{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_15592/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_15592","id":"gutenberg_15592","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/15592","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Children's Literature","Children's Myths, Fairy Tales, etc.","Fairy tales"],"text":"E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Jennifer Goslee, and the Project\nGutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team\n\n\n\nOLD-FASHIONED FAIRY TALES\n\nby\n\nJULIANA HORATIA EWING.\n\nLondon:\nSociety for Promoting Christian Knowledge,\nNorthumberland Avenue, W.C.\nNew York: E. & J.B. Young & Co.\n[Published under the direction of the General Literature Committee.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n     DEDICATED TO MY DEAR SISTER, UNDINE MARCIA GATTY.\n\n     J.H.E.\n\n\n\n\n    \"Know'st thou not the little path\n    That winds about the Ferny brae,\n    That is the road to bonnie Elfland,\n    Where thou and I this night maun gae.\"\n\n    _Thomas the Rhymer_.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nAs the title of this story-book may possibly suggest that the tales\nare old fairy tales told afresh, it seems well to explain that this is\nnot so.\n\nExcept for the use of common \"properties\" of Fairy Drama, and a\nscrupulous endeavour to conform to tradition in local colour and\ndetail, the stories are all new.\n\nThey have appeared at intervals during some years past in \"AUNT JUDY'S\nMAGAZINE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE,\" and were written in conformity to certain\ntheories respecting stories of this kind, with only two of which shall\nthe kindly reader of prefaces be troubled.\n\nFirst, that there are ideas and types, occurring in the myths of all\ncountries, which are common properties, to use which does not lay the\nteller of fairy tales open to the charge of plagiarism. Such as the\nidea of the weak outwitting the strong; the failure of man to choose\nwisely when he may have his wish; or the desire of sprites to exchange\ntheir careless and unfettered existence for the pains and penalties of\nhumanity, if they may thereby share in the hopes of the human soul.\n\nSecondly, that in these household stories (the models for which were\noriginally oral tradition) the thing most to be avoided is a\ndiscursive or descriptive style of writing. Brevity and epigram must\never be soul of their wit, and they should be written as tales that\nare told.\n\nThe degree in which, if at all, the following tales fulfil these\nconditions, nursery critics must decide.\n\nThere are older critics before whom fairy tales, as such, need excuse,\neven if they do not meet with positive disapprobation.\n\nOn this score I can only say that, for myself, I believe them to\nbe--beyond all need of defence--most valuable literature for the\nyoung. I do not believe that wonder-tales confuse children's ideas of\ntruth. If there are young intellects so imperfect as to be incapable\nof distinguishing between fancy and falsehood, it is surely most\ndesirable to develop in them the power to do so; but, as a rule, in\nchildhood we appreciate the distinction with a vivacity which, as\nelders, our care-clogged memories fail to recall.\n\nMoreover fairy tales have positive uses in education, which no\ncramming of facts, and no merely domestic fiction can serve.\n\nLike Proverbs and Parables, they deal with first principles under the\nsimplest forms. They convey knowledge of the world, shrewd lessons of\nvirtue and vice, of common sense and sense of humour, of the seemly\nand the absurd, of pleasure and pain, success and failure, in\nnarratives where the plot moves briskly and dramatically from a\nbeginning to an end. They treat, not of the corner of a nursery or a\nplayground, but of the world at large, and life in perspective; of\nforces visible and invisible; of Life, Death, and Immortality.\n\nFor causes obvious to the student of early myths, they foster sympathy\nwith nature, and no class of child-literature has done so much to\ninculcate the love of animals.\n\nThey cultivate the Imagination, that great gift which time and\nexperience lead one more and more to value--handmaid of Faith, of\nHope, and, perhaps most of all, of Charity!\n\nIt is true that some of the old fairy tales do not teach the high and\nuseful lessons that most of them do; and that they unquestionably deal\nnow and again with phases of grown-up life, and with crimes and\ncatastrophes, that seem unsuitable for nursery entertainment.\n\nAs to the latter question, it must be remembered that the brevity of\nthe narrative--whether it be a love story or a robber story--deprives\nit of all harm; a point which writers of modern fairy tales do not\nalways realize for their guidance.\n\nThe writer of the following tales has endeavoured to bear this\nprinciple in mind, and it is hoped that the morals--and it is of the\nessence of fairy tales to have a moral--of all of them are beyond\nreproach.\n\nFor the rest they are committed to the indulgence of the gentle\nreader.\n\nHans Anderssen, perhaps the greatest writer of modern fairy tales, was\ncontent to say:\n\n    \"FAIRY TALE NEVER DIES.\"\n\n    J.H.E.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n     PAGE GOOD LUCK IS BETTER THAN GOLD\n\n     THE HILLMAN AND THE HOUSEWIFE\n\n     THE NECK, A LEGEND OF A LAKE\n\n     THE NIX IN MISCHIEF\n\n     THE COBBLER AND THE GHOSTS\n\n     THE LAIRD AND THE MAN OF PEACE\n\n     THE OGRE COURTING\n\n     THE MAGICIANS' GIFTS\n\n     THE WIDOWS AND THE STRANGERS\n\n     KIND WILLIAM AND THE WATER SPRITE\n\n     MURDOCH'S RATH\n\n     THE LITTLE DARNER\n\n     THE FIDDLER IN THE FAIRY RING\n\n     \"I WON'T\"\n\n     THE MAGIC JAR\n\n     THE FIRST WIFE'S WEDDING-RING\n\n     THE MAGICIAN TURNED MISCHIEF-MAKER\n\n     KNAVE AND FOOL\n\n     UNDER THE SUN\n\n\n\n\n\n\nGOOD LUCK IS BETTER THAN GOLD.\n\n\nThere was once upon a time a child who had Good Luck for his godfather.\n\n\"I am not Fortune,\" said Good Luck to the parents; \"I have no gifts to\nbestow, but whenever he needs help I will be at hand.\"\n\n\"Nothing could be better,\" said the old couple. They were delighted.\nBut what pleases the father often fails to satisfy the son: moreover,\nevery man thinks that he deserves just a little more than he has got,\nand does not reckon it to the purpose if his father had less.\n\nMany a one would be thankful to have as good reasons for contentment\nas he who had Good Luck for his godfather.\n\nIf he fell, Good Luck popped something soft in the way to break his\nfall; if he fought, Good Luck directed his blows, or tripped up his\nadversary; if he got into a scrape, Good Luck helped him out of it;\nand if ever Misfortune met him, Good Luck contrived to hustle her on\nthe pathway till his godson got safely by.\n\nIn games of hazard the godfather played over his shoulder. In matters\nof choice he chose for him. And when the lad began to work on his\nfather's farm the farmer began to get rich. For no bird or field-mouse\ntouched a seed that his son had sown, and every plant he planted\nthrove when Good Luck smiled on it.\n\nThe boy was not fond of work, but when he did go into the fields, Good\nLuck followed him.\n\n\"Your christening-day was a blessed day for us all,\" said the old\nfarmer.\n\n\"He has never given me so much as a lucky sixpence,\" muttered Good\nLuck's godson.\n\n\"I am not Fortune--I make no presents,\" said the godfather.\n\nWhen we are discontented it is oftener to please our neighbours than\nourselves. It was because the other boys had said--\"Simon, the\nshoemaker's son, has an alderman for his godfather. He gave him a\nsilver spoon with the Apostle Peter for the handle; but thy godfather\nis more powerful than any alderman\"--that Good Luck's godson\ncomplained, \"He has never given me so much as a bent sixpence.\"\n\nBy and by the old farmer died, and his son grew up, and had the\nlargest farm in the country. The other boys grew up also, and as they\nlooked over the farmer's boundary-wall, they would say:\n\n\"Good-morning, Neighbour. That is certainly a fine farm of yours. Your\ncattle thrive without loss. Your crops grow in the rain and are reaped\nwith the sunshine. Mischance never comes your road. What you have\nworked for you enjoy. Such success would turn the heads of poor folk\nlike us. At the same time one would think a man need hardly work for\nhis living at all who has Good Luck for his godfather.\"\n\n\"That is very true,\" thought the farmer. \"Many a man is prosperous,\nand reaps what he sows, who had no more than the clerk and the sexton\nfor gossips at his christening.\"\n\n\"What is the matter, Godson?\" asked Good Luck, who was with him in the\nfield.\n\n\"I want to be rich,\" said the farmer.\n\n\"You will not have to wait long,\" replied the godfather. \"In every\nfield you sow, in every flock you rear there is increase without\nabatement. Your wealth is already tenfold greater than your father's.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" replied the farmer. \"Good wages for good work. But many a\nyoung man has gold at his command who need never turn a sod, and none\nof the Good People came to _his_ christening. Fortunatus's Purse now,\nor even a sack or two of gold--\"\n\n\"Peace!\" cried the godfather; \"I have said that I give no gifts.\"\n\nThough he had not Fortunatus's Purse, the farmer had now money and to\nspare, and when the harvest was gathered in, he bought a fine suit of\nclothes, and took his best horse and went to the royal city to see the\nsights.\n\nThe pomp and splendour, the festivities and fine clothes dazzled him.\n\n\"This is a gay life which these young courtiers lead,\" said he. \"A man\nhas nothing to do but to enjoy himself.\"\n\n\"If he has plenty of gold in his pocket,\" said a bystander.\n\nBy and by the Princess passed in her carriage. She was the King's only\ndaughter. She had hair made of sunshine, and her eyes were stars.\n\n\"What an exquisite creature!\" cried the farmer. \"What would not one\ngive to possess her?\"\n\n\"She has as many suitors as hairs on her head,\" replied the bystander.\n\"She wants to marry the Prince of Moonshine, but he only dresses in\nsilver, and the King thinks he might find a richer son-in-law. The\nPrincess will go to the highest bidder.\"\n\n\"And I have Good Luck for my godfather, and am not even at court!\"\ncried the farmer; and he put spurs to his horse, and rode home.\n\nGood Luck was taking care of the farm.\n\n\"Listen, Godfather!\" cried the young man. \"I am in love with the\nKing's daughter, and want her to wife.\"\n\n\"It is not an easy matter,\" replied Good Luck, \"but I will do what I\ncan for you. Say that by good luck you saved the Princess's life, or\nperhaps better the King's--for they say he is selfish--\"\n\n\"Tush!\" cried the farmer. \"The King is covetous, and wants a rich\nson-in-law.\"\n\n\"A wise man may bring wealth to a kingdom with his head, if not with\nhis hands,\" said Good Luck, \"and I can show you a district where the\nearth only wants mining to be flooded with wealth. Besides, there are\na thousand opportunities that can be turned to account and influence.\nBy wits and work, and with Good Luck to help him, many a poorer man\nthan you has risen to greatness.\"\n\n\"Wits and work!\" cried the indignant godson. \"You speak well--truly! A\nhillman would have made a better godfather. Give me as much gold as\nwill fill three meal-bins, and you may keep the rest of your help for\nthose who want it.\"\n\nNow at this moment by Good Luck stood Dame Fortune. She likes handsome\nyoung men, and there was some little jealousy between her and the\ngodfather so she smiled at the quarrel.\n\n\"You would rather have had me for your gossip?\" said she.\n\n\"If you would give me three wishes, I would,\" replied the farmer\nboldly, \"and I would trouble you no more.\"\n\n\"Will you make him over to me?\" said Dame Fortune to the godfather.\n\n\"If he wishes it,\" replied Good Luck. \"But if he accepts your gifts he\nhas no further claim on me.\"\n\n\"Nor on me either,\" said the Dame. \"Hark ye, young man, you mortals\nare apt to make a hobble of your three wishes, and you may end with a\nsausage at your nose, like your betters.\"\n\n\"I have thought of it too often,\" replied the farmer, \"and I know what\nI want. For my first wish I desire imperishable beauty.\"\n\n\"It is yours,\" said Dame Fortune, smiling as she looked at him.\n\n\"The face of a prince and the manners of a clown are poor partners,\"\nsaid the farmer. \"My second wish is for suitable learning and courtly\nmanners, which cannot be gained at the plough-tail.\"\n\n\"You have them in perfection,\" said the Dame, as the young man thanked\nher by a graceful bow.\n\n\"Thirdly,\" said he, \"I demand a store of gold that I can never\nexhaust.\"\n\n\"I will lead you to it,\" said Dame Fortune; and the young man was so\neager to follow her that he did not even look back to bid farewell to\nhis godfather.\n\nHe was soon at court. He lived in the utmost pomp. He had a suit of\narmour made for himself out of beaten gold. No metal less precious\nmight come near his person, except for the blade of his sword. This\nwas obliged to be made of steel, for gold is not always strong enough\nto defend one's life or his honour. But the Princess still loved the\nPrince of Moonshine.\n\n\"Stuff and nonsense!\" said the King. \"I shall give you to the Prince\nof Gold.\"\n\n\"I wish I had the good luck to please her,\" muttered the young Prince.\nBut he had not, for all his beauty and his wealth. However, she was to\nmarry him, and that was something.\n\nThe preparations for the wedding were magnificent.\n\n\"It is a great expense,\" sighed the King, \"but then I get the Prince\nof Gold for a son-in-law.\"\n\nThe Prince and his bride drove round the city in a triumphal\nprocession. Her hair fell over her like sunshine, but the starlight of\nher eyes was cold.\n\nIn the train rode the Prince of Moonshine, dressed in silver, and\nwith no colour in his face.\n\nAs the bridal chariot approached one of the city gates, two black\nravens hovered over it, and then flew away, and settled on a tree.\n\nGood Luck was sitting under the tree to see his godson's triumph, and\nhe heard the birds talking above him.\n\n\"Has the Prince of Gold no friend who can tell him that there is a\nloose stone above the archway that is tottering to fall?\" said they.\nAnd Good Luck covered his face with his mantle as the Prince drove\nthrough.\n\nJust as they were passing out of the gateway the stone fell on to the\nPrince's head. He wore a casque of pure gold, but his neck was broken.\n\n\n    \"We can't have all this expense for nothing,\" said the King:\n    so he married his daughter to the Prince of Moonshine. If one\n    can't get gold one must be content with silver.