a whisp of straw from those threshers yonder." He came to the
threshers. "What news to-day?" said the threshers. "It's my own news
I'm seeking. Going looking for a whisp of straw from ye to give to
the cow, the cow to give me milk, milk I will give to the cat, cat to
scrape butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer
to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod,
a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries
every one."
"You will not get any whisp of straw from us," said the threshers,
"until you bring us the makings of a cake from the miller over
yonder." He came to the miller. "What news to-day?" said the miller.
"It's my own news I'm seeking. Going looking for the makings of a cake
which I will give the threshers, the threshers to give me a whisp of
straw, the whisp of straw I will give to the cow, the cow to give me
milk, milk I will give to the cat, cat to scrape butter, butter to go
in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet
flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad
to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one."
"You will not get any makings of a cake from me," said the miller,
"till you bring me the full of that sieve of water from the river over
there."
He took the sieve in his hand and went over to the river, but as often
as ever he would stoop and fill it with water, the moment he raised it
the water would run out of it again, and sure, if he had been there,
from that day till this, he never could have filled it. A crow went
flying by him, over his head, "Daub! daub!" said the crow. "My
blessings on ye, then," said Munachar, "but it's the good advice you
have," and he took the red clay and the daub that was by the brink,
and he rubbed it to the bottom of the sieve, until all the holes were
filled, and then the sieve held the water, and he brought the water to
the miller, and the miller gave him the makings of a cake, and he gave
the makings of the cake to the threshers, and the threshers gave him a
whisp of straw, and he gave the whisp of straw to the cow, and the cow
gave him milk, the milk he gave to the cat, the cat scraped the
butter, the butter went into the claw of the hound, the hound hunted
the deer, the deer swam the water, the water wet the flag, the flag
sharpened the axe, the axe cut the rod, and the rod made a gad, and
when he had it ready to hang Manachar he found that Manachar had
BURST.
[Illustration:]
Gold-Tree and Silver-Tree
[Illustration:]
Once upon a time there was a king who had a wife, whose name was
Silver-tree, and a daughter whose name was Gold-tree. On a certain day
of the days, Gold-tree and Silver-tree went to a glen, where there was
a well, and in it there was a trout.
Said Silver-tree, "Troutie, bonny little fellow, am not I the most
beautiful queen in the world?"
"Oh! indeed you are not."
"Who then?"
"Why, Gold-tree, your daughter."
Silver-tree went home, blind with rage. She lay down on the bed, and
vowed she would never be well until she could get the heart and the
liver of Gold-tree, her daughter, to eat.
At nightfall the king came home, and it was told him that Silver-tree,
his wife, was very ill. He went where she was, and asked her what was
wrong with her.
"Oh! only a thing which you may heal if you like."
"Oh! indeed there is nothing at all which I could do for you that I
would not do."
"If I get the heart and the liver of Gold-tree, my daughter, to eat, I
shall be well."
Now it happened about this time that the son of a great king had come
from abroad to ask Gold-tree for marrying. The king now agreed to
this, and they went abroad.
The king then went and sent his lads to the hunting-hill for a
he-goat, and he gave its heart and its liver to his wife to eat; and
she rose well and healthy.
A year after this Silver-tree went to the glen, where there was the
well in which there was the trout.
"Troutie, bonny little fellow," said she, "am not I the most beautiful
queen in the world?"
"Oh! indeed you are not."
"Who then?"
"Why, Gold-tree, your daughter."
"Oh! well, it is long since she was living. It is a year since I ate
her heart and liver."
"Oh! indeed she is not dead. She is married to a great prince abroad."
Silver-tree went home, and begged the king to put the long-ship in
order, and said, "I am going to see my dear Gold-tree, for it is so
long since I saw her." The long-ship was put in order, and they went
away.
It was Silver-tree herself that was at the helm, and she steered the
ship so well that they were not long at all before they arrived.
The prince was out hunting on the hills. Gold-tree knew the long-ship
of her father coming.
"Oh!" she said to the servants, "my mother is coming, and she will
kill me."
"She shall not kill you at all; we will lock you in a room where she
cannot get near you."
This is how it was done; and when Silver-tree came ashore, she began
to cry out:
"Come to meet your own mother, when she comes to see you." Gold-tree
said that she could not, that she was locked in the room, and that she
could not get out of it.
