'Search for my father shall ye not, until ye do send to him

Produced by Robin Monks, Joseph Cooper, Sankar Viswanathan,

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

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[Illustration: She was off and away to the lone plain of

Carterhaugh]

STORIES FROM

THE BALLADS

TOLD TO THE CHILDREN BY

MARY MACGREGOR

WITH PICTURES BY

KATHARINE CAMERON

LONDON: T. C. & E. C. JACK

NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.

* * * * *

TO DORIS

* * * * *

ABOUT THIS BOOK

Listen, children, for you will wish to hear where I found the

tales which I have told you in this little book.

It is long, oh! so long ago, that they were sung up hill and down

dale by wandering singers who soon became known all over the

country as minstrels, or ofttimes, because they would carry with

them a harp, as harpers.

In court, in cottage, by princes and by humble folk, everywhere,

by every one the minstrels were greeted with delight.

To such sweet music did they sing the songs or ballads which they

made or perchance had heard, to such sweet music, that those who

listened could forget nor tale nor tune.

In those far-off days of minstrelsy the country was alive with

fairies. Over the mountains, through the glens, by babbling

streams and across silent moors, the patter of tiny feet might be

heard, feet which had strayed from Elfinland.

It was of these little folk and of their visits to the homes of

mortals that the minstrels sang. Sterner songs too were theirs,

songs of war and bloodshed, when clan fought with clan and lives

were lost and brave deeds were done. Of all indeed that made life

glad or sad, of these the minstrels sang.

From town to village, from court to inn they wandered, singing

the old songs, adding verses to them here, dropping lines from

them there, singing betimes a strain unheard before, until at

length the day came when the songs were written down.

It was in the old books that thus came to be written that I first

found these tales, and when you have read them perhaps you will

wish to go yourself to the same old books, to find many another

song of love and hate, of joy and sorrow.

MARY MACGREGOR.

* * * * *

LIST OF STORIES

I. The Young Tamlane,

II. Hynde Etin,

III. Hynde Horn,

IV. Thomas the Rhymer,

V. Lizzie Lindsay,

VI. The Gay Goshawk,

VII. The Laird o' Logie,

* * * * *

LIST OF PICTURES

THE YOUNG TAMLANE.--

She was off and away to the lone plain of Carterhaugh.--_Frontispiece._

'In earth or air I dwell, as pleases me the best,'

HYNDE ETIN.--

'For twelve long years have I never been within the Holy Church, and I

fear to enter now,'

HYNDE HORN.--

'Drink,' she said gently, 'drink,'

THOMAS THE RHYMER.--

Under the Eildon tree Thomas met the lady,

LIZZIE LINDSAY.--

'Will ye come to the Highlands with me, Lizzie Lindsay?'

THE GAY GOSHAWK.--

'I go but to my lattice window to listen to the birds,'

THE LAIRD O' LOGIE.--

She stood at the hall door gazing wistfully after the young Laird

of Logie,

* * * * *

THE YOUNG TAMLANE

The young Tamlane had lived among mortals for only nine short

years ere he was carried away by the Queen of the Fairies, away

to live in Fairyland.

His father had been a knight of great renown, his mother a lady

of high degree, and sorry indeed were they to lose their son.

And this is how it happened.

One day, soon after Tamlane's ninth birthday, his uncle came to

him and said, 'Tamlane, now that ye are nine years old, ye shall,

an ye like it, ride with me to the hunt.'

And Tamlane jumped for joy, and clapped his hands for glee. Then

he mounted his horse and rode away with his uncle to hunt and

hawk.

Over the moors they rode, and the wind it blew cold from the

north. Over the moors they rode, and the cold north wind blew

upon the young Tamlane until he grew cold and stiff.

Then the reins they fell from his hands and down from his horse

slipped Tamlane, and laid himself down to rest, so weary, so cold

was he. But no sooner had he lain down on the bare earth than he

closed his eyes and fell fast asleep. And no sooner had he fallen

fast asleep than the Queen of the Fairies came and carried

Tamlane off to Fairyland.

For long years Tamlane dwelt among the little green folk, yet

ofttimes he would come back to visit the land of his birth.

Now many were the hills and dells haunted by the fairy folk. Yet

neither hill nor dell pleased them more than the lone plain of

Carterhaugh, where the soft-flowing rivers of Ettrick and Yarrow

met and mingled.

Many a long day after fairies were banished from the plain of

Carterhaugh would the peasant folk come to gaze at the circles

which still marked the green grass of the lone moor. The circles

had been made, so they said, by the tiny feet of the fairies as

they danced round and round in a ring.

Well, in the days before the fairies were banished from the plain

of Carterhaugh, strange sights were to be seen there by the light

of the moon.

Little folk, dressed all in green, would flit across the moor.

They would form tiny rings and dance on their tiny toes until the

moonlight failed.

Little horsemen dressed in green would go riding by, the bells on

the fairy bridles playing magic music the while. Sounds too,

unknown to mortals, would tremble on the still night air.

Full of mischief too were these little elfin folk, and wise

mortals feared to tread where fairy feet were tripping.

Wise mortals would warn the merry children and the winsome

maidens lest they should venture too near the favourite haunts of

fairydom.

To Carterhaugh came, as I have told you, many of the fairy folk;

but more often than any other came a little elfin knight, and he

was the young Tamlane, who had been carried away to Fairyland

when he was only nine years old.

Beyond all other of the little green folk was the elf knight

feared. And little was that to be wondered at, for well was it

known that over many a fair-haired child, over many a beauteous

maiden, he had used his magic power. Nor would he let them go

until they promised to come back another moonlit eve, and as a

pledge of their promise he would seize from the children a toy,

from the maidens a ring, or it might be their mantle of green.