\n\n\n\"Will you come to the funeral?\" asked Dame Fortune of the godfather.\n\n\"Not I,\" replied Good Luck. \"I had no hand in _this_ matter.\"\n\nThe rain came down in torrents. The black feathers on the ravens'\nbacks looked as if they had been oiled.\n\n\"Caw! caw!\" said they. \"It was an unlucky end.\"\n\nHowever, the funeral was a very magnificent one, for there was no\nstint of gold.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HILLMAN AND THE HOUSEWIFE.\n\n\nIt is well known that the Good People cannot abide meanness. They like\nto be liberally dealt with when they beg or borrow of the human race;\nand, on the other hand, to those who come to them in need, they are\ninvariably generous.\n\nNow there once lived a certain Housewife who had a sharp eye to her\nown interests in temporal matters, and gave alms of what she had no\nuse for, for the good of her soul. One day a Hillman knocked at her\ndoor.\n\n\"Can you lend us a saucepan, good Mother?\" said he. \"There's a wedding\nin the hill, and all the pots are in use.\"\n\n\"Is he to have one?\" asked the servant lass who had opened the door.\n\n\"Aye, to be sure,\" answered the Housewife. \"One must be neighbourly.\"\n\nBut when the maid was taking a saucepan from the shelf, she pinched\nher arm, and whispered sharply--\"Not that, you slut! Get the old one\nout of the cupboard. It leaks, and the Hillmen are so neat, and such\nnimble workers, that they are sure to mend it before they send it\nhome. So one obliges the Good People, and saves sixpence in tinkering.\nBut you'll never learn to be notable whilst your head is on your\nshoulders.\"\n\nThus reproached, the maid fetched the saucepan, which had been laid by\ntill the tinker's next visit, and gave it to the dwarf, who thanked\nher, and went away.\n\nIn due time the saucepan was returned, and, as the Housewife had\nforeseen, it was neatly mended and ready for use.\n\nAt supper-time the maid filled the pan with milk, and set it on the\nfire for the children's supper. But in a few minutes the milk was so\nburnt and smoked that no one could touch it, and even the pigs refused\nthe wash into which it was thrown.\n\n\"Ah, good-for-nothing hussy!\" cried the Housewife, as she refilled the\npan herself, \"you would ruin the richest with your carelessness.\nThere's a whole quart of good milk wasted at once!\"\n\n\"_And that's twopence_,\" cried a voice which seemed to come from the\nchimney, in a whining tone, like some nattering, discontented old body\ngoing over her grievances.\n\nThe Housewife had not left the saucepan for two minutes, when the\nmilk boiled over, and it was all burnt and smoked as before.\n\n\"The pan must be dirty,\" muttered the good woman, in great vexation;\n\"and there are two full quarts of milk as good as thrown to the dogs.\"\n\n\"_And that's fourpence_,\" added the voice in the chimney.\n\nAfter a thorough cleaning, the saucepan was once more filled and set\non the fire, but with no better success. The milk was hopelessly\nspoilt, and the housewife shed tears of vexation at the waste, crying,\n\"Never before did such a thing befall me since I kept house! Three\nquarts of new milk burnt for one meal!\"\n\n\"_And that's sixpence_,\" cried the voice from the chimney. \"_You\ndidn't save the tinkering after all Mother_!\"\n\nWith which the Hillman himself came tumbling down the chimney, and\nwent off laughing through the door.\n\nBut thenceforward the saucepan was as good as any other.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NECK.\n\nA Legend of a Lake.\n\n\nOn a certain lake there once lived a Neck, or Water Sprite, who\ndesired, above all things, to obtain a human soul. Now when the sun\nshone this Neck rose up and sat upon the waves and played upon his\nharp. And he played so sweetly that the winds stayed to listen to him,\nand the sun lingered in his setting, and the moon rose before her\ntime. And the strain was in praise of immortality.\n\nFurthermore, out of the lake there rose a great rock, whereon dwelt an\naged hermit, who by reason of his loneliness was afflicted with a\nspirit of melancholy; so that when the fit was on him, he was\nconstantly tempted to throw himself into the water, for his life was\nburdensome to him. But one day, when this gloomy madness had driven\nhim to the edge of the rock to cast himself down, the Neck rose at the\nsame moment, and sitting upon a wave, began to play. And the strain\nwas in praise of immortality. And the melody went straight to the\nheart of the hermit as a sunbeam goes into a dark cave, and it\ndispelled his gloom, and he thought all to be as well with him as\nbefore it had seemed ill. And he called to the Neck and said, \"What is\nthat which thou dost play, my son?\"\n\nAnd the Neck answered, \"It is in praise of immortality.\"\n\nThen said the hermit, \"I beg that thou wilt play frequently beneath\nthis rock; for I am an aged and solitary man, and by reason of my\nloneliness, life becomes a burden to me, and I am tempted to throw it\naway. But by this gracious strain the evil has been dispelled.\nWherefore I beg thee to come often and to play as long as is\nconvenient. And yet I cannot offer thee any reward, for I am poor and\nwithout possessions.\"\n\nThen the Neck replied, \"There are treasures below the water as above,\nand I desire no earthly riches. But if thou canst tell me how I may\ngain a human soul, I will play on till thou shalt bid me cease.\"\n\nAnd the hermit said, \"I must consider the matter. But I will return\nto-morrow at this time and answer thee.\"\n\nThen the next day he returned as he had said, and the Neck was\nwaiting impatiently on the lake, and he cried, \"What news, my father?\"\n\nAnd the hermit said, \"If that at any time some human being will freely\ngive his life for thee, thou wilt gain a human soul. But thou also\nmust die the selfsame day.\"\n\n\"The short life for the long one!\" cried the Neck; and he played a\nmelody so full of happiness that the blood danced through the hermit's\nveins as if he were a boy again. But the next day when he came as\nusual the Neck called to him and said, \"My father, I have been\nthinking. Thou art aged and feeble, and at the most there are but few\ndays of life remaining to thee. Moreover, by reason of thy loneliness\neven these are a burden. Surely there is none more fit than thou to be\nthe means of procuring me a human soul. Wherefore I beg of thee, let\nus die to-day.\"\n\nBut the hermit cried out angrily, \"Wretch! Is this thy gratitude?\nWouldst thou murder me?\"\n\n\"Nay, old man,\" replied the Neck, \"thou shalt part easily with thy\nlittle fag-end of life. I can play upon my harp a strain of such\nsurpassing sadness that no human heart that hears it but must break.\nAnd yet the pain of that heartbreak shall be such that thou wilt not\nknow it from rapture. Moreover, when the sun sets below the water, my\nspirit also will depart without suffering. Wherefore I beg of thee,\nlet us die to-day.\"\n\n\"Truly,\" said the hermit, \"it is because thou art only a Neck, and\nnothing better, that thou dost not know the value of human life.\"\n\n\"And art thou a man, possessed already of a soul, and destined for\nimmortality,\" cried the Neck, \"and dost haggle and grudge to benefit\nme by the sacrifice of a few uncertain days, when it is but to\nexchange them for the life that knows no end?\"\n\n\"Our days are always uncertain,\" replied the hermit; \"but existence is\nvery sweet, even to the most wretched. Moreover, I see not that thou\nhast any claim upon mine.\" Saying which he returned to his cell, but\nthe Neck, flinging aside his harp, sat upon the water, and wept\nbitterly.\n\nDays passed, and the hermit did not show himself, and at last the Neck\nresolved to go and visit him. So he took his harp, and taking also the\nform of a boy with long fair hair and a crimson cap, he appeared in\nthe hermit's cell. There he found the old man stretched upon his\npallet, for lie was dying. When he saw the Neck he was glad, and said,\n\"I have desired to see thee, for I repent myself that I did not\naccording to thy wishes. Yet is the desire of life stronger in the\nhuman breast than thou canst understand. Nevertheless I am sorry, and\nI am sorry also that, as I am sick unto death, my life will no longer\navail thee. But when I am dead, do thou take all that belongs to me,\nand dress thyself in my robe, and go out into the world, and do works\nof mercy, and perchance some one whom thou hast benefited will be\nfound willing to die with thee, that thou mayst obtain a soul.\"\n\n\"Now indeed I thank thee!\" cried the Neck. \"But yet one word\nmore--what are these works of which thou speakest?\"\n\n\"The corporal works of mercy are seven,\" gasped the hermit, raising\nhimself on his arm. \"To feed the hungry and give the thirsty drink, to\nvisit the sick, to redeem captives, to clothe the naked, to shelter\nthe stranger and the houseless, to visit the widow and fatherless, and\nto bury the dead.\" Then even as he spoke the last words the hermit\ndied. And the Neck clothed himself in his robe, and, not to delay in\nfollowing the directions given to him, he buried the hermit with pious\ncare, and planted flowers upon his grave. After which he went forth\ninto the world.\n\nNow for three hundred years did the Neck go about doing acts of mercy\nand charity towards men. And amongst the hungry, and the naked, and\nthe sick, and the poor, and the captives, there were not a few who\nseemed to be weary of this life of many sorrows. But when he had fed\nthe hungry, and clothed the naked, and relieved the sick, and made\nthe poor rich, and set the captive free, life was too dear to all of\nthem to be given up. Therefore he betook himself to the most miserable\namongst men, and offering nothing but an easy death in a good cause,\nhe hoped to find some aged and want-worn creature who would do him the\nkindness he desired. But of those who must look forward to the fewest\ndays and to the most misery there was not one but, like the fabled\nwoodcutter, chose to trudge out to the end his miserable span.\n\nSo when three hundred years were past, the Neck's heart failed him,\nand he said, \"All this avails nothing. Wherefore I will return to the\nlake, and there abide what shall befall.\" And this he accordingly did.\n\nNow one evening there came a tempest down from the hills, and there\nwas a sudden squall on the lake. And a certain young man in a boat\nupon the lake was overtaken by the storm. And as he struggled hard,\nand it seemed as if every moment must be his last, a young maid who\nwas his sweetheart came down to the shore, and cried aloud in her\nagony, \"Alas, that his young life should be cut short thus!\"\n\n\"Trouble not thyself,\" said the Neck; \"this life is so short and so\nuncertain, that if he were rescued to-day he might be taken from thee\nto-morrow. Only in eternity is love secure. Wherefore be patient, and\nthou shalt soon follow him.\"\n\n\"And who art thou that mockest my sorrow?\" cried the maiden.\n\n\"One who has watched the passing misfortunes of many generations\nbefore thine,\" replied the Neck.\n\nAnd when the maiden looked, and saw one like a little old man wringing\nout his beard into the lake, she knew it was a Neck, and cried, \"Now\nsurely thou art a Neck, and they say, 'When Necks play, the winds\nwisht;' wherefore I beg of thee to play upon thy harp, and it may be\nthat the storm will lull, and my beloved will be saved.\"\n\nBut the Neck answered, \"It is not worth while.\"\n\nAnd when the maiden could not persuade him, she fell upon her face in\nbitter grief, and cried, \"Oh, my Beloved! Would GOD I could die for\nthee!\"\n\n\"And yet thou wouldst not if thou couldst,\" said the Neck.\n\n\"If it be in thy power to prove me--prove me!\" cried the maiden; \"for\nindeed he is the only stay of aged parents, and he is young and\nunprepared for death. Moreover his life is dearer to me than my own.\"\n\nThen the Neck related his own story, and said, \"If thou wilt do this\nfor me, which none yet has done whom I have benefited, I will play\nupon my harp, and if the winds wisht, thou must die this easy death;\nbut if I fail in my part, I shall not expect thine to be fulfilled.\nAnd we must both abide what shall befall, even as others.\" And to this\nthe maiden consented most willingly. Only she said, \"Do this for me, I\nbeg of thee. Let him come so near that I may just see his face before\nI die.\" And it was so agreed.\n\nThen the aged Neck drew forth his harp and began to play. And as he\nplayed the wind stayed, as one who pauses to hearken with cleft lips,\nand the lake rose and fell gently, like the bosom of a girl moved by\nsome plaintive song, and the sun burst forth as if to see who made\nsuch sweet music. And so through this happy change the young man got\nsafe to land. Then the Neck turned to the maiden and said, \"Dost thou\nhold to thy promise?\" And she bowed her head.\n\n\"In the long life be thy recompense!\" cried the Neck, fervently, and\ntaking his harp again, he poured his whole spirit into the strain. And\nas he played, it seemed as if the night wind moaned among pine-trees,\nbut it was more mournful. And it was as the wail of a mother for her\nonly son, and yet fuller of grief. Or like a Dead March wrung from the\nheart of a great musician--loading the air with sorrow--and yet all\nthese were as nothing to it for sadness. And when the maiden heard it,\nit was more than she could bear, and her heart broke, as the Neck had\nsaid. Then the young man sprang to shore, and when she could see his\nface clearly, her soul passed, and her body fell like a snapped flower\nto the earth.\n\nNow when the young man knew what was befallen, he fell upon the Neck\nto kill him, who said, \"Thou mayest spare thyself this trouble, for in\na few moments I shall be dead. But do thou take my robe and my harp,\nand thou shalt be a famous musician.\"\n\nNow even as the Neck spoke the sun sank, and he fell upon his face.\nAnd when the young man lifted the robe, behold there was nothing under\nit but the harp, across which there swept such a wild and piteous\nchord that all the strings burst as if with unutterable grief.\n\nThen the young man lifted the body of his sweetheart in his arms, and\ncarried her home, and she was buried with many tears.\n\nAnd in due time he put fresh strings to the harp, which, though it was\nnot as when it was in the hands of the Neck, yet it made most\nexquisite music. And the young man became a famous musician. For out\nof suffering comes song.\n\nFurthermore, he occupied himself in good works until that his time\nalso came.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd in Eternity Love was made secure.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NIX IN MISCHIEF.\n\n\nA certain lake in Germany was once the home of a Nix, who became tired\nof the monotony of life under water, and wished to go into the upper\nworld and amuse himself.