"Will you not put out," said Silver-tree, "your little finger through
the key-hole, so that your own mother may give a kiss to it?"
She put out her little finger, and Silver-tree went and put a poisoned
stab in it, and Gold-tree fell dead.
[Illustration:]
When the prince came home, and found Gold-tree dead, he was in great
sorrow, and when he saw how beautiful she was, he did not bury her at
all, but he locked her in a room where nobody would get near her.
In the course of time he married again, and the whole house was under
the hand of this wife but one room, and he himself always kept the key
of that room. On a certain day of the days he forgot to take the key
with him, and the second wife got into the room. What did she see
there but the most beautiful woman that she ever saw.
She began to turn and try to wake her, and she noticed the poisoned
stab in her finger. She took the stab out, and Gold-tree rose alive,
as beautiful as she was ever.
At the fall of night the prince came home from the hunting-hill,
looking very downcast.
"What gift," said his wife, "would you give me that I could make you
laugh?"
"Oh! indeed, nothing could make me laugh, except Gold-tree were to
come alive again."
"Well, you'll find her alive down there in the room."
When the prince saw Gold-tree alive he made great rejoicings, and he
began to kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. Said the second wife,
"Since she is the first one you had it is better for you to stick to
her, and I will go away."
"Oh! indeed you shall not go away, but I shall have both of you."
At the end of the year, Silver-tree went to the glen, where there was
the well, in which there was the trout.
"Troutie, bonny little fellow," said she, "am not I the most beautiful
queen in the world?"
"Oh! indeed you are not."
"Who then?"
"Why, Gold-tree, your daughter."
"Oh! well, she is not alive. It is a year since I put the poisoned
stab into her finger."
"Oh! indeed she is not dead at all, at all."
Silver-tree went home, and begged the king to put the long-ship in
order, for that she was going to see her dear Gold-tree, as it was so
long since she saw her. The long-ship was put in order and they went
away. It was Silver-tree herself that was at the helm, and she steered
the ship so well that they were not long at all before they arrived.
The prince was out hunting on the hills. Gold-tree knew her father's
ship coming.
"Oh!" said she, "my mother is coming, and she will kill me."
"Not at all," said the second wife; "we will go down to meet her."
Silver-tree came ashore. "Come down, Gold-tree, love," said she, "for
your own mother has come to you with a precious drink."
"It is a custom in this country," said the second wife, "that the
person who offers a drink takes a draught out of it first."
Silver-tree put her mouth to it, and the second wife went and struck
it so that some of it went down her throat, and she fell dead. They
had only to carry her home a dead corpse and bury her.
The prince and his two wives were long alive after this, pleased and
peaceful.
I left them there.
King O'Toole and His Goose
Och, I thought all the world, far and near, had heerd of King
O'Toole--well, well but the darkness of mankind is untollable! Well,
sir, you must know, as you didn't hear it afore, that there was a
king, called King O'Toole, who was a fine old king in the old ancient
times, long ago; and it was he that owned the churches in the early
days. The king, you see, was the right sort; he was the real boy, and
loved sport as he loved his life, and hunting in particular; and from
the rising o' the sun, up he got, and away he went over the mountains
after the deer; and fine times they were.
Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but,
you see, in the course of time the king grew old, by raison he was
stiff in his limbs, and when he got stricken in years, his heart
failed him, and he was lost entirely for want o' diversion, because he
couldn't go a-hunting no longer; and, by dad, the poor king was
obliged at last to get a goose to divert him. Oh, you may laugh, if
you like, but it's truth I'm telling you; and the way the goose
diverted him was this-a-way: You see, the goose used to swim across
the lake, and go diving for trout and catch fish on a Friday for the
king, and flew every other day round about the lake, diverting the
poor king. All went on mighty well until, by dad, the goose got
stricken in years like her master, and couldn't divert him no longer,
and then it was that the poor king was lost entirely. The king was
walkin' one mornin' by the edge of the lake, lamentin' his cruel fate,
and thinking of drowning himself, that could get no diversion in life,
when all of a sudden, turning round the corner, whom should he meet
but a mighty decent young man coming up to him.
[Illustration:]
"God save you," says the king to the young man.
"God save you kindly, King O'Toole," says the young man.
"True for you," says the king. "I am King O'Toole," says he, "prince
and plennypennytinchery of these parts," says he; "but how came ye to
know that?" says he.