Now about two miles from the plain of Carterhaugh stood a castle,

and in the castle there lived a fair maiden named Janet.

One day her father sent for his daughter and said, 'Janet, ye may

leave the castle grounds, an ye please, but never may ye cross

the plain of Carterhaugh. For there ye may be found by young

Tamlane, and he it is who ofttimes casts a spell o'er bonny

maidens.'

Now Janet was a wilful daughter. She answered her father never a

word, but when she had left his presence she laughed aloud, she

tossed her head.

To her ladies she said, 'Go to Carterhaugh will I an I list, and

come from Carterhaugh will I an I please, and never will I ask

leave of any one.'

Then when the moonbeams peeped in at her lattice window, the lady

Janet tucked up her green skirt, so that she might run, and she

coiled her beautiful yellow hair as a crown above her brow. And

she was off and away to the lone plain of Carterhaugh.

The moonlight stole across the moor, and Janet laughed aloud in

her glee. She ran across to the well, and there, standing alone,

riderless, stood the steed of the little elfin knight.

Janet put out her hand to the rose-tree that grew by the well and

plucked a dark red rose. Sweet was its scent and Janet put out

her hand and plucked another rose, but ere she had pulled a

third, close beside her stood a little wee man. He reached no

higher than the knee of the lady Janet.

'Ye have come to Carterhaugh, Janet,' he cried, 'and yet ye have

not asked my leave. Ye have plucked my red roses and broken a

branch of my bonny rose-tree. Have ye no fear of me, Janet?'

The lady Janet tossed her head, though over her she felt creeping

slow the spell of the little elfin knight. She tossed her head

and she cried, 'Nay, I have no fear of you, ye little wee man.

Nor will I ever ask leave of you as I come to and fro across the

plain of Carterhaugh. Ye shall know that the moor belongs to me,

me!' and Janet stamped her foot. 'My father made it all my own.'

But the young Tamlane took the white hand of the lady Janet in

his own, and so gentle were his words, so kind his ways, that

soon the maiden had no wish to leave the little wee man. Hand in

hand they wandered through the red rose-bushes that grew by the

side of the well. And in the light of the moon the elf knight

wove his spell and made the lady Janet his own.

Back to the castle sped Janet when the moonlight failed, but all

her smiles were gone. Lone and sad was she, all with longing for

her little elfin knight.

Little food would Janet eat in these days, little heed would she

take of the gowns she wore. Her yellow hair hung down uncombed,

unbraided around her sad, pale face.

Janet had been used to join in the games her four-and-twenty

maidens played. She had run the quickest, tossed the ball the

highest, nor had any been more full of glee than she.

Now the maidens might play as they listed, little did the lady

Janet care.

When evening fell, her four-and-twenty ladies would play their

games of chess. Many a game had Janet won in bygone days.

Now the ladies might win or lose as they pleased, little did the

lady Janet care. Her heart was away on the plain of Carterhaugh

with her little wee elfin knight, and soon she herself would be

there.

Once more the moonbeams peeped in at her lattice window, and

Janet smiled, put on her fairest gown, and combed her yellow

locks. She was off and away to Carterhaugh.[1]

[Footnote 1: See Frontispiece.]

She reached the moor, she ran to the well, and there as before,

there, stood the steed of the little elfin man.

And Janet put out her hand and plucked a red red rose, but ere

she had plucked another, close beside her stood the young

Tamlane.

'Why do ye pluck my roses?' asked the little elf man. But Janet

had not come to talk about the roses, and she paid no heed to his

question.

'Tell me, Tamlane,' said the lady Janet, 'tell me, have ye always

been a little elfin man? Have ye never, in days gone by, been to

the holy chapel, and have ye never had made over you the sign of

the Holy Cross?'

'Indeed now, Janet, the truth will I tell!' cried the young

Tamlane.

Then the lady Janet listened, and the lady Janet wept as the

little wee knight told her how he had been carried away by the

Queen of the Fairies.

But yet a stranger tale he told to the maiden.

'Ere I was carried off to Fairyland, Janet,' said young Tamlane,

'we played as boy and girl in the old castle grounds, and well we

loved each other as we played together in those merry merry days

of long ago. Ye do not forget, Janet?'

Then back into the lady Janet's mind stole the memory of her

childhood's merry days, and of the little lad who had shared her

toys and played her games. Together they had made the walls of

the old castle ring with their laughter.

No, the lady Janet had not forgotten, and she knew that now, as

in the days of long ago, she loved the young Tamlane.

'Tell me,' she said, 'tell me how ye do spend your day in

Fairyland?'

'Blithe and gay is the life we lead,' cried the little wee

knight. 'There is no sickness, no pain of any kind in Fairyland,

Janet.

'In earth or air I dwell as pleases me the best. I can leave this

little body of mine an it pleases me, and come back to it an I

will. I am small, as you see me now, but when I will, I grow so

small that a nut-shell is my home, a rosebud my bed. But I can

grow big as well, Janet, so big that I needs must make my home in

some lofty hall.

'Hither and thither we flit, bathe in the streams, frolic in the

wind, play with the sunbeams.

'Never would I wish to leave Fairyland, Janet, were it not that

at the end of each seven years an evil spirit comes to carry one

of us off to his dark abode. And I, so fair and fat am I, I fear

that I shall be chosen by the Evil one.

[Illustration: 'In earth or air I dwell as pleases me the best,']

'But weep not, Janet; an you wish to bring me back to the land of

mortals, I will e'en show you how that may be done. Little time

is there to lose, for to-night is Hallowe'en, and this same

night must the deed be done.