\n\nHis friends and relations all tried to dissuade him. \"Be wise,\" said\nthey, \"and remain where you are safe, seeing that no business summons\nyou from the lake. Few of our kindred have had dealings with the human\nrace without suffering from their curiosity or clumsiness; and, do\nthem what good you may, in the long run you will reap nothing but\ningratitude. From how many waters have they not already banished us?\nWherefore let well alone, and stay where you are.\"\n\nBut this counsel did not please the Nix--(as, indeed, there is no\nreason to suppose that advice is more palatable under water than on\ndry land)--and he only said, \"I shall not expect gratitude, for I have\nno intention of conferring benefits; but I wish to amuse myself. The\nDwarfs and Kobolds play what pranks they please on men and women, and\nthey do not always have the worst of it. When I hear of their\nadventures, the soles of my feet tingle. This is a sign of travelling,\nand am I to be debarred from fun because I live in a lake instead of a\nhill?\"\n\nHis friends repeated their warnings, but to no purpose. The Nix\nremained unconvinced, and spent his time in dreaming of the clever\ntricks by which he should outwit the human race, and the fame he would\nthereby acquire on his return to the lake.\n\nMischief seldom lacks opportunity, and shortly after this it happened\nthat a young girl came down to the lake for water to wash with; and\ndipping her pail just above the Nix's head, in a moment he jumped in,\nand was brought safe to land. The maid was Bess, the washerwoman's\ndaughter; and as she had had one good scolding that morning for\noversleeping herself, and another about noon for dawdling with her\nwork, she took up the pail and set off home without delay.\n\nBut though she held it steadily enough, the bucket shook, and the\nwater spilled hither and thither. Thinking that her right arm might be\ntired, she moved the weight to her left, but with no better success,\nfor the water still spilled at every step. \"One would think there were\nfishes in the pail,\" said Bess, as she set it down. But there was\nnothing to be seen but a thin red water-worm wriggling at the bottom,\nsuch as you may see any day in a soft-water tub. It was in this shape,\nhowever, that the Nix had disguised himself, and he almost writhed out\nof his skin with delight at the success of his first essay in\nmischief.\n\nWhen they once more set forward the Nix leaped and jumped harder than\never, so that not only was the water spilled, but the maiden's dress\nwas soaked, and her tears dropped almost as fast as the wet dripped\nfrom her clothes.\n\n\"The pail is bewitched!\" cried the poor girl. \"How my mother will beat\nme for this! And my back aches as if I were carrying lead, and yet the\nwater is nearly all gone.\"\n\n\"This is something like fun!\" laughed the Nix. \"When I go home and\nrelate _my_ adventures, no dwarfs pranks will be named again!\" But\nwhen Bess looked into the pail, he was the same slimy, stupid-looking\nworm as before. She dared not return to the lake for more\nwater--\"for,\" said she, \"I should be as much beaten for being late as\nfor bringing short measure, and have the labour to boot.\" So she took\nup her burden again, and the Nix began his dance afresh, and by the\ntime they came to their journey's end, there was not a quart of water\nin the pail.\n\n\"Was ever a poor woman plagued with such a careless hussy?\" cried the\nmother when she saw the dripping dress; and, as Bess had expected, she\nseasoned her complaints with a hearty slap. \"And look what she calls a\npailful of water!\" added the mother, with a second blow.\n\n\"Late in the morning's unlucky all day,\" thought poor Bess, and, as\nher mother curled her, she screamed till the house rang with the\nnoise; for she had good lungs, and knew that it is well to cry out\nbefore one gets too much hurt.\n\nMeanwhile the Nix thought she was enduring agonies, and could hardly\ncontain his mischievous glee; and when the woman bade her \"warm some\nwater quickly for the wash,\" he was in no way disturbed, for he had\nnever seen boiling water, and only anticipated fresh sport as he\nslipped from the pail into the kettle.\n\n\"Now,\" cried the mother sharply, \"see if you can lift _that_ without\nslopping your clothes.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" laughed the Nix, \"see if you can, my dear!\" and as poor\nBess seized it in her sturdy red hands he began to dance as before.\nBut the kettle had a lid, which the pail had not. Moreover Bess was a\nstrong, strapping lass, and, stimulated by the remembrance of her\nmother's slaps, with a vigorous effort she set the kettle on the fire.\n\"I shall be glad when I'm safely in bed,\" she muttered. \"Everything\ngoes wrong to-day.\"\n\n\"It is warm in here,\" said the Nix to himself, after a while; \"in\nfact--stuffy. But one must pay something for a frolic, and it tickles\nmy ears to hear that old woman rating her daughter for my pranks. Give\nme time and opportunity, and I'll set the whole stupid race by the\nears. There she goes again! It is worth enduring a little discomfort,\nthough it certainly is warm, and I fancy it grows warmer.\"\n\nBy degrees the bottom of the kettle grew quite hot, and burnt the Nix,\nso that he had to jump up and down in the water to keep himself cool.\nThe noise of this made the woman think that the kettle was boiling,\nand she began to scold her daughter as before, shouting, \"Are you\ncoming with that tub to-night or not? The water is hot already.\"\n\nThis time the Nix laughed (as they say) on the other side of his\nmouth; for the water had now become as hot as the bottom of the\nkettle, and he screamed at the top of his shrill tiny voice with pain.\n\n\"How the kettle sings to-night!\" said Bess, \"and how it rains!\" she\nadded. For at that moment a tremendous storm burst around the house,\nand the rain poured down in sheets of water, as if it meant to wash\neverything into the lake. The kettle now really boiled, and the lid\ndanced up and down with the frantic leaping and jumping of the\nagonized Nix, who puffed and blew till his breath came out of the\nspout in clouds of steam.\n\n\"If your eyes were as sharp as your ears you'd see that the water is\nboiling over,\" snapped the woman; and giving her daughter a passing\npush, she hurried to the fire-place, and lifted the kettle on to the\nground.\n\nBut no sooner had she set it down, than the lid flew off, and out\njumped a little man with green teeth and a tall green hat, who ran out\nof the door wringing his hands and crying--\n\n\"Three hundred and three years have I lived in the water of this lake,\nand I never knew it boil before!\"\n\nAs he crossed the threshold, a clap of thunder broke with what sounded\nlike a peal of laughter from many voices, and then the storm ceased as\nsuddenly as it had begun.\n\nThe woman now saw how matters stood, and did not fail next morning to\nfasten an old horseshoe to the door of her house. And seeing that she\nhad behaved unjustly to her daughter, she bought her the gayest set\nof pink ribbons that were to be found at the next fair.\n\nIt is on record that Bess (who cared little for slaps and sharp\nspeeches) thought this the best bargain she had ever made. But whether\nthe Nix was equally well satisfied is not known.\n\n\n\n\nTHE COBBLER AND THE GHOSTS.\n\n\nLong ago there lived a cobbler who had very poor wits, but by strict\nindustry he could earn enough to keep himself and his widowed mother\nin comfort.\n\nIn this manner he had lived for many years in peace and prosperity,\nwhen a distant relative died who left him a certain sum of money. This\nso elated the cobbler that he could think of nothing else, and his\nonly talk was of the best way of spending the legacy.\n\nHis mother advised him to lay it by against a rainy day.\n\n\"For,\" said she, \"we have lived long in much comfort as we are, and\nhave need of nothing; but when you grow old, or if it should please\nHeaven that you become disabled, you will then be glad of your\nsavings.\"\n\nBut to this the cobbler would not listen. \"No,\" said he, \"if we save\nthe money it may be stolen, but if we spend it well, we shall have\nthe use of what we buy, and may sell it again if we are so minded.\"\n\nHe then proposed one purchase after another, and each was more foolish\nthan the rest. When this had gone on for some time, one morning he\nexclaimed: \"I have it at last! We will buy the house. It cannot be\nstolen or lost, and when it is ours we shall have no rent to pay, and\nI shall not have to work so hard.\"\n\n\"He will never hit on a wiser plan than that,\" thought the widow; \"it\nis not to be expected.\" So she fully consented to this arrangement,\nwhich was duly carried out; and the bargain left the cobbler with a\nfew shillings, which he tied up in a bag and put in his pocket, having\nfirst changed them into pence, that they might make more noise when he\njingled the bag as he walked down the street.\n\nPresently he said; \"It is not fit that a man who lives in his own\nhouse, and has ready money in his pocket too, should spend the whole\nday in labouring with his hands. Since by good luck I can read, it\nwould be well that I should borrow a book from the professor, for\nstudy is an occupation suitable to my present position.\"\n\nAccordingly, he went to the professor, whom he found seated in his\nlibrary, and preferred his request.\n\n\"What book do you want?\" asked the professor.\n\nThe cobbler stood and scratched his head thoughtfully. The professor\nthought that he was trying to recall the name of the work; but in\nreality he was saying to himself: \"How much additional knowledge one\nrequires if he has risen ever so little in life! Now, if I did but\nknow where it is proper to begin in a case full of books like this!\nShould one take the first on the top shelf, or the bottom shelf, to\nthe left, or to the right?\"\n\nAt last he resolved to choose the book nearest to him; so drawing it\nout from the rest, he answered--\n\n\"This one, if it please you, learned sir.\" The professor lent it to\nhim, and he took it home and began to read.\n\nIt was, as it happened, a book about ghosts and apparitions; and the\ncobbler's mind was soon so full of these marvels that he could talk of\nnothing else, and hardly did a stroke of work for reading and\npondering over what he read. He could find none of his neighbours who\nhad seen a ghost, though most had heard of such things, and many\nbelieved in them.\n\n\"Live and learn,\" thought the cobbler; \"here is fame as well as\nwealth. If I could but see a ghost there would be no more to desire.\"\nAnd with this intent he sallied forth late one night to the\nchurchyard.\n\nMeanwhile a thief (who had heard the jingle of his money-bag)\nresolved to profit by the cobbler's whim; so wrapping himself in a\nsheet, he laid wait for him in a field that he must cross to reach the\nchurch.\n\nWhen the cobbler saw the white figure, he made sure, that he had now\nseen a ghost, and already felt proud of his own acquaintance, as a\nremarkable character. Meanwhile, the thief stood quite still, and the\ncobbler walked boldly up to him, expecting that the phantom would\neither vanish or prove so impalpable that he could pass through it as\nthrough a mist, of which he had read many notable instances in the\nprofessor's book. He soon found out his mistake, however, for the\nsupposed ghost grappled him, and without loss of time relieved him of\nhis money-bag. The cobbler (who was not wanting in courage) fastened\nas tightly on to the sheet, which he still held with desperate\nfirmness when the thief had slipped through his fingers; and after\nwaiting in vain for further marvels, he carried the sheet home to his\nmother, and narrated his encounter with the ghost.\n\n\"Alack-a-day! that I should have a son with so little wit!\" cried the\nold woman; \"it was no ghost, but a thief, who is now making merry with\nall the money we possessed.\"\n\n\"We have his sheet,\" replied her son; \"and that is due solely to my\ndetermination. How could I have acted better?\"\n\n\"You should have grasped the man, not the sheet,\" said the widow,\n\"and pummelled him till he cried out and dropped the money-bag.\"\n\n\"Live and learn,\" said the cobbler. The next night he went out as\nbefore, and this time reached the churchyard unmolested. He was just\nclimbing the stile, when he again saw what seemed to be a white figure\nstanding near the church. As before, it proved solid, and this time he\npummelled it till his fingers bled, and for very weariness he was\nobliged to go home and relate his exploits. The ghost had not cried\nout, however, nor even so much as moved, for it was neither more nor\nless than a tall tombstone shining white in the moonlight.\n\n\"Alack-a-day!\" cried the old woman, \"that I should have a son with so\nlittle wit as to beat a gravestone till his knuckles are sore! Now if\nhe had covered it with something black that it might not alarm timid\nwomen or children, that would at least have been an act of charity.\"\n\n\"Live and learn,\" said the cobbler. The following night he again set\nforth, but this time in another direction. As he was crossing a field\nbehind his house he saw some long pieces of linen which his mother had\nput out to bleach in the dew.\n\n\"More ghosts!\" cried the shoemaker, \"and they know who is behind them.\nThey have fallen flat at the sound of my footsteps. But one must\nthink of others as well as oneself, and it is not every heart that is\nas stout as mine.\" Saying which he returned to the house for something\nblack to throw over the prostrate ghosts. Now the kitchen chimney had\nbeen swept that morning, and by the back door stood a sack of soot.\n\n\"What is blacker than soot?\" said the cobbler; and taking the sack, he\nshook it out over the pieces of linen till not a thread of white was\nto be seen. After which he went home, and boasted of his good deeds.\n\nThe widow now saw that she must be more careful as to what she said;\nso, after weighing the matter for some time, she suggested to the\ncobbler that the next night he should watch for ghosts at home; \"for\nthey are to be seen,\" said she, \"as well when one is in bed as in the\nfields.\"\n\n\"There you are right,\" said the cobbler, \"for I have this day read of\na ghost that appeared to a man in his own house. The candles burnt\nblue, and when he had called thrice upon the apparition, he became\nsenseless.\"\n\n\"That was his mistake,\" said the old woman. \"He should have turned a\ndeaf ear, and even pretended to slumber; but it is not every one who\nhas courage for this. If one could really fall asleep in the face of\nthe apparition, there would be true bravery.