time. He threw it behind him and there was a fresh-water loch, twenty
miles in length and breadth, behind them.
The giant came on, but with the speed he had on him, he was in the
middle of the loch, and he went under, and he rose no more.
On the next day the young companions were come in sight of his
father's house. "Now," says she, "my father is drowned, and he won't
trouble us any more; but before we go further," says she, "go you to
your father's house, and tell that you have the likes of me; but let
neither man nor creature kiss you, for if you do, you will not
remember that you have ever seen me."
Every one he met gave him welcome and luck, and he charged his father
and mother not to kiss him; but as mishap was to be, an old greyhound
was indoors, and she knew him, and jumped up to his mouth, and after
that he did not remember the giant's daughter.
She was sitting at the well's side as he left her, but the king's son
was not coming. In the mouth of night she climbed up into a tree of
oak that was beside the well, and she lay in the fork of that tree
all night. A shoemaker had a house near the well, and about midday on
the morrow, the shoemaker asked his wife to go for a drink for him out
of the well. When the shoemaker's wife reached the well, and when she
saw the shadow of her that was in the tree, thinking it was her own
shadow--and she never thought till now that she was so handsome--she
gave a cast to the dish that was in her hand, and it was broken on the
ground, and she took herself to the house without vessel or water.
"Where is the water, wife?" said the shoemaker.
"You shambling, contemptible old carle, without grace, I have stayed
too long your water and wood thrall."
"I think, wife, that you have turned crazy. Go you, daughter, quickly,
and fetch a drink for your father."
His daughter went, and in the same way so it happened to her. She
never thought till now that she was so lovable, and she took herself
home.
"Up with the drink," said her father.
"You home-spun shoe carle, do you think I am fit to be your thrall?"
The poor shoemaker thought that they had taken a turn in their
understandings, and he went himself to the well. He saw the shadow of
the maiden in the well, and he looked up to the tree, and he sees the
finest woman he ever saw.
"Your seat is wavering, but your face is fair," said the shoemaker.
"Come down, for there is need of you for a short while at my house."
The shoemaker understood that this was the shadow that had driven his
people mad. The shoemaker took her to his house, and he said that he
had but a poor bothy, but that she should get a share of all that was
in it.
One day, the shoemaker had shoes ready, for on that very day the
king's son was to be married. The shoemaker was going to the castle
with the shoes of the young people, and the girl said to the
shoemaker, "I would like to get a sight of the king's son before he
marries."
"Come with me," says the shoemaker, "I am well acquainted with the
servants at the castle, and you shall get a sight of the king's son
and all the company."
And when the gentles saw the pretty woman that was here they took her
to the wedding-room, and they filled for her a glass of wine. When she
was going to drink what was in it, a flame went up out of the glass,
and a golden pigeon and a silver pigeon sprang out of it. They were
flying about when three grains of barley fell on the floor. The silver
pigeon sprang, and ate that up.
Said the golden pigeon to him, "If you remembered when I cleared the
byre, you would not eat that without giving me a share."
Again there fell three other grains of barley, and the silver pigeon
sprang, and ate that up as before.
"If you remembered when I thatched the byre, you would not eat that
without giving me my share," says the golden pigeon.
Three other grains fall, and the silver pigeon sprang, and ate that
up.
"If you remembered when I harried the magpie's nest, you would not eat
that without giving me my share," says the golden pigeon; "I lost my
little finger bringing it down, and I want it still."
The king's son minded, and he knew who it was that was before him.
"Well," said the king's son to the guests at the feast, "when I was a
little younger than I am now, I lost the key of a casket that I had. I
had a new key made, but after it was brought to me I found the old
one. Now, I'll leave it to any one here to tell me what I am to do.
Which of the keys should I keep?"
"My advice to you," said one of the guests, "is to keep the old key,
for it fits the lock better, and you're more used to it."
Then the king's son stood up and said: "I thank you for a wise advice
and an honest word. This is my bride the daughter of the giant who
saved my life at the risk of her own. I'll have her and no other
woman."
So the king's son married Auburn Mary and the wedding lasted long and
all were happy. But all I got was butter on a live coal, porridge in a
basket, and paper shoes for my feet, and they sent me for water to the
stream, and the paper shoes came to an end.