"Oh, never mind," says St. Kavin.
You see it was Saint Kavin, sure enough--the saint himself in
disguise, and nobody else. "Oh, never mind," says he, "I know more
than that. May I make bold to ask how is your goose, King O'Toole?"
says he.
"Blur-an-agers, how came ye to know about my goose?" says the king.
"Oh, no matter; I was given to understand it," says Saint Kavin.
After some more talk the king says, "What are you?"
"I'm an honest man," says Saint Kavin.
"Well, honest man," says the king, "and how is it you make your money
so aisy?"
"By makin' old things as good as new," says Saint Kavin.
"Is it a tinker you are?" says the king.
"No," says the saint; "I'm no tinker by trade, King O'Toole; I've a
better trade than a tinker," says he--"what would you say," says he,
"If I made your old goose as good as new?"
My dear, at the word of making his goose as good as new, you'd think
the poor old king's eyes were ready to jump out of his head. With that
the king whistled, and down came the poor goose, just like a hound,
waddling up to the poor cripple, her master, and as like him as two
peas. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, "I'll do the
job for you," says he, "King O'Toole."
"By _Jaminee_!" says King O'Toole, "if you do, I'll say you're the
cleverest fellow in the seven parishes."
"Oh, by dad," says St. Kavin, "you must say more nor that--my horn's
not so soft all out," says he, "as to repair your old goose for
nothing;" "what'll you gi' me if I do the job for you?--that's the
chat," says St. Kavin.
"I'll give you whatever you ask," says the king "isn't that fair?"
"Divil a fairer," says the saint, "that's the way to do business.
Now," says he, "this is the bargain I'll make with you, King O'Toole:
will you gi' me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer,
after I make her as good as new?"
"I will," says the king.
"You won't go back o' your word?" says St. Kavin.
"Honour bright!" says King O'Toole, holding out his fist.
"Honour bright!" says St. Kavin, back again, "it's a bargain. Come
here!" says he to the poor old goose--"come here, you unfortunate ould
cripple, and it's I that'll make you the sporting bird." With that, my
dear, he took up the goose by the two wings--"Criss o' my cross an
you," says he, markin' her to grace with the blessed sign at the same
minute--and throwing her up in the air, "whew," says he, jist givin'
her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she took to her
heels, flyin' like one o' the eagles themselves, and cutting as many
capers as a swallow before a shower of rain.
Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standing with
his mouth open, looking at his poor old goose flying as light as a
lark, and better than ever she was; and when she lit at his feet,
patted her on the head, and "_Ma vourneen_," says he "but you are the
_darlint_ o' the world."
[Illustration:]
"And what do you say to me," says Saint Kavin, "for making her the
like?"
"By Jabers," says the king, "I say nothing beats the art o' man,
barring the bees."
"And do you say no more nor that?" says Saint Kavin.
"And that I'm beholden to you," says the king.
"But will you gi'e me all the ground the goose flew over?" says Saint
Kavin.
"I will," says King O'Toole, "and you're welcome to it," says he,
"though it's the last acre I have to give."
"But you'll keep your word true," says the saint.
"As true as the sun," says the king.
"It's well for you, King O'Toole, that you said that word," says he;
"for if you didn't say that word, the divil the bit o' your goose
would ever fly agin."
When the king was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was pleased with
him, and then it was that he made himself known to the king. "And,"
says he, "King O'Toole, you're a decent man, for I only came here to
try you. You don't know me," says he, "because I'm disguised."
"Musha! then," says the king, "who are you?"
"I'm Saint Kavin," said the saint, blessing himself.
"Oh, queen of heaven!" says the king, making the sign of the cross
between his eyes, and falling down on his knees before the saint; "is
it the great Saint Kavin," says he, "that I've been discoursing all
this time without knowing it," says he, "all as one as if he was a
lump of a _gossoon_?--and so you're a saint?" says the king.
"I am," says Saint Kavin.
"By Jabers, I thought I was only talking to a dacent boy," says the
king.
"Well, you know the difference now," says the saint. "I'm Saint
Kavin," says he, "the greatest of all the saints."