\"\n\n\"Leave that to me,\" said the cobbler. And the widow went off\nchuckling, to herself, \"If he comes to any mischance by holding his\ntongue and going to sleep, ill-luck has got him by the leg, and\ncounsel is wasted on him.\"\n\nAs soon as his mother was in bed, the cobbler prepared for his watch.\nFirst he got together all the candles in the house, and stuck them\nhere and there about the kitchen, and sat down to watch till they\nshould burn blue. After waiting some time, during which the candles\nonly guttered with the draughts, the cobbler decided to go to rest for\na while. \"It is too early yet,\" he thought; \"I shall see nothing till\nmidnight.\"\n\nVery soon, however, he fell asleep; but towards morning he awoke, and\nin the dim light perceived a figure in white at his bedside. It was a\nblacksmith who lived near, and he had run in in his night-shirt\nwithout so much as slippers on his feet.\n\n\"The ghost at last!\" thought the cobbler, and, remembering his\nmother's advice, he turned over and shut his eyes.\n\n\"Neighbour! neighbour!\" cried the blacksmith, \"your house is on fire!\"\n\n\"An old bird is not to be caught with chaff,\" chuckled the cobbler to\nhimself; and he pulled the bed-clothes over his head.\n\n\"Neighbour!\" roared the blacksmith, snatching at the quilt to drag it\noff, \"are you mad? The house is burning over your head. Get up for\nyour life!\"\n\n\"I have the courage of a general, and more,\" thought the cobbler; and\nholding tightly on to the clothes he pretended to snore.\n\n\"If you will burn, bum!\" cried the blacksmith angrily, \"but I mean to\nsave my bones\"--with which he ran off.\n\nAnd burnt the cobbler undoubtedly would have been, had not his\nmother's cries at last convinced him that the candles had set fire to\nhis house, which was wrapped in flames. With some difficulty he\nescaped with his life, but of all he possessed nothing remained to him\nbut his tools and a few articles of furniture that the widow had\nsaved.\n\nAs he was now again reduced to poverty, he was obliged to work as\ndiligently as in former years, and passed the rest of his days in the\nsame peace and prosperity which he had before enjoyed.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAIRD AND THE MAN OF PEACE.\n\n\nIn the Highlands of Scotland there once lived a Laird of Brockburn,\nwho would not believe in fairies. Although his sixth cousin on the\nmother's side, as he returned one night from a wedding, had seen the\nMen of Peace hunting on the sides of Ben Muich Dhui, dressed in green,\nand with silver-mounted bridles to their horses which jingled as they\nrode; and though Rory the fiddler having gone to play at a christening\ndid never come home, but crossing a hill near Brockburn in a mist was\nseduced into a _Shian_[1] or fairy turret, where, as all decent bodies\nwell believe, he is playing still--in spite, I say, of the wise saws\nand experience of all his neighbours, Brockburn remained obstinately\nincredulous.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Shian_, a Gaelic name for fairy towers, which by day are\nnot to be told from mountain crags.]\n\nNot that he bore any ill-will to the Good People, or spoke uncivilly\nof them; indeed he always disavowed any feeling of disrespect towards\nthem if they existed, saying that he was a man of peace himself, and\nanxious to live peaceably with whatever neighbours he had, but that\ntill he had seen one of the _Daoine Shi_[2] he could not believe in\nthem.\n\n[Footnote 2: _Daoine Shi_ (pronounced _Dheener Shee_) = Men of Peace.]\n\nNow one afternoon, between Hallowmas and Yule, it chanced that the\nLaird, being out on the hills looking for some cattle, got parted from\nhis men and dogs and was overtaken by a mist, in which, familiar as\nthe country was to him, he lost his way.\n\nIn vain he raised his voice high, and listened low, no sound of man or\nbeast came back to him through the thickening vapour.\n\nThen night fell, and darkness was added to the fog, so that Brockburn\nneeded to sound every step with his _rung_[3] before he took it.\n\n[Footnote 3: _Rung_ = a thick stick.]\n\nSuddenly light footsteps pattered beside him, then Something rubbed\nagainst him, then It ran between his legs. The delighted Laird made\nsure that his favourite collie had found him once more.\n\n\"Wow, Jock, man!\" he cried; \"but ye needna throw me on my face. What's\ngot ye the night, that _you_ should lose your way in a bit mist?\"\n\nTo this a voice from the level of his elbow replied, in piping but\npatronizing tones;\n\n\"Never did I lose my way in a mist since the night that Finn crossed\nover to Ireland in the Dawn of History. Eh, Laird! I'm weel acquaint\nwith every bit path on the hill-side these hundreds of years, and I'll\nguide ye safe hame, never fear!\"\n\nThe hairs on Brockburn's head stood on end till they lifted his broad\nbonnet, and a damp chill broke out over him that was not the fog. But,\nfor all that, he stoutly resisted the evidence of his senses, and only\nfelt about him for the collie's head to pat, crying:\n\n\"Bark! Jock, my mannie, bark! Then I'll recognize your voice, ye ken.\nIt's no canny to hear ye speak like a Christian, my wee doggie.\"\n\n\"I'm nae your doggie, I'm a Man of Peace,\" was the reply. \"Dinna\nmiscall your betters, Brockburn: why will ye not credit our existence,\nman?\"\n\n\"Seein's believin',\" said the Laird, stubbornly; \"but the mist's ower\nthick for seein' the night, ye ken.\"\n\n\"Turn roun' to your left, man, and ye'll see,\" said the Dwarf, and\ncatching Brockburn by the arm, he twisted him swiftly round three\ntimes, when a sudden blaze of light poured through the mist, and\nrevealed a crag of the mountain well known to the Laird, and which he\nnow saw to be a kind of turret, or tower.\n\nLights shone gaily through the crevices or windows of the _Shian_,\nand sounds of revelry came forth, among which fiddling was\nconspicuous. The tune played at that moment was \"Delvyn-side.\"\n\nBlinded by the light, and amazed at what he saw, the Laird staggered,\nand was silent.\n\n\"Keep to your feet, man--keep to your feet!\" said the Dwarf, laughing.\n\"I doubt ye're fou, Brockburn!\"\n\n\"I'm nae fou,\" said the Laird, slowly, his rung grasped firmly in his\nhand, and his bonnet set back from his face, which was deadly pale.\n\"But--man-_is yon Rory?_ I'd know his fiddle in a thousand.\"\n\n\"Ask no questions, and ye'll be tellt no lees,\" said the Dwarf. Then\nstepping up to the door of the _Shian_, he stood so that the light\nfrom within fell full upon him, and the astonished Laird saw a tiny\nbut well-proportioned man, with delicate features, and golden hair\nflowing over his shoulders. He wore a cloak of green cloth, lined with\ndaisies, and had silver shoes. His beautiful face quivered with\namusement, and he cried triumphantly, \"D'ye see me?--d'ye see me noo,\nBrockburn?\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said the Laird; \"and seein's believin'.\"\n\n\"Then roun' wi' ye!\" shouted the Man of Peace; and once more seizing\nthe Laird by the arm, he turned him swiftly round--this time, to the\nright--and at the third turn the light vanished, and Brockburn and\nthe Man of Peace were once more alone together in the mist.\n\n\"Aweel, Brockburn,\" said the Man of Peace, \"I'll alloo ye're candid,\nand have a convincible mind. I'm no ill disposit to ye, and yese get\nsafe hame, man.\"\n\nAs he spoke he stooped down, and picking up half-a-dozen big stones\nfrom the mountain-side, he gave them to the Laird, saying, \"If the\ngudewife asks ye about the bit stanes, say ye got them in a\ncompliment.\"[4]\n\n[Footnote 4: \"In a compliment\" = \"as a present.\"]\n\nBrockburn put them into his pocket, briefly saying, \"I'm obleeged to\nye;\" but as he followed the Man of Peace down the hill-side, he found\nthe obligation so heavy, that from time to time he threw a stone away,\nunobserved, as he hoped, by his companion. When the first stone fell,\nthe Man of Peace looked sharply round, saying:\n\n\"What's yon?\"\n\n\"It'll be me striking my rung upon the ground,\" said the Laird.\n\n\"You're mad,\" said the Man of Peace, and Brockburn felt sure that he\nknew the truth, and was displeased. But as they went on, the stones\nwere so heavy, and bumped the Laird's side so hard, that he threw away\na second, dropping it as gently as he could. But the sound of its\nfall did not escape the ears of the Man of Peace, who cried as before:\n\n\"What's yon?\"\n\n\"It's jest a nasty hoast[5] that I have,\" said the Laird.\n\n[Footnote 5: \"Hoast\" = cough.]\n\n\"Man, you're daft,\" said the Dwarf, contemptuously; \"that's what ails\nye.\"\n\nThe Laird now resolved to be prudent, but the inconvenience of his\nburden was so great that after a while he resolved to risk the\ndispleasure of the Man of Peace once more, and gently slipped a third\nstone to the ground.\n\n\"Third time's lucky,\" he thought. But the proverb failed him, for the\nDwarf turned as before, shouting: \"What's yon?\"\n\n\"It'll be my new brogues[6] that ye hear bumpin' Upon the muckle\nstanes,\" said the Laird.\n\n[Footnote 6: \"Brogues\" = shoes.]\n\n\"Ye're fou, Brockburn, I tellt ye so. Ye're fou!\" growled the Man of\nPeace, angrily, and the Laird dared not drop any more of the Dwarfs\ngifts. After a while his companion's good-humour seemed to return, and\nhe became talkative and generous.\n\n\"I mind your great-grandfather weel, Brockburn. He was a hamely man, I\nfound his sheep for him one nicht on this verra hill-side. Mair by\ntoken, ye'll find your beasties at hame, and the men and the dogs\nforebye.\"\n\nThe Laird thanked him heartily, and after a while the Dwarf became\nmore liberal-spirited still.\n\n\"Yese no have to say that ye've been with the _Daoine Shi_ and are no\nthe better for it,\" he said. \"I'm thinking I'll grant ye three wushes.\nBut choose wisely, man, and dinna throw _them_ away. I hae my fears\nthat ye're no without a bee in your bonnet, Brockburn.\"\n\nIncensed by this insinuation, the Laird defended his own sagacity at\nsome length, and retorted on his companion with doubts of the power of\nthe _Daoine Shi_ to grant wishes.\n\n\"The proof of the pudding's in the eating o't,\" said the Man of Peace.\n\"Wush away, Brockburn, and mak the nut as hard to crack as ye will.\"\n\nThe Laird at once began to cast about in his mind for three wishes\nsufficiently comprehensive to secure his lifelong prosperity; but the\nmore he beat his brains the less could he satisfy himself.\n\nHow many miles he wandered thus, the Dwarf keeping silently beside\nhim, he never knew, before he sank exhausted on the ground, saying:\n\n\"I'm thinking, man, that if ye could bring hame to me, in place of\nbringing me hame, I'd misdoubt your powers nae mair. It's a far cry to\nLoch Awe,[7] ye ken, and it's a weary long road to Brockburn.\"\n\n[Footnote 7: \"It's a far cry to Loch Awe.\"--_Scotch Proverb_.]\n\n\"Is this your wush?\" asked the Man of Peace.\n\n\"This is my wush,\" said the Laird, striking his rung upon the ground.\n\nThe words had scarcely passed his lips when the whole homestead of\nBrockburn, house and farm buildings, was planted upon the bleak\nhill-side.\n\nThe astonished Laird now began to bewail the rash wish which had\nremoved his home from the sheltered and fertile valley where it\noriginally stood to the barren side of a bleak mountain.\n\nThe Man of Peace, however, would not take any hints as to undoing his\nwork of his own accord. All he said was:\n\n\"If ye wush it away, so it'll be. But then ye'll only have one wush\nleft. Ye've small discretion the nicht, Brockburn, I'm feared.\"\n\n\"To leave the steading in sic a spot is no to be thought on,\" sighed\nthe Laird, as he spent his second wish in undoing his first. But he\ncannily added the provision:\n\n\"And ye may tak me wi' it.\"\n\nThe words were no sooner spoken than the homestead was back in its\nplace, and Brockburn himself was lying in his own bed, Jock, his\nfavourite collie, barking and licking his face by turns for joy.\n\n\"Whisht, whisht, Jock!\" said the Laird. \"Ye wouldna bark when I begged\nof ye, so ye may hand your peace noo.\"\n\nAnd pushing the collie from him, he sat up in bed and looked anxiously\nbut vainly round the chamber for the Man of Peace.\n\n\"Lie doun, lie doun,\" cried the gudewife from beside him. \"Ye're\nsurely out o' your wuts, Brockburn. Would ye gang stravaging about the\ncountry again the nicht?\"\n\n\"Where is he?\" cried the Laird.\n\n\"There's not a soul here but your lawful wife and your ain dear\ndoggie. Was there ae body that ye expected?\" asked his wife.\n\n\"The Man o' Peace, woman!\" cried Brockburn. \"I've ane o' my wushes to\nget, and I maun hae't.\"\n\n\"The man's mad!\" was the gudewife's comment. \"Ye've surely forgotten\nyoursel, Brockburn. Ye never believed in the _Daoine Shi_ before.\"\n\n\"Seein's believin',\" said the Laird. \"I forgathered with a Man o'\nPeace the nicht on the hill, and I wush I just saw him again.\"\n\nAs the Laird spoke the window of the chamber was lit up from without,\nand the Man of Peace appeared sitting on the window-ledge in his\ndaisy-lined cloak, his feet hanging down into the room, the silver\nshoes glittering as they dangled.\n\n\"I'm here, Brockburn!\" he cried. \"But eh, man! ye've had your last\nwush.\"\n\nAnd even as the stupefied Laird gazed, the light slowly died away, and\nthe Man of Peace vanished also.\n\nOn the following morning the Laird was roused from sleep by loud cries\nof surprise and admiration.\n\nThe good wife had been stirring for some hours, and in emptying the\npockets of her good man's coat she had found three huge cairngorms of\nexquisite tint and lustre. Brockburn thus discovered the value of the\ngifts, half of which he had thrown away.\n\nBut no subsequent visits to the hill-side led to their recovery. Many\na time did the Laird bring home a heavy pocketful of stones, at the\nthrifty gudewife's bidding, but they only proved to be the common\nstones of the mountain-side. The _Shian_ could never be distinguished\nfrom any other crag, and the _Daoine Shi_ were visible no more.\n\nYet it is said that the Laird of Brockburn prospered and throve\nthereafter, in acre, stall, and steading, as those seldom prosper who\nhave not the good word of the People of Peace.\n\n\n\n\nTHE OGRE COURTING.\n\n\nIn days when ogres were still the terror of certain districts, there\nwas one who had long kept a whole neighbourhood in fear without any\none daring to dispute his tyranny.\n\nBy thefts and exactions, by heavy ransoms from merchants too old and\ntough to be eaten, in one way and another, the Ogre had become very\nrich; and although those who knew could tell of huge cellars full of\ngold and jewels, and yards and barns groaning with the weight of\nstolen goods, the richer he grew the more anxious and covetous he\nbecame. Moreover, day by day, he added to his stores; for though (like\nmost ogres) he was as stupid as he was strong, no one had ever been\nfound, by force or fraud, to get the better of him.