'On Hallowe'en, at the midnight hour, the fairy court will ride a

mile beyond Carterhaugh to the cross at Milestone. Wait for me

there, Janet, and ye will win your own true knight.'

'But many a knight will ride amid the fairy train. How shall I

know you, my little wee man?' cried Janet.

'Neither among the first nor among the second company shall ye

seek for me,' said young Tamlane. 'Only when ye see the third

draw nigh give heed, Janet, for among them ye will find me.

'Not on the black horse, nor yet on the brown horse, shall I

ride. Let them pass, and keep ye quiet. But as the milk-white

steed goes by, seize ye the bridle, Janet, and pull me down, and

keep your arms ever around me. For on the milk-white steed I

ride.

'On my right hand ye will see a glove, my left will be

uncovered. Now, by these signs, ye will know your own true

knight.

'Hold me fast, Janet, hold me fast, as you pull me down from my

milk-white steed. For while your arms are around me, the fairy

folk will change me into fearful shapes.

'Into an adder, and into a snake they will change me. Yet, an ye

love me, Janet, fear ye nought, but hold me fast.

'They will change me into a lion, and into a bear. Yet, as I love

you, Janet, fear ye nought, but hold me fast.

'A toad, an eel I shall become, yet do not let me slide from your

arms, Janet, but hold me fast.

'But, an the fairy folk change me into a blazing fagot, or a bar

of hot iron, then throw me far from you, Janet, into the cold,

clear well, throw me with all your speed.

'There will I change into your own true knight, Janet, and ye

shall throw over me your mantle of green velvet.'

Dark was the night and full of gloom as the lady Janet hastened

to the cross at Milestone, but her heart was glad and full of

light. She would see her own true knight in mortal form before

the dawn of Hallowday.

It was between the hours of twelve and one o'clock when Janet

stood alone at the spot where the fairy train would pass.

Fearsome it was there alone in the gloom, but the lady Janet was

heedful of nought. She had but to wait, to listen. Yet not a

sound did she hear, save only the wind as it whistled through the

long grass.

Not a sound save the wind did she hear? Ah yes, now strange

noises were blown to her eager ears. The bells on fairy bridles

tinkled, the music of the tiny fairy band piped each moment more

clear.

Janet looked, and by the light of Will o' Wisp she could just

catch sight of their little oaten pipes. Shrill were the notes

they blew on these, but softer were the sounds they blew through

tiny hemlock pipes. Then deeper came the tones of the bog-reeds

and large hemlock, and Janet, looking, saw the little green folk

draw nigh.

How merry the music was, how glad and good! Never was known a

fairy yet who sang or played of aught but joy and mirth.

The first company of the little folk passed Janet as she stood

patient, watchful by the cross; the second passed, and then there

came the third.

'The black steed! Let it go,' said Janet to herself.

'The brown steed! It matters not to me, she whispered.

'The milk-white steed!' Ah, Janet had seized the bridle of the

milk-white steed and pulled the little rider off into her strong

young arms.

A cry of little elfs, of angry little elfs, rang out on the chill

night air.

Then as he lay in Janet's arms the angry little imps changed

their stolen elfin knight into an adder, a snake, a bear, a lion,

a toad, an eel, and still, through all these changes, the lady

Janet held him fast.

'A blazing fagot! Let him change into a blazing fagot!' cried the

angry little folk. 'Then this foolish mortal will let our

favorite knight alone.'

And as young Tamlane changed into a blazing fagot the little folk

thought they had got their will. For now the lady Janet threw him

from her, far into the clear, cold well.

But the little angry imps were soon shrieking in dismay. No

sooner was the fagot in the well than the little elfin knight was

restored to his own true mortal form.

Then over the tall, strong knight Janet threw her green mantle,

and the power of the fairies over the young Tamlane was for ever

gone. Their spell was broken.

Now, the Queen of the Fairies had hidden herself in a bush of

broom to see what would happen. And when she saw her favourite

knight change into his own true mortal shape, she was very cross,

very cross indeed. The little fairy band was ordered to march

home in silence, their pipes thrust into their tiny green

girdles, and there were no more revels in the fairy court for

many and many a long day to come.

HYNDE ETIN

May Margaret did not love to sew, yet here in the doorway of her

bower she sat, her silk seam in her hand.

May Margaret sat with her seam in her hand, but she did not sew,

she dreamed, and her dream was all of Elmond wood.

She was there herself under the greenwood gay. The tall trees

bowed, the little trees nodded to her. The flowers threw their

sweetest scents after her as she passed along; the little birds

sang their gladdest that she might hear. How fair and green and

cool it was in the wood of Elmond!

On a sudden, Margaret sat upright in the doorway of her bower.

She dreamed no more. The sound of the hunting-horn rang in her

ear. It was blown in Elmond wood.

Then down on her lap slipped the silken seam, down to her feet

the needle. May Margaret was up and away to the greenwood.

Down by the hazel bushes she hastened, nor noticed that the

evening shadows fell; on past the birch groves she ran, nor

noticed that the dew fell fast.

No one did May Margaret meet until she reached a white-thorn

tree. There, up from the grass on which he lay, sprang Hynde

Etin.

'What do ye seek in the wood, May Margaret?' said he. 'Is it

flowers, or is it for dew ye seek this bonny night of May?'

But Margaret did not care to answer. She only shook her head.

Then said Hynde Etin, 'I am forester of Elmond wood, nor should

ye enter it without my leave.'

'Nay now,' cried the lady Margaret, 'leave will I ask of no man,

for my father is earl of all this land.'