Brewery of Eggshells
[Illustration:]
In Treneglwys there is a certain shepherd's cot known by the name of
Twt y Cymrws because of the strange strife that occurred there. There
once lived there a man and his wife, and they had twins whom the woman
nursed tenderly. One day she was called away to the house of a
neighbour at some distance. She did not much like going and leaving
her little ones all alone in a solitary house, especially as she had
heard tell of the good folk haunting the neighbourhood.
Well, she went and came back as soon as she could, but on her way back
she was frightened to see some old elves of the blue petticoat
crossing her path though it was midday. She rushed home, but found her
two little ones in the cradle and everything seemed as it was before.
But after a time the good people began to suspect that something was
wrong, for the twins didn't grow at all.
The man said: "They're not ours."
The woman said: "Whose else should they be?"
And so arose the great strife so that the neighbours named the cottage
after it. It made the woman very sad, so one evening she made up her
mind to go and see the Wise Man of Llanidloes, for he knew everything
and would advise her what to do.
So she went to Llanidloes and told the case to the Wise Man. Now there
was soon to be a harvest of rye and oats, so the Wise Man said to her,
"When you are getting dinner for the reapers, clear out the shell of a
hen's egg and boil some pottage in it, and then take it to the door as
if you meant it as a dinner for the reapers. Then listen if the twins
say anything. If you hear them speaking of things beyond the
understanding of children, go back and take them up and throw them
into the waters of Lake Elvyn. But if you don't hear anything
remarkable, do them no injury."
So when the day of the reap came the woman did all that the Wise Man
ordered, and put the eggshell on the fire and took it off and carried
it to the door, and there she stood and listened. Then she heard one
of the children say to the other:
Acorn before oak I knew,
An egg before a hen,
But I never heard of an eggshell brew
A dinner for harvest men.
So she went back into the house, seized the children and threw them
into the Llyn, and the goblins in their blue trousers came and saved
their dwarfs and the mother had her own children back and so the great
strife ended.
The Lad with the Goat-skin
Long ago a poor widow woman lived down near the iron forge, by
Enniscorth, and she was so poor she had no clothes to put on her son;
so she used to fix him in the ash-hole, near the fire, and pile the
warm ashes about him; and according as he grew up, she sunk the pit
deeper. At last, by hook or by crook, she got a goat-skin, and
fastened it round his waist, and he felt quite grand, and took a walk
down the street. So says she to him next morning, "Tom, you thief, you
never done any good yet, and you six foot high, and past
nineteen;--take that rope and bring me a faggot from the wood."
"Never say't twice, mother," says Tom--"here goes."
When he had it gathered and tied, what should come up but a big giant,
nine foot high, and made a lick of a club at him. Well become Tom, he
jumped a-one side, and picked up a ram-pike; and the first crack he
gave the big fellow, he made him kiss the clod.
"If you have e'er a prayer," says Tom, "now's the time to say it,
before I make fragments of you."
"I have no prayers," says the giant; "but if you spare my life I'll
give you that club; and as long as you keep from sin, you'll win every
battle you ever fight with it."
Tom made no bones about letting him off; and as soon as he got the
club in his hands, he sat down on the bresna, and gave it a tap with
the kippeen, and says, "Faggot, I had great trouble gathering you, and
run the risk of my life for you, the least you can do is to carry me
home." And sure enough the wind o' the word was all it wanted. It went
off through the wood, groaning and crackling, till it came to the
widow's door.
Well, when the sticks were all burned, Tom was sent off again to pick
more; and this time he had to fight with a giant that had two heads on
him. Tom had a little more trouble with him--that's all; and the
prayers he said, was to give Tom a fife, that nobody could help
dancing when he was playing it. Begorries, he made the big faggot
dance home, with himself sitting on it. The next giant was a beautiful
boy with three heads on him. He had neither prayers nor catechism no
more nor the others; and so he gave Tom a bottle of green ointment,
that wouldn't let you be burned, nor scalded, nor wounded. "And now,"
says he, "there's no more of us. You may come and gather sticks here
till little Lunacy Day in Harvest, without giant or fairy-man to
disturb you."