\n\nWhat he took from the people was not their heaviest grievance. Even to\nbe killed and eaten by him was not the chance they thought of most. A\nman can die but once; and if he is a sailor, a shark may eat him,\nwhich is not so much better than being devoured by an ogre. No, that\nwas not the worst. The worst was this--he would keep getting married.\nAnd as he liked little wives, all the short women lived in fear and\ndread. And as his wives always died very soon, he was constantly\ncourting fresh ones.\n\nSome said he ate his wives; some said he tormented, and others, that\nhe only worked them to death. Everybody knew it was not a desirable\nmatch, and yet there was not a father who dare refuse his daughter if\nshe were asked for. The Ogre only cared for two things in a woman--he\nliked her to be little, and a good housewife.\n\nNow it was when the Ogre had just lost his twenty-fourth wife (within\nthe memory of man) that these two qualities were eminently united in\nthe person of the smallest and most notable woman of the district, the\ndaughter of a certain poor farmer. He was so poor that he could not\nafford properly to dower his daughter, who had in consequence remained\nsingle beyond her first youth. Everybody felt sure that Managing Molly\nmust now be married to the Ogre. The tall girls stretched themselves\ntill they looked like maypoles, and said, \"Poor thing!\" The slatterns\ngossiped from house to house, the heels of their shoes clacking as\nthey went, and cried that this was what came of being too thrifty.\n\nAnd sure enough, in due time, the giant widower came to the farmer as\nhe was in the field looking over his crops, and proposed for Molly\nthere and then. The farmer was so much put out that he did not know\nwhat he said in reply, either when he was saying it, or afterwards,\nwhen his friends asked about it. But he remembered that the Ogre had\ninvited himself to sup at the farm that day week.\n\nManaging Molly did not distress herself at the news.\n\n\"Do what I bid you, and say as I say,\" said she to her father, \"and if\nthe Ogre does not change his mind, at any rate you shall not come\nempty-handed out of the business.\"\n\nBy his daughter's desire the farmer now procured a large number of\nhares, and a barrel of white wine, which expenses completely emptied\nhis slender stocking, and on the day of the Ogre's visit, she made a\ndelicious and savoury stew with the hares in the biggest pickling tub,\nand the wine-barrel was set on a bench near the table.\n\nWhen the Ogre came, Molly served up the stew, and the Ogre sat down to\nsup, his head just touching the kitchen rafters. The stew was perfect,\nand there was plenty of it. For what Molly and her father ate was\nhardly to be counted in the tubful. The Ogre was very much pleased,\nand said politely:\n\n\"I'm afraid, my dear, that you have been put to great trouble and\nexpense on my account, I have a large appetite, and like to sup well.\"\n\n\"Don't mention it, sir,\" said Molly. \"The fewer rats the more corn.\nHow do _you_ cook them?\"\n\n\"Not one of all the extravagant hussies I have had as wives ever\ncooked them at all,\" said the Ogre; and he thought to himself, \"Such a\nstew out of rats! What frugality! What a housewife!\"\n\nWhen he broached the wine, he was no less pleased, for it was of the\nbest.\n\n\"This, at any rate, must have cost you a great deal, neighbour,\" said\nhe, drinking the farmer's health as Molly left the room.\n\n\"I don't know that rotten apples could be better used,\" said the\nfarmer; \"but I leave all that to Molly. Do you brew at home?\"\n\n\"We give _our_ rotten apples to the pigs,\" growled the Ogre. \"But\nthings will be better ordered when she is my wife.\"\n\nThe Ogre was now in great haste to conclude the match, and asked what\ndowry the farmer would give his daughter.\n\n\"I should never dream of giving a dowry with Molly,\" said the farmer,\nboldly. \"Whoever gets her, gets dowry enough. On the contrary, I shall\nexpect a good round sum from the man who deprives me of her. Our\nwealthiest farmer is just widowed, and therefore sure to be in a\nhurry for marriage. He has an eye to the main chance, and would not\ngrudge to pay well for such a wife, I'll warrant.\"\n\n\"I'm no churl myself,\" said the Ogre, who was anxious to secure his\nthrifty bride at any price; and he named a large sum of money,\nthinking, \"We shall live on rats henceforward, and the beef and mutton\nwill soon cover the dowry.\"\n\n\"Double that, and we'll see,\" said the farmer, stoutly.\n\nBut the Ogre became angry, and cried; \"What are you thinking of, man?\nWho is to hinder my carrying your lass off, without 'with your leave'\nor 'by your leave,' dowry or none?\"\n\n\"How little you know her!\" said the farmer. \"She is so firm that she\nwould be cut to pieces sooner than give you any benefit of her thrift,\nunless you dealt fairly in the matter.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said the Ogre, \"let us meet each other.\" And he named a\nsum larger than he at first proposed, and less than the farmer had\nasked. This the farmer agreed to, as it was enough to make him\nprosperous for life.\n\n\"Bring it in a sack to-morrow morning,\" said he to the Ogre, \"and then\nyou can speak to Molly; she's gone to bed now.\"\n\nThe next morning, accordingly, the Ogre appeared, carrying the dowry\nin a sack, and Molly came to meet him.\n\n\"There are two things,\" said she, \"I would ask of any lover of mine: a\nnew farmhouse, built as I should direct, with a view to economy; and a\nfeather-bed of fresh goose feathers, filled when the old woman plucks\nher geese. If I don't sleep well, I cannot work well.\"\n\n\"That is better than asking for finery,\" thought the Ogre; \"and after\nall the house will be my own.\" So, to save the expense of labour, he\nbuilt it himself, and worked hard, day after day, under Molly's\norders, till winter came. Then it was finished.\n\n\"Now for the feather-bed,\" said Molly. \"I'll sew up the ticking, and\nwhen the old woman plucks her geese, I'll let you know.\"\n\nWhen it snows, they say the old woman up yonder is plucking her geese,\nand so at the first snowstorm Molly sent for the Ogre.\n\n\"Now you see the feathers falling,\" said she, \"so fill the bed.\"\n\n\"How am I to catch them?\" cried the Ogre.\n\n\"Stupid! don't you see them lying there in a heap?\" cried Molly; \"get\na shovel, and set to work.\"\n\nThe Ogre accordingly carried in shovelfuls of snow to the bed, but as\nit melted as fast as he put it in, his labour never seemed done.\nTowards night the room got so cold that the snow would not melt, and\nnow the bed was soon filled.\n\nMolly hastily covered it with sheets and blankets, and said: \"Pray\nrest here to-night, and tell me if the bed is not comfort itself.\nTo-morrow we will be married.\"\n\nSo the tired Ogre lay down on the bed he had filled, but, do what he\nwould, he could not get warm.\n\n\"The sheets must be damp,\" said he, and in the morning he woke with\nsuch horrible pains in his bones that he could hardly move, and half\nthe bed had melted away. \"It's no use,\" he groaned, \"she's a very\nmanaging woman, but to sleep on such a bed would be the death of me.\"\nAnd he went off home as quickly as he could, before Managing Molly\ncould call upon him to be married; for she was so managing that he was\nmore than half afraid of her already.\n\nWhen Molly found that he had gone, she sent the farmer after him.\n\n\"What does he want?\" cried the Ogre, when they told him the farmer was\nat the door.\n\n\"He says the bride is waiting for you,\" was the reply.\n\n\"Tell him I'm too ill to be married,\" said the Ogre.\n\nBut the messenger soon returned:\n\n\"He says she wants to know what you will give her to make up for the\ndisappointment.\"\n\n\"She's got the dowry, and the farm, and the feather-bed,\" groaned the\nOgre; \"what more does she want?\"\n\nBut again the messenger returned:\n\n\"She says you've pressed the feather-bed flat, and she wants some more\ngoose feathers.\"\n\n\"There are geese enough in the yard,\" yelled the Ogre, \"Let him drive\nthem home; and if he has another word to say, put him down to roast.\"\n\nThe farmer, who overheard this order, lost no time in taking his\nleave, and as he passed through the yard he drove home as fine a flock\nof geese as you will see on a common.\n\nIt is said that the Ogre never recovered from the effects of sleeping\non the old woman's goose feathers, and was less powerful than before.\n\nAs for Managing Molly, being now well dowered, she had no lack of\noffers of marriage, and was soon mated to her mind.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAGICIANS' GIFTS.\n\n\nThere was once a king in whose dominions lived no less than three\nmagicians.\n\nWhen the king's eldest son was christened, the king invited the three\nmagicians to the christening feast, and to make the compliment the\ngreater, he asked one of them to stand godfather. But the other two,\nwho were not asked to be godfathers, were so angry at what they held\nto be a slight, that they only waited to see how they might best\nrevenge themselves upon the infant prince.\n\nWhen the moment came for presenting the christening gifts, the\ngodfather magician advanced to the cradle and said, \"My gift is this:\nWhatever he wishes for he shall have. And only I who give shall be\nable to recall this gift.\" For he perceived the jealousy of the other\nmagicians, and knew that, if possible, they would undo what he did.\nBut the second magician muttered in his beard, \"And yet I will change\nit to a curse.\" And coming up to the cradle, he said, \"The wishes\nthat he has thus obtained he shall not be able to revoke or change.\"\n\nThen the third magician grumbled beneath his black robe, \"If he were\nvery wise and prudent he might yet be happy. But I will secure his\npunishment.\" So he also drew near to the cradle, and said, \"For my\npart, I give him a hasty temper.\"\n\nAfter which, the two dissatisfied magicians withdrew together, saying,\n\"Should we permit ourselves to be slighted for nothing?\"\n\nBut the king and his courtiers were not at all disturbed.\n\n\"My son has only to be sure of what he wants,\" said the king, \"and\nthen, I suppose, he will not desire to recall his wishes.\"\n\nAnd the courtiers added, \"If a prince may not have a hasty temper, who\nmay, we should like to know?\"\n\nAnd everybody laughed, except the godfather magician, who went out\nsighing and shaking his head, and was seen no more.\n\nWhilst the king's son was yet a child, the gift of the godfather\nmagician began to take effect. There was nothing so rare and precious\nthat he could not obtain it, or so difficult that it could not be\naccomplished by his mere wish. But, on the other hand, no matter how\ninconsiderately he spoke, or how often he changed his mind, what he\nhad once wished must remain as he had wished it, in spite of himself;\nand as he often wished for things that were bad for him, and oftener\nstill wished for a thing one day and regretted it the next, his power\nwas the source of quite as much pain as pleasure to him. Then his\ntemper was so hot, that he was apt hastily to wish ill to those who\noffended him, and afterwards bitterly to regret the mischief that he\ncould not undo. Thus, one after another, the king appointed his\ntrustiest counsellors to the charge of his son, who, sooner or later,\nin the discharge of their duty, were sure to be obliged to thwart him;\non which the impatient prince would cry, \"I wish you were at the\nbottom of the sea with your rules and regulations;\" and the\ncounsellors disappeared accordingly, and returned no more.\n\nWhen there was not a wise man left at court, and the king himself\nlived in daily dread of being the next victim, he said, \"Only one\nthing remains to be done: to find the godfather magician, and persuade\nhim to withdraw his gift.\"\n\nSo the king offered rewards, and sent out messengers in every\ndirection, but the magician was not to be found. At last, one day he\nmet a blind beggar, who said to him, \"Three nights ago I dreamed that\nI went by the narrowest of seven roads to seek what you are looking\nfor, and was successful.\"\n\nWhen the king returned home, he asked his courtiers, \"Where are there\nseven roads lying near to each other, some broad, and some narrow?\"\nAnd one of them replied, \"Twenty-one miles to the west of the palace\nis a four-cross road, where three field-paths also diverge.\"\n\nTo this place the king made his way, and taking the narrowest of the\nfield-paths, went on and on till it led him straight into a cave,\nwhere an old woman sat over a fire.\n\n\"Does a magician live here?\" asked the king.\n\n\"No one lives here but myself,\" said the old woman. \"But as I am a\nwise woman I may be able to help you if you need it.\"\n\nThe king then told her of his perplexities, and how he was desirous of\nfinding the magician, to persuade him to recall his gift.\n\n\"He could not recall the other gifts,\" said the wise woman. \"Therefore\nit is better that the prince should be taught to use his power\nprudently and to control his temper. And since all the persons capable\nof guiding him have disappeared, I will return with you and take\ncharge of him myself. Over me he will have no power.\"\n\nTo this the king consented, and they returned together to the palace,\nwhere the wise woman became guardian to the prince, and she fulfilled\nher duties so well that he became much more discreet and\nself-controlled. Only at times his violent temper got the better of\nhim, and led him to wish what he afterwards vainly regretted.\n\nThus all went well till the prince became a man, when, though he had\ngreat affection for her, he felt ashamed of having an old woman for\nhis counsellor, and he said, \"I certainly wish that I had a faithful\nand discreet adviser of my own age and sex.\"\n\nOn that very day a young nobleman offered himself as companion to the\nprince, and as he was a young man of great ability, he was accepted:\nwhereupon the old woman took her departure, and was never seen again.\n\nThe young nobleman performed his part so well that the prince became\ndeeply attached to him, and submitted in every way to his counsels.\nBut at last a day came when, being in a rage, the advice of his friend\nirritated him, and he cried hastily, \"Will you drive me mad with your\nlong sermons? I wish you would hold your tongue for ever.\" On which\nthe young nobleman became dumb, and so remained. For he was not, as\nthe wise woman had been, independent of the prince's power.\n\nThe prince's grief and remorse knew no bounds. \"Am I not under a\ncurse?