'Your father may be earl of all the land, May Margaret, yet

shall ye die, because ye will not ask my leave to come to Elmond

wood.' And he seized her fast and tied her to a tree by her long,

yellow locks.

Yet did Hynde Etin not kill the maiden, but this is what he did.

He pulled up by the root the tallest tree he could see, and in

the hollow he dug a deep deep cave, and into the cave he thrust

May Margaret.

'Now will ye wander no more in my woods!' cried Hynde Etin. 'Here

shall ye stay, or home shall ye come with me to be my wife.'

'Nay, here will I rather stay!' cried May Margaret, 'for my

father will seek for me and will find me here.'

But the cave was dark and cold, and the earl sought yet did not

find his daughter.

No bed was there in the cave for May Margaret, no bed save the

rough earth, no pillow save a stone.

Poor May Margaret! She did not like the dark or the cold. Ere

many days had passed away, she thought it would be better to live

with Hynde Etin than to stay longer alone in so dismal a cave.

'Take me out, take me out!' then cried May Margaret.

Hynde Etin heard the maiden's call and he came and took her out

of the cave. Deep into the greenwood he carried her, where his

own home had been built, and there he made May Margaret, the

earl's daughter, his wife.

For twelve long years Margaret lived in the greenwood. And Hynde

Etin was kind to her and she grew to love him well.

Seven little sons had Margaret, and happy and gay was their life

in their woodland home. Yet oft did Margaret grieve that her

little wee sons had never been taken to holy church. She wished

that the priest might christen them there.

Now one day Hynde Etin slung his bow across his shoulder, placed

a sheath of arrows in his belt, and was up and away to the hunt.

With him he took his eldest wee son.

Under the gay greenwood they paced, Hynde Etin and his eldest

son, and the thrush sang to them his morning song. Upward over

the hills they climbed, and they heard the chimes of church bells

clear.

Then the little wee son said to his father, 'An ye would not be

angry with me, father, there is somewhat I would ask.'

'Ask what ye will, my bonny wee boy,' said Hynde Etin, 'for never

will I be cross with you.'

'My mother ofttimes weeps, father. Why is it that she sobs so

bitterly?'

'Your mother weeps, my little wee son, for sore she longs to see

her own kin. Twelve long years is it and more since last she saw

them, or heard the church bells ring.

'An earl's daughter was your mother dear, and if I had not stolen

her away one bonny night in May she might have wedded a knight of

high degree.

'The forester of Elmond wood was I, yet as I saw her standing by

the white-thorn tree I loved her well. And ere many days had gone

by thy mother loved me too, and I carried her away to our

greenwood home.

'Dear to your mother are her seven little sons, dear to her, too,

am I. Yet oft will the tears run down her cheek as she dreams of

her old home and her father the earl.'

Then upward glanced the little wee son as he cried aloud, 'I will

shoot the linnet there on the tree and the larks as they wing

their flight, and I will carry them home to my mother dear that

she may weep no more.'

Yet neither with linnet nor with lark could her little wee son

woo the smiles back to his dear mother's face.

Now a day came when Hynde Etin in his greenwood home thought the

hours passed but slow, and that same day he took his gun and his

dog and off he went alone to hunt. His seven little wee sons he

left at home with their mother.

'Mother,' said the eldest little son, 'mother, will ye be angry

with me an I tell you what I heard?'

'Nay now, my little wee son,' said she, 'I will never be cross

with you.'

'I heard the church bells ring as I went hunting over the hill,

mother. Clear did they ring and sweet.'

'Ah, would I had heard them too, my little dear son,' cried

Margaret, 'for never have I been in the holy church for twelve

long years and more, and never have I taken my seven bonny sons

to be christened, as indeed I would they were. In the holy church

will my father be, and there would I fain go too.'

Then the little young Etin, for that was the name of Margaret's

eldest son, took his mother's hand and called his six little

brothers, and together they went through Elmond wood as fast as

ever they could go. It may be that the mother led the way, it may

be that so it chanced, but soon they had left the greenwood far

behind and stood on an open heath. And there, before them, stood

a castle.

Margaret looked and Margaret smiled. She knew she was standing

once again before her father's gate.

She took three rings from her pocket and gave them to her eldest

wee boy.

'Give one,' she said, 'to the porter. He is proud, but so he sees

the ring, he will open the gate and let you enter.

'Give another to the butler, my little wee son, and he will show

you where ye are to go.

'And the third ye shall hand to the minstrel. You will see him

with his harp, standing in the hall. It may be he will play

goodwill to my bonny wee son who has come from Elmond wood.'

Then young Etin did as his mother had said.

The first ring he gave to the porter, and without a word the gate

was opened for the little wee boy.

He gave the second ring to the butler, and without a word the

little wee boy was led into the hall.

The third ring he gave to the minstrel, and without a word he

took his harp and forthwith played goodwill to the bonny wee boy

from the greenwood.

Now, when the little Etin reached the earl, he fell on his knee

before him.

The old earl looked upon the little lad, and his eyes they were

filled with tears.

'My little wee boy, ye must haste away,' he cried. 'An I look

upon you long my heart will break into three pieces, for ye have

the eyes, the hair of my lost May Margaret.'

'My eyes are blue as my mother's eyes, and my yellow hair curls

as does hers,' cried the little wee boy.

'Where is your mother?' then cried the earl, and the tears rolled

down his cheek.

'My mother is standing at the castle gate, and with her are my

six little wee brothers,' said the bonny young Etin.

'Run, porter boys, run fast,' said the earl, 'and throw wide

open the gates that my daughter may come in to me.'

Into the hall came Margaret, her six little sons by her side.