Well, now, Tom was prouder nor ten paycock, and used to take a walk
down street in the heel of the evening; but some o' the little boys
had no more manners than if they were Dublin jackeens, and put out
their tongues at Tom's club and Tom's goat-skin. He didn't like that
at all, and it would be mean to give one of them a clout. At last what
should come through the town but a kind of a bell-man, only it's a big
bugle he had, and a huntsman's cap on his head, and a kind of painted
shirt. So this--he wasn't a bell-man, and I don't know what to call
him--bugle-man, maybe, proclaimed that the king of Dublin's daughter
was so melancholy that she didn't give a laugh for seven years, and
that her father would grant her in marriage to whoever could make her
laugh three times.
"That's the very thing for me to try," says Tom; and so, without
burning any more daylight, he kissed his mother, curled his club at
the little boys, and off he set along the yalla highroad to the town
of Dublin.
At last Tom came to one of the city gates, and the guards laughed and
cursed at him instead of letting him in. Tom stood it all for a little
time, but at last one of them--out of fun, as he said,--drove his
bayonet half an inch or so into his side. Tom done nothing but take
the fellow by the scruff o' the neck and the waistband of his
corduroys, and fling him into the canal. Some run to pull the fellow
out, and others to let manners into the vulgarian with their swords
and daggers; but a tap from his club sent them headlong into the moat
or down on the stones, and they were soon begging him to stay his
hands.
So at last one of them was glad enough to show Tom the way to the
palace-yard; and there was the king, and the queen, and the princess
in a gallery, looking at all sorts of wrestling, and sword-playing,
and long dances, and mumming, all to please the princess; but not a
smile came over her handsome face.
Well, they all stopped when they seen the young giant, with his boy's
face, and long black hair, and his short curly beard--for his mother
couldn't afford to buy razors--and his great strong arms, and bare
legs, and no covering but the goat-skin that reached from his waist to
his knees. But an envious wizened bit of a fellow, with a red head,
that wished to be married to the princess, and didn't like how she
opened her eyes at Tom, came forward and asked his business very
snappishly.
"My business," said Tom, says he, "is to make the beautiful princess,
God bless her, laugh three times."
"Do you see all them merry fellows and skilful swordsmen," said the
other, "that could eat you up with a grain of salt, and not a mother's
soul of 'em ever got a laugh from her these seven years?"
So the fellows gathered round Tom, and the bad man aggravated him till
he told them he didn't care a pinch o' snuff for the whole bilin' of
'em; let 'em come on, six at a time, and try what they could do.
The king, who was too far off to hear what they were saying, asked
what did the stranger want.
"He wants," said the red-headed fellow, "to make hares of your best
men."
"Oh!" says the king, "if that's the way, let one of 'em turn out and
try his mettle."
So one stood forward, with sword and pot-lid, and made a cut at Tom.
He struck the fellow's elbow with the club, and up over their heads
flew the sword, and down went the owner of it on the gravel from a
thump he got on the helmet. Another took his place, and another, and
another, and then half a dozen at once, and Tom sent swords, helmets,
shields, and bodies, rolling over and over, and themselves bawling out
that they were kilt, and disabled and damaged, and rubbing their poor
elbows and hips, and limping away. Tom contrived not to kill any one;
and the princess was so amused, that she let a great sweet laugh out
of her that was heard over all the yard.
"King of Dublin," said Tom, "I've quarter of your daughter."
And the king didn't know whether he was glad or sorry, and all the
blood in the princess's heart run into her cheeks.
So there was no more fighting that day, and Tom was invited to dine
with the royal family. Next day, Redhead told Tom of a wolf, the size
of a yearling heifer, that used to be serenading about the walls, and
eating people and cattle; and said what a pleasure it would give the
king to have it killed.
"With all my heart," says Tom; "send a jackeen to show me where he
lives, and we'll see how he behaves to a stranger."
The princess was not well pleased for Tom looked a different person
with fine clothes and a nice green birredh over his long curly hair;
and besides, he'd got one laugh out of her. However, the king gave his
consent; and in an hour and a half the horrible wolf was walking into
the palace-yard, and Tom a step or two behind, with his club on his
shoulder, just as a shepherd would be walking after a pet lamb.