\" said he. \"Truly I ought to be cast out from human society, and\nsent to live with wild beasts in a wilderness. I only bring evil upon\nthose I love best--indeed, there is no hope for me unless I can find\nmy godfather, and make him recall this fatal gift.\"\n\nSo the prince mounted his horse, and, accompanied by his dumb friend,\nwho still remained faithful to him, he set forth to find the magician.\nThey took no followers, except the prince's dog, a noble hound, who\nwas so quick of hearing that he understood all that was said to him,\nand was, next to the young nobleman, the wisest person at court.\n\n\"Mark well, my dog,\" said the prince to him, \"we stay nowhere till we\nfind my godfather, and when we find him we go no further. I rely on\nyour sagacity to help us.\"\n\nThe dog licked the prince's hand, and then trotted so resolutely down\na certain road that the two friends allowed him to lead them and\nfollowed close behind.\n\nThey travelled in this way to the edge of the king's dominions, only\nhalting for needful rest and refreshment. At last the dog led them\nthrough a wood, and towards evening they found themselves in the\ndepths of the forest, with no sign of any shelter for the night.\nPresently they heard a little bell, such as is rung for prayer, and\nthe dog ran down a side path and led them straight to a kind of\ngrotto, at the door of which stood an aged hermit.\n\n\"Does a magician live here?\" asked the prince.\n\n\"No one lives here but myself,\" said the hermit, \"but I am old, and\nhave meditated much. My advice is at your service if you need it.\"\n\nThe prince then related his history, and how he was now seeking the\nmagician godfather, to rid himself of his gift.\n\n\"And yet that will not cure your temper,\" said the hermit. \"It were\nbetter that you employed yourself in learning to control that, and to\nuse your power prudently.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" replied the prince; \"I must find the magician.\"\n\nAnd when the hermit pressed his advice, he cried, \"Provoke me not,\ngood father, or I may be base enough to wish you ill; and the evil I\ndo I cannot undo.\"\n\nAnd he departed, followed by his friend, and calling his dog. But the\ndog seated himself at the hermit's feet, and would not move. Again and\nagain the prince called him, but he only whined and wagged his tail,\nand refused to move. Coaxing and scolding were both in vain, and when\nat last the prince tried to drag him off by force, the dog growled.\n\n\"Base brute!\" cried the prince, flinging him from him in a transport\nof rage. \"How have I been so deceived in you? I wish you were hanged!\"\nAnd even as he spoke the dog vanished, and as the prince turned his\nhead he saw the poor beast's body dangling from a tree above him. The\nsight overwhelmed him, and he began bitterly to lament his cruelty.\n\n\"Will no one hang me also,\" he cried, \"and rid the world of such a\nmonster?\"\n\n\"It is easier to die repenting than to live amending,\" said the\nhermit; \"yet is the latter course the better one. Wherefore abide with\nme, my son, and learn in solitude those lessons of self-government\nwithout which no man is fit to rule others.\"\n\n\"It is impossible,\" said the prince. \"These fits of passion are as a\nmadness that comes upon me, and they are beyond cure. It only remains\nto find my godfather, that he may make me less baneful to others by\ntaking away the power I abuse.\" And raising the body of the dog\ntenderly in his arms, he laid it before him on his horse, and rode\naway, the dumb nobleman following him.\n\nThey now entered the dominions of another king, and in due time\narrived at the capital. The prince presented himself to the king, and\nasked if he had a magician in his kingdom.\n\n\"Not to my knowledge,\" replied the king. \"But I have a remarkably wise\ndaughter, and if you want counsel she may be able to help you.\"\n\nThe princess accordingly was sent for, and she was so beautiful, as\nwell as witty, that the prince fell in love with her, and begged the\nking to give her to him to wife. The king, of course, was unable to\nrefuse what the prince wished, and the wedding was celebrated without\ndelay; and by the advice of his wife the prince placed the body of his\nfaithful dog in a glass coffin, and kept it near him, that he might\nconstantly be reminded of the evil results of giving way to his anger.\n\nFor a time all went well. At first the prince never said a harsh word\nto his wife; but by and by familiarity made him less careful, and one\nday she said something that offended him, and he fell into a violent\nrage. As he went storming up and down, the princess wrung her hands,\nand cried, \"Ah, my dear husband, I beg of you to be careful what you\nsay to me. You say you loved your dog, and yet you know where he\nlies.\"\n\n\"I know that I wish you were with him, with your prating!\" cried the\nprince, in a fury; and the words were scarcely out of his mouth when\nthe princess vanished from his side, and when he ran to the glass\ncoffin, there she lay, pale and lifeless, with her head upon the body\nof the hound.\n\nThe prince was now beside himself with remorse and misery, and when\nthe dumb nobleman made signs that they should pursue their search for\nthe magician, he only cried, \"Too late! too late!\"\n\nBut after a while he said, \"I will return to the hermit, and pass the\nrest of my miserable life in solitude and penance. And you, dear\nfriend, go back to my father.\"\n\nBut the dumb nobleman shook his head, and could not be persuaded to\nleave the prince. Then they took the glass coffin on their shoulders,\nand on foot, and weeping as they went, they retraced their steps to\nthe forest.\n\nFor some time the prince remained with the hermit, and submitted\nhimself to his direction. Then the hermit bade him return to his\nfather, and he obeyed.\n\nEvery day the prince stood by the glass coffin, and beat his breast\nand cried, \"Behold, murderer, the fruits of anger!\" And he tried hard\nto overcome the violence of his temper. When he lost heart he\nremembered a saying of the hermit: \"Patience had far to go, but she\nwas crowned at last.\" And after a while the prince became as gentle as\nhe had before been violent. And the king and all the court rejoiced\nat the change; but the prince remained sad at heart, thinking of the\nprincess.\n\nOne day he was sitting alone, when a man approached him, dressed in a\nlong black robe.\n\n\"Good-day, godson,\" said he.\n\n\"Who calls me godson?\" said the prince.\n\n\"The magician you have so long sought,\" said the godfather. \"I have\ncome to reclaim my gift.\"\n\n\"What cruelty led you to bestow it upon me?\" asked the prince.\n\n\"The king, your father, would have been dissatisfied with any ordinary\npresent from me,\" said the magician, \"forgetting that the\nresponsibilities of common gifts, and very limited power, are more\nthan enough for most men to deal with. But I have not neglected you. I\nwas the wise woman who brought you up. Again, I was the hermit, as\nyour dog was sage enough to discover. I am come now to reclaim what\nhas caused you such suffering.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" cried the prince, \"why is your kindness so tardy? If you have\nnot forgotten me, why have you withheld this benefit till it is too\nlate for my happiness? My friend is dumb, my wife is dead, my dog is\nhanged. When wishes cannot reach these, do you think it matters to me\nwhat I may command?\"\n\n\"Softly, prince,\" said the magician; \"I had a reason for the delay.\nBut for these bitter lessons you would still be the slave of the\nviolent temper which you have conquered, and which, as it was no gift\nof mine, I could not remove. Moreover, when the spell which made all\nthings bend to your wish is taken away, its effects also are undone.\nGodson! I recall my gift.\"\n\nAs the magician spoke the glass sides of the coffin melted into the\nair, and the princess sprang up, and threw herself into her husband's\narms. The dog also rose, stretched himself, and wagged his tail. The\ndumb nobleman ran to tell the good news to the king, and all the\ncounsellors came back in a long train from the bottom of the sea, and\nset about the affairs of state as if nothing had happened.\n\nThe old king welcomed his children with open arms, and they all lived\nhappily to the end of their days.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WIDOWS AND THE STRANGERS.\n\n\nIn days of yore, there were once two poor old widows who lived in the\nsame hamlet and under the same roof. But though the cottages joined\nand one roof covered them, they had each a separate dwelling; and\nalthough they were alike in age and circumstances, yet in other\nrespects they were very different. For one dame was covetous, though\nshe had little to save, and the other was liberal, though she had\nlittle to give.\n\nNow, on the rising ground opposite to the widows' cottages, stood a\nmonastery where a few pious and charitable brethren spent their time\nin prayer, labour, and good works. And with the alms of these monks,\nand the kindness of neighbours, and because their wants were few, the\nold women dwelt in comfort, and had daily bread, and lay warm at\nnight.\n\nOne evening, when the covetous old widow was having supper, there came\na knock at her door. Before she opened it she hastily put away the\nremains of her meal.\n\n\"For,\" said she, \"it is a stormy night, and ten to one some belated\nvagabond wants shelter; and when there are victuals on the table every\nfool must be asked to sup.\"\n\nBut when she opened the door, a monk came in who had his cowl pulled\nover his head to shelter him from the storm. The widow was much\ndisconcerted at having kept one of the brotherhood waiting, and loudly\napologized, but the monk stopped her, saying, \"I fear I cut short your\nevening meal, my daughter.\"\n\n\"Now in the name of ill-luck, how came he to guess that?\" thought the\nwidow, as with anxious civility she pressed the monk to take some\nsupper after his walk; for the good woman always felt hospitably\ninclined towards any one who was likely to return her kindness\nsevenfold.\n\nThe brother, however, refused to sup; and as he seated himself the\nwidow looked sharply through her spectacles to see if she could gather\nfrom any distention of the folds of his frock whether a loaf, a bottle\nof cordial, or a new winter's cloak were most likely to crown the\nvisit. No undue protuberance being visible about the monk's person,\nshe turned her eyes to his face, and found that her visitor was one of\nthe brotherhood whom she had not seen before. And not only was his\nface unfamiliar, it was utterly unlike the kindly but rough\ncountenances of her charitable patrons. None that she had ever seen\nboasted the noble beauty, the chiselled and refined features of the\nmonk before her. And she could not but notice that, although only one\nrushlight illumined her room, and though the monk's cowl went far to\nshade him even from that, yet his face was lit up as if by light from\nwithin, so that his clear skin seemed almost transparent. In short,\nher curiosity must have been greatly stirred, had not greed made her\nmore anxious to learn what he had brought than who he was.\n\n\"It's a terrible night,\" quoth the monk, at length. \"Such tempest\nwithout only gives point to the indoor comforts of the wealthy; but it\nchills the very marrow of the poor and destitute.\"\n\n\"Aye, indeed,\" sniffed the widow, with a shiver. \"If it were not for\nthe charity of good Christians, what would poor folk do for comfort on\nsuch an evening as this?\"\n\n\"It was that very thought, my daughter,\" said the monk, with a sudden\nearnestness on his shining face, \"that brought me forth even now\nthrough the storm to your cottage.\"\n\n\"Heaven reward you!\" cried the widow, fervently.\n\n\"Heaven does reward the charitable!\" replied the monk. \"To no truth do\nthe Scriptures bear such constant and unbroken witness; even as it is\nwritten: 'He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and\nlook, what he layeth out it shall be paid him again.'\"\n\n\"What a blessed thing it must be to be able to do good!\" sighed the\nwidow, piously wishing in her heart that the holy man would not delay\nto earn his recompense.\n\n\"My daughter,\" said the monk, \"that blessing is not withheld from you.\nIt is to ask your help for those in greater need than yourself that I\nam come to-night.\" And forthwith the good brother began to tell how\ntwo strangers had sought shelter at the monastery. Their house had\nbeen struck by lightning, and burnt with all it contained; and they\nthemselves, aged, poor, and friendless, were exposed to the fury of\nthe storm. \"Our house is a poor one,\" continued the monk. \"The\nstrangers' lodging room was already full, and we are quite without the\nmeans of making these poor souls comfortable. You at least have a\nsound roof over your head, and if you can spare one or two things for\nthe night, they shall be restored to you to-morrow, when some of our\nguests depart.\"\n\nThe widow could hardly conceal her vexation and disappointment. \"Now,\ndear heart, holy father!\" cried she, \"is there not a rich body in the\nplace, that you come for charity to a poor old widow like me, that am\nin a case rather to borrow myself than to lend to others?\"\n\n\"Can you spare us a blanket?\" said the monk. \"These poor strangers\nhave been out in the storm, remember.\"\n\nThe widow started. \"What meddling busybody told him that the Baroness\ngave me a new blanket at Michaelmas?\" thought she; but at last, very\nunwillingly, she went to an inner room to fetch a blanket from her\nbed.\n\n\"They shan't have the new one, that's flat,\" muttered the widow; and\nshe drew out the old one and began to fold it up. But though she had\nmade much of its thinness and insufficiency to the Baroness, she was\nso powerfully affected at parting with it, that all its good qualities\ncame strongly to her mind.\n\n\"It's a very suitable size,\" she said to herself, \"and easy for my\npoor old arms to shake or fold. With careful usage, it would last for\nyears yet; but who knows how two wandering bodies that have been\ntramping miles through the storm may kick about in their sleep? And\nwho knows if they're decent folk at all? likely enough they're two\nhedge birds, who have imposed a pitiful tale on the good fathers, and\nnever slept under anything finer than a shock of straw in their\nlives.\"\n\nThe more the good woman thought of this, the more sure she felt that\nsuch was the case, and the less willing she became to lend her blanket\nto \"a couple of good-for-nothing tramps.\" A sudden idea decided her.\n\"Ten to one they bring fever with them!\" she cried; \"and dear knows I\nsaw enough good bedding burnt after the black fever, three years ago!\nIt would be a sin and a shame to burn a good blanket like this.\" And\nrepeating \"a sin and a shame\" with great force, the widow restored the\nblanket to its place.