In those days when our Lord and St Peter wandered upon earth, they came
once to an old wife’s house, who sat baking. Her name was Gertrude, and
she had a red mutch on her head. They had walked a long way, and were
both hungry, and our Lord begged hard for a bannock to stay their
hunger. Yes, they should have it. So she took a little tiny piece of
dough and rolled it out, but as she rolled it, it grew and grew till it
covered the whole griddle.
Nay, that was too big; they couldn’t have that. So she took a tinier
bit still; but when that was rolled out, it covered the whole griddle
just the same, and that bannock was too big, she said; they couldn’t
have that either.
The third time she took a still tinier bit—so tiny you could scarce see
it; but it was the same story over again—the bannock was too big.
“Well”, said Gertrude, “I can’t give you anything; you must just go
without, for all these bannocks are too big.”
Then our Lord waxed wroth, and said:
“Since you loved me so little as to grudge me a morsel of food, you
shall have this punishment: you shall become a bird, and seek your food
between bark and bole; and never get a drop to drink save when it
rains.”
He had scarce said the last word before she was turned into a great
black woodpecker, or Gertrude’s bird, and flew from her kneading-trough
right up the chimney; and till this very day you may see her flying
about, with her red mutch on her head, and her body all black, because
of the soot in the chimney; and so she hacks and taps away at the trees
for her food, and whistles when rain is coming, for she is ever
athirst, and then she looks for a drop to cool her tongue.