Before the earl she fell upon her knee, but the earl he lifted

her up and said, 'Ye shall dine with me to-day, ye and your seven

bonny little sons.'

'No food can I eat,' said Margaret, 'until I see again my dear

husband. For he knows not where he may find me and his seven dear

little sons.'

'Now will I send my hunters, and they shall search the forest

high and low and bring Hynde Etin unto me,' said the earl.

Then up and spake the little wee Etin.

'Search for my father shall ye not, until ye do send to him a

pardon full and free.'

And the earl smiled at the young Etin.

'In sooth a pardon shall your father have,' said he.

With his own hand the earl wrote the pardon, and he sealed it

with his own seal. Then the hunters were off and away to search

for Hynde Etin. They sought for him east and they sought for him

west, they sought all over the countryside. And at length they

found him sitting alone in his home in Elmond wood. Alone, and

tearing his yellow locks, was Hynde Etin.

'Get up, Hynde Etin, get up and come with us, for the earl has

sent for you,' cried the merry hunters.

'The earl may do as he lists with me,' said Etin. 'He may cut off

my head, or he may hang me on a greenwood tree. Little do I care

to live,' moaned Etin, 'now that I have lost my lady Margaret.'

'The lady Margaret is in her father's hall, Hynde Etin,' said the

hunters, 'nor food will she eat until ye do come to her. There is

a pardon for you here sealed by the earl's own hand.'

Then Hynde Etin smoothed his yellow locks, and gay was he as he

went with the hunters to the castle.

Down on his knee before the earl fell Hynde Etin. 'Rise, Etin,

rise!' cried the earl. 'This day shall ye dine with me.'

Around the earl's table sat the lady Margaret, her husband dear,

and her seven little wee sons. And the little Etin looked and

looked and never a tear did he see on his mother's face.

'A boon I have to ask,' cried then the little wee boy; 'I would

we were all in the holy church that the good priest might

christen me and my six little brothers. For in the greenwood gay

never a church did we see, nor the sound of church bells did we

hear.'

'Soon shall your boon be granted,' cried the earl, 'for this very

day to the church shall ye go, and your mother and your six

little wee brothers shall be with you.'

To the door of the holy church they came, but there did the lady

Margaret stay.

'For twelve long years and more,' she cried, and bowed her head,

'for twelve long years have I never been within the holy church,

and I fear to enter now.'

Then out to her came the good priest, and his smile was sweet to

see. Come hither, come hither, my lily-white flower,' said he,

'and bring your babes with you that I may lay my hands upon their

heads.'

Then did he christen the lady Margaret's seven little wee sons.

And their names, beginning with the tiniest, were these--Charles,

Vincent, Sam, Dick, James, John. And the eldest little wee son

was, as you already know, named after his father, Etin.

And back to the earl's gay castle went the lady Margaret with

Hynde Etin and her seven little new-christened sons. And there

they lived happy for ever after.

[Illustration: 'For twelve long years have I never been within

the Holy Church, and I fear to enter now']

HYNDE HORN

Hynde Horn was a little prince. It was because he was so

courteous, so kind a little lad that Prince Horn was always

called Hynde Horn. For hend or hynde in the days of long ago

meant just all the beautiful things which these words, courteous,

kind, mean in these days.

Hynde Horn lived a happy life in his home in the distant East.

For it was in the bright glowing land of the sun that his father,

King Allof, reigned.

The Queen Godylt loved her little son too well to spoil him. She

wished him to learn to share his toys, to play his games with

other boys.

Thus, much to the delight of little Prince Horn, two boys, almost

as old as he was, came to live with him in the palace. Athulph

and Fykenyld were their names.

They were merry playmates for the little prince, and, as the

years rolled by, Athulph and Fykenyld thought there was no one to

equal their prince Hynde Horn. They would serve him loyally when

he was king and they were men.

All went well in the palace of this far-off eastern land until

Hynde Horn was fifteen years of age. Then war came, without

warning, into this country of blue sky and blazing sun.

Mury, King of the Turks, landed in the kingdom of King Allof, who

was all unprepared for fight. And King Mury, with his fierce

soldiers, pillaged the land, killed the good King Allof, seized

his crown, and placed it on his own head.

Then poor Queen Godylt fled from the palace, taking with her

Hynde Horn and his two playmates Prince Athulph and Prince

Fykenyld.

I cannot tell you what became of the beautiful queen, but Mury,

the cruel king, captured Hynde Horn and made him and his two

playfellows prisoners.

What should he do with Prince Horn, who was heir to the kingdom

he had seized?

Should he kill the lad, he wondered. Yet cruel as King Mury was,

he could not do so dastardly a deed.

But Hynde Horn was tall and strong, and Hynde Horn was loved by

the people. He must certainly be sent out of the country.

So King Mury planned, and King Mury plotted, and at length he

thought of a way, by which he hoped to be for ever rid of the

gallant prince and his two companions.

He ordered the prisoners to be brought down to the seashore, and

there the lads were thrust into an open boat, and pushed out to

sea. It seemed as though they must perish, for King Mury had

given orders that no provisions were to be placed in the boat.

There was neither helm nor oar for the little craft. The lads

could do nothing to guide her on her dangerous course. Now they

would drift gently on the swell of the quiet sea, now they would

whirl giddily on the crest of a storm-tossed wave. Faint and

weary grew Hynde Horn and his two companions. It seemed to them

that they would perish from hunger or be devoured by the storm.

Yet every day the little boat was drifted by soft breezes or

driven by wild storm-clouds westward and always westward. At

length one day a great wave came and lifted it high up on to the

coast. The boys had reached Scotland, the country over which King

Alymer ruled.