\n\n\"The coverlet's not worth much,\" she thought; \"but my goodman bought\nit the year after we were married, and if anything happened to it I\nshould never forgive myself. The old shawl is good enough for tramps.\"\nSaying which she took a ragged old shawl from a peg, and began to fold\nit up. But even as she brushed and folded, she begrudged the faded\nrag.\n\n\"It saves my better one on a bad day,\" she sighed; \"but I suppose the\nfather must have something.\"\n\nAnd accordingly she took it to the monk, saying, \"It's not so good as\nit has been, but there's warmth in it yet, and it cost a pretty penny\nwhen new.\"\n\n\"And is this all that you can spare to the poor houseless strangers?\"\nasked the monk.\n\n\"Aye, indeed, good father,\" said she, \"and that will cost me many a\ntwinge of rheumatics. Folk at my age can't lie cold at night for\nnothing.\"\n\n\"These poor strangers,\" said the monk, \"are as aged as yourself, and\nhave lost everything.\"\n\nBut as all he said had no effect in moving the widow's compassion, he\ndeparted, and knocked at the door of her neighbour. Here he told the\nsame tale, which met with a very different hearing. This widow was one\nof those liberal souls whose possessions always make them feel uneasy\nunless they are being accepted, or used, or borrowed by some one else.\nShe blessed herself that, thanks to the Baroness, she had a new\nblanket fit to lend to the king himself, and only desired to know with\nwhat else she could serve the poor strangers and requite the charities\nof the brotherhood.\n\nThe monk confessed that all the slender stock of household goods in\nthe monastery was in use, and one after another he accepted the loan\nof almost everything the widow had. As she gave the things he put them\nout through the door, saying that he had a messenger outside; and\nhaving promised that all should be duly restored on the morrow, he\ndeparted, leaving the widow with little else than an old chair in\nwhich she was to pass the night.\n\nWhen the monk had gone, the storm raged with greater fury than before,\nand at last one terrible flash of lightning struck the widows' house,\nand though it did not hurt the old women, it set fire to the roof,\nand both cottages were soon ablaze. Now as the terrified old creatures\nhobbled out into the storm, they met the monk, who, crying, \"Come to\nthe monastery!\" seized an arm of each, and hurried them up the hill.\nTo such good purpose did he help them, that they seemed to fly, and\narrived at the convent gate they hardly knew how.\n\nUnder a shed by the wall were the goods and chattels of the liberal\nwidow.\n\n\"Take back thine own, daughter,\" said the monk; \"thy charity hath\nbrought its own reward.\"\n\n\"But the strangers, good father?\" said the perplexed widow.\n\n\"Ye are the strangers,\" answered the monk; \"and what thy pity thought\nmeet to be spared for the unfortunate, Heaven in thy misfortune hath\nspared to thee.\"\n\nThen turning to the other widow, he drew the old shawl from beneath\nhis frock, and gave it to her, saying, \"I give you joy, dame, that\nthis hath escaped the flames. It is not so good as it has been; but\nthere is warmth in it yet, and it cost a pretty penny when new.\"\n\nFull of confusion, the illiberal widow took back her shawl, murmuring,\n\"Lack-a-day! If I had but known it was ourselves the good father\nmeant!\"\n\nThe monk gave a shrewd smile.\n\n\"Aye, aye, it would have been different, I doubt not,\" said he; \"but\naccept the lesson, my daughter, and when next thou art called upon to\nhelp the unfortunate, think that it is thine own needs that would be\nserved; and it may be thou shalt judge better as to what thou canst\nspare.\"\n\nAs he spoke, a flash of lightning lit up the ground where the monk\nstood, making a vast aureole about him in the darkness of the night.\nIn the bright light, his countenance appeared stern and awful in its\nbeauty, and when the flash was passed, the monk had vanished also.\n\nFurthermore, when the widows sought shelter in the monastery, they\nfound that the brotherhood knew nothing of their strange visitor.\n\n\n\n\nKIND WILLIAM AND THE WATER SPRITE.\n\n\nThere once lived a poor weaver, whose wife died a few years after\ntheir marriage. He was now alone in the world except for their child,\nwho was a very quick and industrious little lad, and, moreover, of\nsuch an obliging disposition that he gained the nickname of Kind\nWilliam.\n\nOn his seventh birthday his father gave him a little net with a long\nhandle, and with this Kind William betook himself to a shallow part of\nthe river to fish. After wandering on for some time, he found a quiet\npool dammed in by stones, and here he dipped for the minnows that\ndarted about in the clear brown water. At the first and second casts\nhe caught nothing, but with the third he landed no less than\ntwenty-one little fishes, and such minnows he had never seen, for as\nthey leaped and struggled in the net they shone with alternate tints\nof green and gold.\n\nHe was gazing at them with wonder and delight, when a voice behind\nhim cried, in piteous tones--\n\n\"Oh, my little sisters! Oh, my little sisters!\"\n\nKind William turned round, and saw, sitting on a rock that stood out\nof the stream, a young girl weeping bitterly. She had a very pretty\nface, and abundant yellow hair of marvellous length, and of such\nuncommon brightness that even in the shade it shone like gold. She was\ndressed in grass green, and from her knees downwards she was hidden by\nthe clumps of fern and rushes that grew by the stream.\n\n\"What ails you, my little lass?\" said Kind William.\n\nBut the maid only wept more bitterly, and wringing her hands,\nrepeated, \"Oh, my little sisters! Oh, my little sisters!\" presently\nadding in the same tone, \"The little fishes! Oh, the little fishes!\"\n\n\"Dry your eyes, and I will give you half of them,\" said the\ngood-natured child; \"and if you have no net you shall fish with me\nthis afternoon.\"\n\nBut at this proposal the maid's sobs redoubled, and she prayed and\nbegged with frantic eagerness that he would throw the fish back into\nthe river. For some time Kind William would not consent to throw away\nhis prize, but at last he yielded to her excessive grief, and emptied\nthe net into the pool, where the glittering fishes were soon lost to\nsight under the sand and pebbles.\n\nThe girl now laughed and clapped her hands.\n\n\"This good deed you shall never rue, Kind William,\" said she, \"and\neven now it shall repay you threefold. How many fish did you catch?\"\n\n\"Twenty-one,\" said Kind William, not without regret in his tone.\n\nThe maid at once began to pull hairs out of her head, and did not stop\ntill she had counted sixty-three, and laid them together in her\nfingers. She then began to wind the lock up into a curl, and it took\nfar longer to wind than the sixty-three hairs had taken to pull. How\nlong her hair really was Kind William never could tell, for after it\nreached her knees he lost sight of it among the fern; but he began to\nsuspect that she was no true village maid, but a water sprite, and he\nheartily wished himself safe at home.\n\n\"Now,\" said she, when the lock was wound, \"will you promise me three\nthings?\"\n\n\"If I can do so without sin,\" said Kind William.\n\n\"First,\" she continued, holding out the lock of hair, \"will you keep\nthis carefully, and never give it away? It will be for your own good.\"\n\n\"One never gives away gifts,\" said Kind William, \"I promise that.\"\n\n\"The second thing is to spare what you have spared. Fish up the river\nand down the river at your will, but swear never to cast net in this\npool again.\"\n\n\"One should not do kindness by halves,\" said Kind William. \"I promise\nthat also.\"\n\n\"Thirdly, you must never tell what you have now seen and heard till\nthrice seven years have passed. And now come hither, my child, and\ngive me your little finger, that I may see if you can keep a secret.\"\n\nBut by this time Kind William's hairs were standing on end, and he\ngave the last promise more from fear than from any other motive, and\nseized his net to go.\n\n\"No hurry, no hurry,\" said the maiden (and the words sounded like the\nrippling of a brook over pebbles). Then bending towards him, with a\nstrange smile, she added, \"You are afraid that I shall pinch too hard,\nmy pretty boy. Well, give me a farewell kiss before you go.\"\n\n\"I kiss none but the miller's lass,\" said Kind William, sturdily; for\nshe was his little sweetheart. Besides, he was afraid that the water\nwitch would enchant him and draw him down. At his answer she laughed\ntill the echoes rang, but Kind William shuddered to hear that the\nechoes seemed to come from the river instead of from the hills; and\nthey rang in his ears like a distant torrent leaping over rocks.\n\n\"Then listen to my song,\" said the water sprite. With which she drew\nsome of her golden hairs over her arm, and tuning them as if they had\nbeen the strings of a harp, she began to sing:\n\n    \"Warp of woollen and woof of gold:\n    When seven and seven and seven are told.\"\n\nBut when Kind William heard that the river was running with the\ncadence of the tune, he could bear it no longer, and took to his\nheels. When he had run a few yards he heard a splash, as if a salmon\nhad jumped, and on looking back he found that the yellow-haired maiden\nwas gone.\n\nKind William was trustworthy as well as obliging, and he kept his\nword. He said nothing of his adventure. He put the yellow lock into an\nold china teapot that had stood untouched on the mantelpiece for\nyears. And fishing up the river and down the river he never again cast\nnet into the haunted pool. And in course of time the whole affair\npassed from his mind.\n\nFourteen years went by, and Kind William was Kind William still. He\nwas as obliging as ever, and still loved the miller's daughter, who,\nfor her part, had not forgotten her old playmate. But the miller's\nmemory was not so good, for the fourteen years had been prosperous\nones with him, and he was rich, whereas they had only brought bad\ntrade and poverty to the weaver and his son. So the lovers were not\nallowed even to speak to each other.\n\nOne evening Kind William wandered by the river-side lamenting his hard\nfate. It was his twenty-first birthday, and he might not even receive\nthe good wishes of the day from his old playmate. It was just growing\ndusk, a time when prudent bodies hurry home from the neighbourhood of\nfairy rings, sprite-haunted streams, and the like, and Kind William\nwas beginning to quicken his pace, when a voice from behind him sang:\n\n    \"Warp of woollen and woof of gold:\n    When seven and seven and seven are told.\"\n\nKind William felt sure that he had heard this before, though he could\nnot recall when or where; but suspecting that it was no mortal voice\nthat sang, he hurried home without looking behind him. Before he\nreached the house he remembered all, and also that on this very day\nhis promise of secrecy expired.\n\nMeanwhile the old weaver had been sadly preparing the loom to weave a\nsmall stock of yarn, which he had received in payment for some work.\nHe had set up the warp, and was about to fill the shuttle, when his\nson came in and told the story, and repeated the water sprite's song.\n\n\"Where is the lock of hair, my son?\" asked the old man.\n\n\"In the teapot still, if you have not touched it,\" said Kind William;\n\"but the dust of fourteen years must have destroyed all gloss and\ncolour.\"\n\nOn searching the teapot, however, the lock of hair was found to be as\nbright as ever, and it lay in the weaver's hand like a coil of gold.\n\n\"It is the song that puzzles me,\" said Kind William. \"Seven, and\nseven, and seven make twenty-one. Now that is just my age.\"\n\n\"There is your warp of woollen, if that is anything,\" added the\nweaver, gazing at the loom with a melancholy air.\n\n\"And this is golden enough,\" laughed Kind William, pointing to the\ncurl. \"Come, father, let us see how far one hair will go on the\nshuttle.\" And suiting the action to the word, he began to wind. He\nwound the shuttle full, and then sat down to the loom and began to\nthrow.\n\nThe result was a fabric of such beauty that the Weavers shouted with\namazement, and one single hair served for the woof of the whole piece.\n\nBefore long there was not a town dame or a fine country lady but must\nneeds have a dress of the new stuff, and before the sixty-three hairs\nwere used up, the fortunes of the weaver and his son were made.\n\nAbout this time the miller's memory became clearer, and he was often\nheard to speak of an old boy-and-girl love between his dear daughter\nand the wealthy manufacturer of the golden cloth. Within a year and a\nday Kind William married his sweetheart, and as money sticks to money,\nin the end he added the old miller's riches to his own.\n\nMoreover there is every reason to believe that he and his wife lived\nhappily to the end of their days.\n\nAnd what became of the water sprite?\n\nThat you must ask somebody else, for I do not know.\n\n\n\n\nMURDOCH'S RATH[8].\n\n[Footnote 8: _Rath_ = a kind of moat-surrounded spot much favoured by\nIrish fairies. The ditch is generally overgrown with furze-bushes.]\n\n\nThere was not a nicer boy in all Ireland than Pat, and clever at his\ntrade too, if only he'd had one.\n\nBut from his cradle he learned nothing (small blame to him with no one\nto teach him!), so when he came to years of discretion, he earned his\nliving by running messages for his neighbours; and Pat could always be\ntrusted to make the best of a bad bargain, and bring back all the\nchange, for he was the soul of honesty and good-nature.\n\nIt's no wonder then that he was beloved by every one, and got as much\nwork as he could do, and if the pay had but fitted the work, he'd have\nbeen mighty comfortable; but as it was, what he got wouldn't have kept\nhim in shoe-leather, but for making both ends meet by wearing his\nshoes in his pocket, except when he was in the town, and obliged to\nlook genteel for the credit of the place he came from.\n\nWell, all was going on as peaceable as could be, till one market-day,\nwhen business (or it may have been pleasure) detained him till the\nheel of the evening, and by nightfall, when he began to make the road\nshort in good earnest, he was so flustered, rehearsing his messages to\nmake sure he'd forgotten nothing, that he never bethought him to leave\noff his brogues, but tramped on just as if shoe-leather were made to\nbe knocked to bits on the king's highway.\n\nAnd this was what he was after saying:\n\n\"A dozen hanks of grey yarn for Mistress Murphy.\"\n\n\"Three gross of bright buttons for the tailor.\"\n\n\"Half an ounce of throat drops for Father Andrew, and an ounce of\nsnuff for his housekeeper,\" and so on.