And so the king had his goose as good as new, to divert him as long as
he lived; and the saint supported him after he came into his property,
as I told you, until the day of his death--and that was soon after;
for the poor goose thought he was catching a trout one Friday; but, my
jewel, it was a mistake he made--and instead of a trout, it was a
thieving horse-eel; and instead of the goose killing a trout for the
king's supper--by dad, the eel killed the king's goose--and small
blame to him; but he didn't ate her, because he darn't ate what Saint
Kavin had laid his blessed hands on.
The Wooing of Olwen
Shortly after the birth of Kilhuch, the son of King Kilyth, his mother
died. Before her death she charged the king that he should not take a
wife again until he saw a briar with two blossoms upon her grave, and
the king sent every morning to see if anything were growing thereon.
After many years the briar appeared, and he took to wife the widow of
King Doged. She foretold to her stepson, Kilhuch, that it was his
destiny to marry a maiden named Olwen, or none other, and he, at his
father's bidding, went to the court of his cousin, King Arthur, to ask
as a boon the hand of the maiden. He rode upon a grey steed with
shell-formed hoofs, having a bridle of linked gold, and a saddle also
of gold. In his hand were two spears of silver, well-tempered, headed
with steel, of an edge to wound the wind and cause blood to flow, and
swifter than the fall of the dew-drop from the blade of reed grass
upon the earth when the dew of June is at its heaviest. A gold-hilted
sword was on his thigh, and the blade was of gold, having inlaid upon
it a cross of the hue of the lightning of heaven. Two brindled,
white-breasted greyhounds, with strong collars of rubies, sported
round him, and his courser cast up four sods with its four hoofs like
four swallows about his head. Upon the steed was a four-cornered cloth
of purple, and an apple of gold was at each corner. Precious gold was
upon the stirrups and shoes, and the blade of grass bent not beneath
them, so light was the courser's tread as he went towards the gate of
King Arthur's palace.
Arthur received him with great ceremony, and asked him to remain at
the palace; but the youth replied that he came not to consume meat and
drink, but to ask a boon of the king.
Then said Arthur, "Since thou wilt not remain here, chieftain, thou
shalt receive the boon, whatsoever thy tongue may name, as far as the
wind dries and the rain moistens, and the sun revolves, and the sea
encircles, and the earth extends, save only my ships and my mantle, my
sword, my lance, my shield, my dagger, and Guinevere my wife."
So Kilhuch craved of him the hand of Olwen, the daughter of Yspathaden
Penkawr, and also asked the favour and aid of all Arthur's court.
Then said Arthur, "O chieftain, I have never heard of the maiden of
whom thou speakest, nor of her kindred, but I will gladly send
messengers in search of her."
And the youth said, "I will willingly grant from this night to that at
the end of the year to do so."
Then Arthur sent messengers to every land within his dominions to seek
for the maiden; and at the end of the year Arthur's messengers
returned without having gained any knowledge or information
concerning Olwen more than on the first day.
Then said Kilhuch, "Every one has received his boon, and I yet lack
mine. I will depart and bear away thy honour with me."
Then said Kay, "Rash chieftain! dost thou reproach Arthur? Go with us,
and we will not part until thou dost either confess that the maiden
exists not in the world, or until we obtain her."
Thereupon Kay rose up.
Kay had this peculiarity, that his breath lasted nine nights and nine
days under water, and he could exist nine nights and nine days without
sleep. A wound from Kay's sword no physician could heal. Very subtle
was Kay. When it pleased him he could render himself as tall as the
highest tree in the forest. And he had another peculiarity--so great
was the heat of his nature, that, when it rained hardest, whatever he
carried remained dry for a handbreadth above and a handbreadth below
his hand; and when his companions were coldest, it was to them as fuel
with which to light their fire.
And Arthur called Bedwyr, who never shrank from any enterprise upon
which Kay was bound. None was equal to him in swiftness throughout
this island except Arthur and Drych Ail Kibthar. And although he was
one-handed, three warriors could not shed blood faster than he on the
field of battle. Another property he had; his lance would produce a
wound equal to nine opposing lances.
And Arthur called to Kynthelig the guide. "Go thou upon this
expedition with the chieftain." For as good a guide was he in a land
which he had never seen as he was in his own.
He called Gwrhyr Gwalstawt Ieithoedd, because he knew all tongues.
He called Gwalchmai, the son of Gwyar, because he never returned home
without achieving the adventure of which he went in quest. He was the
best of footmen and the best of knights. He was nephew to Arthur, the
son of his sister, and his cousin.