Now it chanced that King Alymer was passing along the sea-coast,

and seeing the lads lying there, pale and bruised, he ordered

that they should be carried to the palace, that they might be fed

and that their wounds might be bathed.

So carefully were they tended in the palace of King Alymer that

soon roses bloomed again on the cheeks of Hynde Horn and his two

companions, strength crept back to their bruised bodies.

Ere many weeks had passed all in the palace loved Hynde Horn and

knew that he was a prince worthy of his name.

When the prince was well, King Alymer listened to the story the

lad had to tell, the story of his ruined home, his lost kingdom,

his suffering at the hands of the cruel King Mury.

And King Alymer, for he was gentle at heart, shed a tear as he

heard.

'Thou shalt stay at our court, Hynde Horn,' he said, 'and learn

all that a prince should learn. Then, when thou art older, thou

shalt go to war with Mury, the cruel king of the Turks. Thou

shalt win back thine own kingdom and rule over it.'

Then the king called for Athelbras, his steward, and bade him

care for Prince Horn and his two companions.

A suite of rooms was given to the prince in the palace, and here

he and his playfellows were trained in all courtly ways.

When his studies were over, Hynde Horn would go out to hawk and

hunt. Often, too, he would wrestle and tilt with his companions,

so that in days to come he would be able to take his place in

battle and in tournament.

But one day King Alymer heard the young prince's voice as he

sang. So pure, so sweet rang the voice that the king said to

himself, 'Hynde Horn shall be trained by the best harpist in our

land.'

Then happy days began for the young prince. Rather would he sing,

as he touched softly the cords of the harp, than would he fight

or tilt; rather would he sing and play, than go to hunt and hawk.

Yet well had he loved these sports in former days.

Now, King Alymer had one daughter, the Princess Jean. Dearly did

the king love his daughter, and ofttimes he stroked her hair and

wished that she had a playfellow to cheer her in his absence. For

when the king would journey from city to city to see that justice

and right ruled throughout the land, his child was left alone.

But now that Hynde Horn and his companions had come, the king

knew that the Princess Jean would no longer be dull while he was

away.

She, too, in the early days after the prince came to the palace,

would ride to hunt and hawk, Hynde Horn by her side. And later

she would listen as he talked to her of his beautiful home under

the eastern sky, of his dear lost mother, Godylt, and his father,

King Allof, who was slain by the cruel Mury.

She would listen, her eyes dim with tears, for she knew how well

he had loved his home in the far-off East.

But her eyes would flash as he told of the cruel King Mury, and

of how one day he would go back to his kingdom and win it from

the hand of the evil king.

Her eyes would flash and her heart would beat, yet when she was

alone she would weep. For what would she do if Hynde Horn went

away to the far East and she was left alone? To the Princess Jean

it seemed that the palace would be empty were Prince Horn no

longer dwelling there.

Well, the years rolled on and Hynde Horn was no longer a boy,

Princess Jean no longer a girl. They both had changed in many

ways, but in one way both were still as they had been when they

were boy and girl together. They had loved each other then, they

loved each other now. So well did they love one another that they

went to King Alymer and told him that they wished to marry, and

that without delay.

Now the king was well pleased that Hynde Horn should marry his

beautiful daughter the Princess Jean, but he was not willing that

the wedding should be at once.

'Thou must wait, my daughter,' said the king; 'thou must wait to

wed Hynde Horn until he has journeyed to the far East and won

back the kingdom Mury so unjustly wrested from him. Then, when he

has shown himself as brave as he is courteous, then shall the

wedding be without delay.'

Thus it was that a few days later Hynde Horn and Princess Jean

stood together to say farewell one to another. Hynde Horn was

going away to win his spurs, to show himself worthy of the lady

whom he loved.

Before he left her, he gave her a beautiful silver wand, and on

the wand were perched seven living larks. They would warble to

the Princess Jean when Hynde Horn was no longer near to sing to

her, as had been his wont, in his soft sweet voice.

And the Princess Jean drew from her own finger a ring, and seven

diamonds shone therein. She placed it on the finger of her dear

Hynde Horn, and said, 'As long as the diamonds in this ring flash

bright, thou wilt know I love thee as I do now. Should the gleam

of the diamonds fade and grow dim, thou wilt know, not that my

love grows less, for that may never be, but thou wilt know that

evil hath befallen me.'

Then sadly they parted and Hynde Horn, the ring on his finger,

hastened down to the shore. Swiftly he embarked in the ship that

awaited him, and sailed away. On and on for many a long day he

sailed, until he reached the kingdom which Mury the king had

seized when he killed King Allof.

Here Hynde Horn warred against King Mury until he overcame him

and won again the kingdom of the East for himself, the rightful

heir. And the people over whom he ruled rejoiced, for Hynde Horn,

though he no longer was prince but king, did not forget his kind

and courteous ways.

For seven years King Horn ruled in this distant land, doing many

a deed of daring meanwhile, and winning both gold and glory for

himself.

Ofttimes during these long years he would glance at the diamond

ring which the Princess Jean had given to him, and always the

diamonds flashed back bright. Then one day, when his work was

over and he knew he was free to go again to the princess, his

heart wellnigh stopped for fear. He had looked downward at his

ring, and lo! the diamonds were dull and dim. Their lustre had

vanished.

The Princess Jean must be in trouble, or already evil had

befallen her.

Hynde Horn hastened down to the seashore, and there he hired a

ship to sail speedily to Scotland, where King Alymer ruled.

The ship sailed swiftly, yet the days seemed long to King Horn.

Oft he would gaze at his ring, but only to find the diamonds

growing always more dull, more dim. Hynde Horn longed as he had

never longed before to be once more beside the Princess Jean that

he might guard her from all harm.