The king and queen and princess were safe up in their gallery, but the
officers and people of the court that wor padrowling about the great
bawn, when they saw the big baste coming in, gave themselves up, and
began to make for doors and gates; and the wolf licked his chops, as
if he was saying, "Wouldn't I enjoy a breakfast off a couple of yez!"
The king shouted out, "O Tom with the Goat-skin, take away that
terrible wolf, and you must have all my daughter."
But Tom didn't mind him a bit. He pulled out his flute and began to
play like vengeance; and dickens a man or boy in the yard but began
shovelling away heel and toe, and the wolf himself was obliged to get
on his hind legs and dance "Tatther Jack Walsh," along with the rest.
A good deal of the people got inside, and shut the doors, the way the
hairy fellow wouldn't pin them; but Tom kept playing, and the
outsiders kept dancing and shouting, and the wolf kept dancing and
roaring with the pain his legs were giving him; and all the time he
had his eyes on Redhead, who was shut out along with the rest.
Wherever Redhead went, the wolf followed, and kept one eye on him and
the other on Tom, to see if he would give him leave to eat him. But
Tom shook his head, and never stopped the tune, and Redhead never
stopped dancing and bawling, and the wolf dancing and roaring one leg
up and the other down, and he ready to drop out of his standing from
fair tiresomeness.
[Illustration:]
When the princess seen that there was no fear of any one being kilt,
she was so divarted by the stew that Redhead was in, that she gave
another great laugh; and well become Tom, out he cried, "King of
Dublin, I have two halves of your daughter."
"Oh, halves or alls," says the king, "put away that divil of a wolf,
and we'll see about it."
So Tom put his flute in his pocket, and says he to the baste that was
sittin' on his currabingo ready to faint, "Walk off to your mountain,
my fine fellow, and live like a respectable baste; and if ever I find
you within seven miles of any town, I'll----"
He said no more, but spit in his fist, and gave a flourish of his
club. It was all the poor divil of a wolf wanted: he put his tail
between his legs, and took to his pumps without looking at man or
mortal, and neither sun, moon, nor stars ever saw him in sight of
Dublin again.
At dinner every one laughed but the foxy fellow; and sure enough he
was laying out how he'd settle poor Tom next day.
"Well, to be sure!" says he, "King of Dublin, you are in luck. There's
the Danes moidhering us to no end. Deuce run to Lusk wid 'em! and if
any one can save us from 'em, it is this gentleman with the goat-skin.
There is a flail hangin' on the collar-beam in hell, and neither Dane
nor devil can stand before it."
"So," says Tom to the king, "will you let me have the other half of
the princess if I bring you the flail?"
"No, no," says the princess; "I'd rather never be your wife than see
you in that danger."
But Redhead whispered and nudged Tom about how shabby it would look to
reneague the adventure. So he asked which way he was to go, and
Redhead directed him.
Well, he travelled and travelled, till he came in sight of the walls
of hell; and, bedad, before he knocked at the gates, he rubbed himself
over with the greenish ointment. When he knocked, a hundred little
imps popped their heads out through the bars, and axed him what he
wanted.
"I want to speak to the big divil of all," says Tom; "open the gate."
It wasn't long till the gate was thrune open, and the Ould Boy
received Tom with bows and scrapes, and axed his business.
"My business isn't much," says Tom. "I only came for the loan of that
flail that I see hanging on the collar-beam, for the king of Dublin to
give a thrashing to the Danes."
"Well," says the other, "the Danes is much better customers to me; but
since you walked so far I won't refuse. Hand that flail," says he to a
young imp; and he winked the far-off eye at the same time. So, while
some were barring the gates, the young devil climbed up, and took down
the flail that had the hand-staff and booltheen both made out of
red-hot iron. The little vagabond was grinning to think how it would
burn the hands o' Tom, but the dickens a burn it made on him, no more
nor if it was a good oak sapling.
[Illustration:]
"Thankee," says Tom. "Now would you open the gate for a body, and I'll
give you no more trouble."