And Arthur called Menw, the son of Tiergwaeth, in order that if they
went into a savage country, he might cast a charm and an illusion over
them, so that none might see them whilst they could see every one.
They journeyed on till they came to a vast open plain, wherein they
saw a great castle, which was the fairest in the world. But so far
away was it that at night it seemed no nearer, and they scarcely
reached it on the third day. When they came before the castle they
beheld a vast flock of sheep, boundless and without end. They told
their errand to the herdsman, who endeavoured to dissuade them, since
none who had come thither on that quest had returned alive. They gave
to him a gold ring, which he conveyed to his wife, telling her who the
visitors were.
On the approach of the latter, she ran out with joy to greet them, and
sought to throw her arms about their necks. But Kay, snatching a
billet out of the pile, placed the log between her two hands, and she
squeezed it so that it became a twisted coil.
"O woman," said Kay, "if thou hadst squeezed me thus, none could ever
again have set their affections on me. Evil love were this."
They entered the house, and after meat she told them that the maiden
Olwen came there every Saturday to wash. They pledged their faith that
they would not harm her, and a message was sent to her. So Olwen came,
clothed in a robe of flame-coloured silk, and with a collar of ruddy
gold, in which were emeralds and rubies, about her neck. More golden
was her hair than the flower of the broom, and her skin was whiter
than the foam of the wave, and fairer were her hands and her fingers
than the blossoms of the wood anemone amidst the spray of the meadow
fountain. Brighter were her glances than those of a falcon; her bosom
was more snowy than the breast of the white swan, her cheek redder
than the reddest roses. Whoso beheld was filled with her love. Four
white trefoils sprang up wherever she trod, and therefore was she
called Olwen.
Then Kilhuch, sitting beside her on a bench, told her his love, and
she said that he would win her as his bride if he granted whatever her
father asked.
Accordingly they went up to the castle and laid their request before
him.
"Raise up the forks beneath my two eyebrows which have fallen over my
eyes," said Yspathaden Penkawr, "that I may see the fashion of my
son-in-law."
They did so, and he promised them an answer on the morrow. But as they
were going forth Yspathaden seized one of the three poisoned darts
that lay beside him and threw it back after them.
And Bedwyr caught it and flung it back, wounding Yspathaden in the
knee.
Then said he, "A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly I shall ever walk
the worse for his rudeness. This poisoned iron pains me like the bite
of a gad-fly. Cursed be the smith who forged it, and the anvil whereon
it was wrought."
[Illustration:]
The knights rested in the house of Custennin the herdsman, but the
next day at dawn they returned to the castle and renewed their
request.
Yspathaden said it was necessary that he should consult Olwen's four
great-grandmothers and her four great grand sires.
The knights again withdrew, and as they were going he took the second
dart and cast it after them.
But Menw caught it and flung it back, piercing Yspathaden's breast
with it, so that it came out at the small of his back.
"A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly," says he, "the hard iron pains
me like the bite of a horse-leech. Cursed be the hearth whereon it was
heated! Henceforth whenever I go up a hill, I shall have a scant in my
breath and a pain in my chest."
On the third day the knights returned once more to the palace, and
Yspathaden took the third dart and cast it at them.
But Kilhuch caught it and threw it vigorously, and wounded him through
the eyeball, so that the dart came out at the back of his head.
"A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly. As long as I remain alive my
eyesight will be the worse. Whenever I go against the wind my eyes
will water, and peradventure my head will burn, and I shall have a
giddiness every new moon. Cursed be the fire in which it was forged.
Like the bite of a mad dog is the stroke of this poisoned iron."
And they went to meat.
Said Yspathaden Penkawr, "Is it thou that seekest my daughter?"
"It is I," answered Kilhuch.
"I must have thy pledge that thou wilt not do towards me otherwise
than is just, and when I have gotten that which I shall name, my
daughter thou shalt have."
"I promise thee that willingly," said Kilhuch, "name what thou wilt."
"I will do so," said he.
"Throughout the world there is not a comb or scissors with which I can
arrange my hair, on account of its rankness, except the comb and
scissors that are between the two ears of Turch Truith, the son of
Prince Tared. He will not give them of his own free will, and thou
wilt not be able to compel him."
"It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think
that it will not be easy."