Fair blew the wind, onward sailed the ship, and at length Hynde

Horn saw land, and knew that he was drawing near to Scotland.

A little later he had reached the coast and had begun his journey

towards the palace.

As he hastened on, King Horn met a beggar man.

'Old man,' cried Hynde Horn, 'I have come from far across the

sea. Tell me what news there is in this country, for it is many a

long day since I have been in Scotland.'

'There is little news,' said the beggar, 'little news, for we

dwell secure under our gracious King Alymer. To be sure, in the

palace there is rejoicing. The feast has already been spread for

forty days and more. To-day is the wedding-day of the king's

daughter, the Princess Jean.'

Ah, now Hynde Horn understood why his diamonds had grown dull and

dim. His beautiful princess had not forgotten him. Of that he was

quite sure. But King Alymer and his people had grown weary of

waiting for his return. Seven years had seemed a long, long time,

and now the king was anxious that his daughter should marry and

wait no longer for the return of Hynde Horn.

And, but this King Horn did not know, Fykenyld, his old

companion, loved the princess, and had wooed her long and was

waiting to marry her. False to Hynde Horn was Fykenyld, for ever

did he say, 'Hynde Horn is dead,' or 'Hynde Horn hath forgotten

the Princess Jean,' or 'Hynde Horn hath married one of the

dark-haired princesses in the far-off East.' And never did he

leave the palace to go in search of his old playfellow, whom he

had once longed to serve.

Now King Alymer had listened to Fykenyld's words, and though he

did not believe Hynde Horn would forget his daughter, he did

believe that Hynde Horn might be dead. Thus it was that he

commanded Princess Jean to look no longer for the return of Hynde

Horn, but without more delay to marry Prince Fykenyld.

And the princess, pale and sad, worn out by long waiting,

promised to look no more for Hynde Horn. To please her father and

his people, she even promised to marry Hynde Horn's old

playfellow, Prince Fykenyld.

Ah, but had they only known, King Horn was already hastening

towards the palace. Already he had learned that the wedding had

not yet taken place.

Now he was speaking to the beggar again, quickly, impatiently.

'Old man, lend me your torn and tattered coat. Thou shalt have my

scarlet cloak in its place. Thy staff, too, I must have. Instead

of it thou shalt have my horse.'

You see the young king had made up his mind to go to the palace

dressed as a beggar.

But the old man was puzzled. Could the young prince from across

the sea really wish to dress in his torn rags? Well, it was a

strange wish, but right glad would he be to have the scarlet

cloak, the gallant steed.

When King Horn had donned his disguise, he cried, 'Tell me now,

how dost thou behave thyself when thou comest to the palace to

beg?'

'Ah, sir,' said the old man, 'thou must not walk thus upright.

Thou must not look all men boldly in the face. As thou goest up

the hill, thou must lean heavily on thy staff, thou must cast

thine eyes low to the ground. When thou comest to the gate of the

palace, thou must tarry there until the hour for the king to

dine. Then mayest thou go to the great gate and ask an alms for

the sake of St. Peter and St. Paul, but none shalt thou take from

any hand, save from the hand of the young bride herself.'

Hynde Horn thanked the old beggar man, and, bidding him farewell,

set off up the hill toward the palace gate. And no one looking at

him in the tattered coat, bending half double over his staff, no

one could have guessed that this beggar man was the brave and

courteous Hynde Horn.

Now when at length King Horn reached the palace gate, the wedding

feast was spread.

Princess Jean was sitting on the throne beside her father, Prince

Fykenyld on her other side, smiling to himself.

He would soon be wedded to the princess, he thought, and in days

to come he would reign with her over King Alymer's wide domains.

Fykenyld had no thought to spare for his old playmate, save to be

glad that he had never returned from the far East to claim his

bride.

But though seven long years had rolled away, Princess Jean had

not forgotten Hynde Horn. Forgotten! Nay, day and night he was in

her thought, in her heart. Yet was she sure that he would never

now return.

It is true that in her despair she had yielded to her father's

wishes; she had promised to wed Prince Fykenyld that very day. It

was no wonder then that she sat on the throne sad at heart, pale

of face.

Hynde Horn had knocked at the palace gate. It was no humble

beggar's rap he gave, but a bold, impatient knock. King Horn had

forgotten for the moment that he was only a beggar man.

The palace gate was flung wide. One of the noble guests had

arrived, thought the porter. But when he saw a beggar standing

before him, he wellnigh slammed the gate in the poor man's face.

Before he could do this Hynde Horn spoke, and his voice made the

porter pause to listen, so sweet, so soft it was. It brought back

to the rough old man the thought of Hynde Horn, for he had been

used to speak in just such a tone.

The porter cleared his voice, wiped his eyes, for he, as all

others who dwelt in the palace, had loved Hynde Horn, and grieved

sorely for his absence.

For the sake of Hynde Horn it was that the porter listened to the

beggar man's request.

'I have come to ask for alms, yet will I take them from none save

from the hand of the Princess Jean herself, and from across the

sea,' said the beggar man.

Still hearing the sound of the lost prince's voice, the porter

bade the beggar wait, and stealing up into the hall unnoticed, he

passed through the crowd of gay lords and ladies until he reached

the princess.

'A beggar from across the sea begs alms, yet none will he have

save from the hand of the Princess Jean herself,' said the porter

boldly. Then--for he had known the princess from the time that

she was only a tiny little girl--then he added in a whisper: 'The

man hath a voice soft and sweet as that of our lost Prince Horn.'

Princess Jean heard, and not a moment did she pause.