"Oh, tramp!" says Ould Nick; "is that the way? It is easier getting
inside them gates than getting out again. Take that tool from him, and
give him a dose of the oil of stirrup."
So one fellow put out his claws to seize on the flail, but Tom give
him such a welt of it on the side of the head that he broke off one of
his horns, and made him roar like a devil as he was. Well, they rushed
at Tom, but he gave them, little and big, such a thrashing as they
didn't forget for a while. At last says the ould thief of all, rubbing
his elbow, "Let the fool out; and woe to whoever lets him in again,
great or small."
So out marched Tom, and away with him, without minding the shouting
and cursing they kept up at him from the tops of the walls; and when
he got home to the big bawn of the palace, there never was such
running and racing as to see himself and the flail. When he had his
story told, he laid down the flail on the stone steps, and bid no one
for their lives to touch it. If the king, and queen, and princess,
made much of him before, they made ten times more of him now; but
Redhead, the mean scruff-hound, stole over, and thought to catch hold
of the flail to make an end of him. His fingers hardly touched it,
when he let a roar out of him as if heaven and earth were coming
together, and kept flinging his arms about and dancing, that it was
pitiful to look at him. Tom ran at him as soon as he could rise,
caught his hands in his own two, and rubbed them this way and that,
and the burning pain left them before you could reckon one. Well, the
poor fellow between the pain that was only just gone, and the comfort
he was in, had the comicalest face that you ever see, it was such a
mixtherum-gatherum of laughing and crying. Everybody burst out a
laughing--the princess could not stop no more than the rest; and then
says Tom, "Now, ma'am, if there were fifty halves of you, I hope
you'll give me them all."
Well, the princess looked at her father, and by my word, she came over
to Tom, and put her two delicate hands into his two rough ones, and I
wish it was myself was in his shoes that day!
Tom would not bring the flail into the palace. You may be sure no
other body went near it; and when the early-risers were passing next
morning, they found two long clefts in the stone, where it was after
burning itself an opening downwards, nobody could tell how far. But a
messenger came in at noon, and said that the Danes were so frightened
when they heard of the flail coming into Dublin that they got into
their ships and sailed away.
Well, I suppose, before they were married, Tom got some man, like Pat
Mara of Tomenine, to learn him the "principles of politeness,"
fluxions, gunnery and fortification, decimal fractions, practice, and
the rule of three direct, the way he'd be able to keep up a
conversation with the royal family. Whether he ever lost his time
learning them sciences, I'm not sure, but it's as sure as fate that
his mother never more saw any want till the end of her days.
[Illustration: MAN OR WOMAN
BOY OR GIRL
THAT READS WHAT FOLLOWS
3 TIMES
SHALL FALL ASLEEP
AN HUNDRED YEARS
JOHN D BATTEN DREW THIS: AUG 29TH 1891
GOOD-NIGHT. ]
Notes and References
It may be as well to give the reader some account of the enormous
extent of the Celtic folk-tales in existence. I reckon these to extend
to 2000, though only about 250 are in print. The former number exceeds
that known in France, Italy, Germany, and Russia, where collection has
been most active, and is only exceeded by the MS. collection of
Finnish folk-tales at Helsingfors, said to exceed 12,000. As will be
seen, this superiority of the Celts is due to the phenomenal and
patriotic activity of one man, the late J. F. Campbell, of Islay,
whose _Popular Tales_ and MS. collections (partly described by Mr.
Alfred Nutt in _Folk-Lore_, i., 369-83) contain references to no less
than 1281 tales (many of them, of course, variants and scraps). Celtic
folk-tales, while more numerous, are also the oldest of the tales of
modern European races; some of them--_e. g._, "Connla," in the present
selection, occurring in the oldest Irish vellums. They include (1)
fairy tales properly so-called--_i.e._, tales or anecdotes _about_
fairies, hobgoblins, etc., told as natural occurrences; (2)
hero-tales, stories of adventure told of national or mythical heroes;
(3) folk-tales proper, describing marvellous adventures of otherwise
unknown heroes, in which there is a defined plot and supernatural
characters (speaking animals, giants, dwarfs, etc.); and finally (4)
drolls, comic anecdotes of feats of stupidity or cunning.