am going back across
the downs with Limping Tim."
Then out spoke a steady old farmer and bade the lad go home with the
rest, and by the main road. For Limping Tim was an idle, graceless
kind of fellow, who fiddled for his livelihood, but what else he did
to earn the money he squandered, no one knew. And as to the sheep path
over the downs, it stands to reason that the highway is better
travelling after sunset, for the other is no such very short cut; and
has a big fairy ring so near it, that a butter-woman might brush it
with the edge of her market cloak, as she turned the brow of the hill.
But the farmer's son would go his own way, and that was with Limping
Tim, and across the downs.
So they started, and the fiddler had his fiddle in his hand, and a
bundle of marketings under his arm, and he sang snatches of strange
songs, the like of which the lad had never heard before. And the moon
drew out their shadows over the short grass till they were as long as
the great stones of Stonehenge.
At last they turned the hill, and the fairy ring looked dark under the
moon, and the farmer's son blessed himself that they were passing it
quietly, when Limping Tim suddenly pulled his cloak from his back, and
handing it to his companion, cried, "Hold this for a moment, will you?
I'm wanted. They're calling for me."
"I hear nothing," said the farmer's son. But before he had got the
words out of his mouth, the fiddler had completely disappeared. He
shouted aloud, but in vain, and had begun to think of proceeding on
his way, when the fiddler's voice cried, "Catch!" and there came,
flying at him from the direction of the fairy ring, the bundle of
marketings which the fiddler had been carrying.
"It's in my way," he then heard the fiddler cry. "Ah, this is dancing!
Come in, my lad, come in!"
But the farmer's son was not totally without prudence, and he took
good care to keep at a safe distance from the fairy ring.
"Come back, Tim! Come back!" he shouted, and, receiving no answer, he
adjured his friend to break the bonds that withheld him, and return to
the right way, as wisely as one man can counsel another.
After talking for some time to no purpose, he again heard his friend's
voice, crying, "Take care of it for me! The money dances out of my
pocket." And therewith the fiddler's purse was hurled to his feet,
where it fell with a heavy chinking of gold within.
He picked it up, and renewed his warnings and entreaties, but in vain;
and, after waiting for a long time, he made the best of his way home
alone, hoping that the fiddler would follow, and come to reclaim his
property.
The fiddler never came. And when at last there was a fuss about his
disappearance, the farmer's son, who had but a poor spirit, began to
be afraid to tell the truth of the matter. "Who knows but they may
accuse me of theft?" said he. So he hid the cloak, and the bundle,
and the money-bag in the garden.
But when three months passed, and still the fiddler did not return, it
was whispered that the farmer's son had been his last companion; and
the place was searched, and they found the cloak, and the bundle, and
the money-bag and the lad was taken to prison.
Now, when it was too late, he plucked up a spirit, and told the truth;
but no one believed him, and it was said that he had murdered the
fiddler for the sake of his money and goods. And he was taken before
the judge, found guilty, and sentenced to death.