She stepped down from the throne, took a cup of red wine in her

hand, and heeding not the astonished stare of lord and lady, she

hastened out to the palace gate.

Very beautiful she looked in her long white robe, her gold combs

glinting in her hair.

'Drink,' she said gently, as she stood before the beggar, 'drink,

and then haste to tell me what tidings thou dost bring from

across the sea.'

[Illustration: 'Drink,' she said gently, 'drink']

The beggar took the cup of wine and drank. As he handed back the

cup to the princess he dropped into it the diamond ring, which

had been dull and dim for many a long day now.

Princess Jean saw the ring. She knew it was the very one she had

given to Hynde Horn. Her heart bounded. Now at least she would

hear tidings of her long-lost love.

'Oh tell me, tell me quick,' she cried, 'where didst thou find

this ring? Was it on the sea or in a far-off country that thou

didst find it, or was it on the finger of a dead man? Tell me, oh

tell me quick!' cried the Princess Jean.

'Neither by sea nor by land did I find the ring,' answered the

beggar, 'nor on a dead man's hand. It was given to me by one who

loved me well, and I, I give it back to her on this her

wedding-day.' As Hynde Horn spoke he stood up, straight and tall,

and looked straight into the eyes of the Princess Jean.

Then, in a flash, she understood. In spite of the tattered coat,

she knew her own Hynde Horn.

Her pale cheeks glowed, her dim eyes shone.

'Hynde Horn!' she cried, 'my own Hynde Horn, I will never let

thee leave me again. I will throw away my golden combs, I will

put on my oldest gown, and I will come with thee, and together we

will beg for bread.'

King Horn smiled, and his voice was soft as he answered, 'No need

is there to take the gold combs from thy hair or to change thy

white robe for one less fair. This is thy wedding-day, and I have

come to claim my bride.' And King Horn flung aside the old torn

coat, and the Princess Jean saw that beneath the rags Hynde Horn

was clothed as one of kingly rank.

Then throughout the palace the tidings spread, 'Hynde Horn hath

come back, Hynde Horn hath come back, and now is he king of his

own country.'

And that very day King Horn was wedded to the beautiful Princess

Jean, with her father's blessing, and amid the rejoicings of the

people.

And Prince Fykenyld slunk away, ashamed to look his old playmate

in the face.

Not many months passed ere King Horn and Queen Jean sailed away

to reign together in the far East. And never again in the years

to come did the diamonds on King Horn's ring grow dull or dim.

THOMAS THE RHYMER

It is six hundred years ago since Thomas the Rhymer lived and

rhymed, and in those far-off days little need was there to tell

his tale. It was known far and wide throughout the countryside.

Thomas was known as Thomas the Rhymer because of the wonderful

songs he sang. Never another harper in all the land had so great

a gift as he. But at that no one marvelled, no one, that is to

say, who knew that he had gained his gift in Elfland.

When Thomas took his harp in his hand and touched the strings, a

hush would fall upon those who heard, were they princes or were

they peasants. For the magic of his music reached the hearts of

all who stood around him. Were the strains merry, gleeful? The

faces of those who heard were wreathed in smiles. Were they sad,

melancholy? The faces of those who looked upon the harpist were

bathed in tears. Truly Thomas the Rhymer held the hearts of the

people in his hand.

But the minstrel had another name, wonderful as the one I have

already told to you.

Thomas the Rhymer was named True Thomas, and that was because,

even had he wished it, Thomas could not say or sing what was not

true.

This gift too, as you will hear, was given to him by the Queen of

Elfland.

And yet another name had this wonderful singer.

He was born, so the folk said, in a little village called

Ercildoune. He lived there, so the folk knew, in a castle

strongly built on the banks of a little river. Thus to those who

dwelt in the countryside the Rhymer was known as Thomas of

Ercildoune. The river which flowed past the castle was the

Leader. It flowed broader and deeper until two miles beyond the

village it ran into the beautiful river Tweed. And to-day the

ruins of an old tower are visited by many folk who have heard

that it was once the home of the ancient harpist.

Thomas of Ercildoune, Thomas the Rhymer, and True Thomas were

thus only different names for one marvellous man who sang and

played, never told an untruth, and who, moreover, was able to

tell beforehand events that were going to take place.

Listen, and I will tell you how Thomas of Ercildoune came to

visit Elfland.

It was one beautiful May morning that Thomas felt something

stirring in his heart. Spring had come, spring was calling to

him. He could stay no longer in the grim tower on the banks of

the Leader. He would away, away to the woods where the thrush and

the jay were singing, where the violets were peeping forth with

timid eyes, where the green buds were bursting their bonds for

very joy.

Thomas hastened to the woods and threw himself down by the bank

of a little brook.

Ah yes! spring has come. How the little birds sing, how the

gentle breezes whisper! Yet listen! what is it Thomas hears

beyond the song of the birds, the whisper of the breeze?

On the air floats the sound of silver bells. Thomas raises his

head. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle! The sound draws nearer, clearer. It

is music such as one might hear in Elfland.

Beyond the wood, over the lonely moors, rode a lady. So fair a

lady had Thomas never seen.

Her palfrey was dapple-grey and she herself shone as the summer

sun. Her saddle was of pure ivory, bright with many precious

stones and hung with cloth of richest crimson.

The girths of her saddle were of silk and the buckles were each

one a beryl. Her stirrups of clear crystal and adorned with

pearls hung ready for her fairy feet. The trappings of her

palfrey were of finest embroidery, her bridle was a chain of

gold.

From the palfrey's mane hung little silver bells, nine-and-fifty

little silver bells. It was the fairy music of the bells that had

reached the ears of Thomas as he lay dreaming on the bank of the

little brook.