\n\nFor these were what he went to the town to fetch, and he was afraid\nlest one of the lot might have slipped his memory.\n\nNow everybody knows there are two ways home from the town; and that's\nnot meaning the right way and the wrong way, which my grandmother\n(rest her soul!) said there was to every place but one that it's not\ngenteel to name. (There could only be a wrong way _there_, she said.)\nThe two ways home from the town were the highway, and the way by\nMurdoch's Rath.\n\nMurdoch's Rath was a pleasant enough spot in the daytime, but not\nmany persons cared to go by it when the sun was down. And in all the\nyears Pat was going backwards and forwards, he never once came home\nexcept by the high-road till this unlucky evening, when, just at the\nplace where the two roads part, he got, as one may say, into a sort of\nconfusion.\n\n\"Halt!\" says he to himself (for his own uncle had been a soldier, and\nPat knew the word of command). \"The left-hand turn is the right one,\"\nsays he, and he was going down the high-road as straight as he could\ngo, when suddenly he bethought himself. \"And what am I doing?\" he\nsays. \"This was my left hand going to town, and how in the name of\nfortune could it be my left going back, considering that I've turned\nround? It's well that I looked into it in time.\" And with that he went\noff as fast down the other road as he started down this.\n\nBut how far he walked he never could tell, before all of a sudden the\nmoon shone out as bright as day, and Pat found himself in Murdoch's\nRath.\n\nAnd this was the smallest part of the wonder; for the Rath was full of\nfairies.\n\nWhen Pat got in they were dancing round and round till his feet\ntingled to look at them, being a good dancer himself. And as he sat on\nthe side of the Rath, and snapped his fingers to mark the time, the\ndancing stopped, and a little man comes up, in a black hat and a green\ncoat, with white stockings, and red shoes on his feet.\n\n\"Won't you take a turn with us, Pat?\" says he, bowing till he nearly\ntouched the ground. And, indeed, he had not far to go, for he was\nbarely two feet high.\n\n\"Don't say it twice, sir,\" says Pat. \"It's myself will be proud to\nfoot the floor wid ye;\" and before you could look round, there was Pat\nin the circle dancing away for bare life.\n\nAt first his feet felt like feathers for lightness, and it seemed as\nif he could have gone on for ever. But at last he grew tired, and\nwould have liked to stop, but the fairies would not, and so they\ndanced on and on. Pat tried to think of something _good_ to say, that\nhe might free himself from the spell, but all he could think of was:\n\n\"A dozen hanks of grey yarn for Missis Murphy.\"\n\n\"Three gross of bright buttons for the tailor.\"\n\n\"Half an ounce of throat drops for Father Andrew, and an ounce of\nsnuff for his housekeeper,\" and so on.\n\nAnd it seemed to Pat that the moon was on the one side of the Rath\nwhen they began to dance, and on the other side when they left off;\nbut he could not be sure after all that going round. One thing was\nplain enough. He danced every bit of leather off the soles of his\nfeet, and they were blistered so that he could hardly stand; but all\nthe little folk did was to stand and hold their sides with laughing at\nhim.\n\nAt last the one who spoke before stepped up to him, and--\"Don't break\nyour heart about it, Pat,\" says he; \"I'll lend you my own shoes till\nthe morning, for you seem to be a good-natured sort of a boy.\"\n\nWell, Pat looked at the fairy man's shoes, that were the size of a\nbaby's, and he looked at his own feet; but not wishing to be uncivil,\n\"Thank ye kindly, sir,\" says he. \"And if your honour 'll be good\nenough to put them on for me, maybe you won't spoil the shape.\" For he\nthought to himself, \"Small blame to me if the little gentleman can't\nget them to fit.\"\n\nWith that he sat down on the side of the Rath, and the fairy man put\non the shoes for him, and no sooner did they touch Pat's feet, than\nthey became altogether a convenient size, and fitted him like wax.\nAnd, more than that, when he stood up, he didn't feel his blisters at\nall.\n\n\"Bring 'em back to the Rath at sunrise, Pat, my boy,\" says the little\nman.\n\nAnd as Pat was climbing over the ditch, \"Look round, Pat,\" says he.\nAnd when Pat looked round, there were jewels and pearls lying at the\nroots of the furze-bushes on the ditch, as thick as peas.\n\n\"Will you help yourself, or take what's given ye, Pat?\" says the fairy\nman.\n\n\"Did I ever learn manners?\" says Pat. \"Would you have me help myself\nbefore company? I'll take what your honour pleases to give me, and be\nthankful.\"\n\nThe fairy man picked a lot of yellow furze-blossoms from the bushes,\nand filled Pat's pockets.\n\n\"Keep 'em for love, Pat, me darlin',\" says he.\n\nPat would have liked some of the jewels, but he put the furze-blossoms\nby for love.\n\n\"Good-evening to your honour,\" says he.\n\n\"And where are you going, Pat, dear?\" says the fairy man.\n\n\"I'm going home,\" says Pat. And if the fairy man didn't know where\nthat was, small blame to him.\n\n\"Just let me dust them shoes for ye, Pat,\" says the fairy man. And as\nPat lifted up each foot he breathed on it, and dusted it with the tail\nof his green coat.\n\n\"Home!\" says he, and when he let go, Pat was at his own doorstep\nbefore he could look round, and his parcels safe and sound with him.\n\nNext morning he was up with the sun, and carried the fairy man's\nshoes back to the Rath. As he came up, the little man looked over the\nditch.\n\n\"The top of the morning to, your honour,\" says Pat; \"here's your\nshoes.\"\n\n\"You're an honest boy, Pat,\" says the little gentleman. \"It's\ninconvenienced I am without them, for. I have but the one pair. Have\nyou looked at the yellow flowers this morning?\" he says.\n\n\"I have not, sir,\" says Pat; \"I'd be loth to deceive you. I came off\nas soon as I was up.\"\n\n\"Be sure to look when you get back, Pat,\" says the fairy man, \"and\ngood luck to ye.\"\n\nWith which he disappeared, and Pat went home. He looked for the\nfurze-blossoms, as the fairy man told him, and there's not a word of\ntruth in this tale if they weren't all pure gold pieces.\n\nWell, now Pat was so rich, he went to the shoemaker to order another\npair of brogues, and being a kindly, gossiping boy, the shoemaker soon\nlearned the whole story of the fairy man and the Rath. And this so\nstirred up the shoemaker's greed that he resolved to go the very next\nnight himself, to see if he could not dance with the fairies, and have\nlike luck.\n\nHe found his way to the Rath all correct, and sure enough the fairies\nwere dancing, and they asked him to join. He danced the soles off his\nbrogues, as Pat did, and the fairy man lent him his shoes, and sent\nhim home in a twinkling.\n\nAs he was going over the ditch, he looked round, and saw the roots of\nthe furze-bushes glowing with precious stones as if they had been\nglow-worms.\n\n\"Will you help yourself, or take what's given ye?\" said the fairy man.\n\n\"I'll help myself, if you please,\" said the cobbler, for he\nthought--\"If I can't get more than Pat brought home, my fingers must\nall be thumbs.\"\n\nSo he drove his hand into the bushes, and if he didn't get plenty, it\nwasn't for want of grasping.\n\nWhen he got up in the morning, he went straight to the jewels. But not\na stone of the lot was more precious than roadside pebbles. \"I ought\nnot to look till I come from the Rath,\" said he. \"It's best to do like\nPat all through.\"\n\nBut he made up his mind not to return the fairy man's shoes.\n\n\"Who knows the virtue that's in them?\" he said. So he made a small\npair of red leather shoes, as like them as could be, and he blacked\nthe others upon his feet, that the fairies might not know them, and at\nsunrise he went to the Rath.\n\nThe fairy man was looking over the ditch as before.\n\n\"Good-morning to you,\" said he.\n\n\"The top of the morning to you, sir,\" said the cobbler; \"here's your\nshoes.\" And he handed him the pair that he had made, with a face as\ngrave as a judge.\n\nThe fairy man looked at them, but he said nothing, though he did not\nput them on.\n\n\"Have you looked at the things you got last night?\" says he.\n\n\"I'll not deceive you, sir,\" says the cobbler. \"I came off as soon as\nI was up. Sorra peep I took at them.\"\n\n\"Be sure to look when you get back,\" says the fairy man. And just as\nthe cobbler was getting over the ditch to go home, he says:\n\n\"If my eyes don't deceive me,\" says he, \"there's the least taste in\nlife of dirt on your left shoe. Let me dust it with the tail of my\ncoat.\"\n\n\"That means home in a twinkling,\" thought the cobbler, and he held up\nhis foot.\n\nThe fairy man dusted it, and muttered something the cobbler did not\nhear. Then, \"Sure,\" says he, \"it's the dirty pastures that you've come\nthrough, for the other shoe's as bad.\"\n\nSo the cobbler held up his right foot, and the fairy man rubbed that\nwith the tail of his green coat.\n\nWhen all was done the cobbler's feet seemed to tingle, and then to\nitch, and then to smart, and then to burn. And at last he began to\ndance, and he danced all round the Rath (the fairy man laughing and\nholding his sides), and then round and round again. And he danced till\nhe cried out with weariness, and tried to shake the shoes off. But\nthey stuck fast, and the fairies drove him over, the ditch, and\nthrough the prickly furze-bushes, and he danced away. Where he danced\nto, I cannot tell you. Whether he ever got rid of the fairy shoes, I\ndo not know. The jewels never were more than wayside pebbles, and they\nwere swept out when his cabin was cleaned, which was not too soon, you\nmay be sure.\n\nAll this happened long ago; but there are those who say that the\ncovetous cobbler dances still, between sunset and sunrise, round\nMurdoch's Rath.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE DARNER.\n\n\nIn days gone by there lived a poor widow who had brought up her only\nchild so well that the little lass was more helpful and handy than\nmany a grown-up person.\n\nWhen other women's children were tearing and dirtying their clothes,\nclamouring at their mothers' skirts for this and that, losing and\nbreaking and spoiling things, and getting into mischief of all kinds,\nthe widow's little girl, with her tiny thimble on her finger, could\npatch quite neatly. She was to be trusted to put anything in its\nproper place, and when meals were over she would stand on a little\nstool at the table washing up the dishes. Moreover, she could darn\nstockings so well that the darn looked like a part of the stocking.\nThe slatternly mothers, who spoiled and scolded their children by\nturns, and had never taught them to be tidy and obedient, used often\nto quote the widow's little girl to their troublesome brats, and say,\n\"Why don't you help your mother as the widow's daughter helps her?\"\n\nThus it came about that the helpless, useless, untidy little girls\nhated the very name of the widow's daughter, because they were always\nbeing told of her usefulness and neatness.\n\nNow the widow's child often earned a few pence by herding sheep or\npigs for the farmers, or by darning stockings for their wives, and as\nshe could be trusted, people were very glad to employ her. One day she\nwas keeping watch over five little pigs in a field, and, not to waste\ntime, was darning a pair of stockings as well, when some of the little\ngirls who had a spite against her resolved to play her a trick.\n\nNear the field where the little maid and the pigs were there was a\nwood, into which all children were strictly forbidden to go. For in\nthe depths of the wood there lived a terrible Ogre and Ogress, who\nkidnapped all children who strayed near their dwelling. Every morning\nthe Ogre threw a big black bag over his shoulder, and stalked through\nthe forest, making the ground shake as he walked. If he found any\ntruant children he popped them into his bag, and when he got home his\nwife cooked them for supper.\n\nThe trick played upon the widow's daughter was this. Five little girls\ncame up to the field where she was herding the five little pigs, and\neach chasing a pig, they drove them into the Ogre's wood. In vain the\nlittle maid called to her flock; the pigs ran in a frightened troop\ninto the wood, and she ran after them. When the five little girls saw\nthat she had got them together again, they ran in to chase them away\nonce more, and so they were all in the wood together, when the ground\nshook under them, upsetting the six little girls and the five little\npigs; and as they rolled over the Ogre picked them up, and put them\none after another into his bag.\n\nWhen they were jolting about with the pigs in the poke as the Ogre\nstrode homewards, the five spiteful children were as sorry as you\nplease; and as the pigs were always fighting and struggling to get to\nthe top, they did not escape without some scratches. And their\nscreams, and the squealing of the little pigs made such a noise that\nthe Ogre's wife heard it a mile and a half away in the depths of the\nwood; and she lighted a fire under the copper, and filled it with\nwater, ready to cook whatever her husband brought home.\n\nAs for the widow's little daughter she pulled her needle-book from her\npocket, and every now and then she pushed a needle through the sack,\nthat it might fall on the ground, and serve as a guide if she should\never have the chance of finding her way home again.\n\nWhen the Ogre arrived, he emptied the sack, and sent the six little\ngirls and the five little pigs all sprawling on to the floor, saying:\n\n\"These will last us some time. Cook the fattest, and put the rest\ninto the cellar. And whilst you get dinner ready, I will take another\nstroll with the bag. Luck seldom comes singly.\"\n\nWhen he had gone, the Ogress looked over the children, and picked out\nthe widow's daughter, saying:\n\n\"You look the most good-humoured. And the best-tempered always make\nthe best eating.\"\n\nSo she set her down on a stool by the fire till the water should boil,\nand locked the others up in the cellar.\n\n\"Tears won't put the fire out,\" thought the little maid. So instead of\ncrying she pulled out the old stocking, and went on with her darning.\nWhen the Ogress came back from the cellar she went up to her and\nlooked at her work.\n\n\"How you darn!\" she cried. \"Now that's a sort of thing I hate. And the\nOgre does wear such big holes in his stockings, and his feet are so\nlarge, that, though my hand is not a small one, I cannot fill out the\nheel with my fist, and then who's to darn it neatly I should like to\nknow?\"\n\n\"If I had a basin big enough to fill out the heel, I think I could do\nit,\" said the little maid.\n\nThe Ogress scratched her big ear thoughtfully for a minute, and then\nshe said:\n\n\"To lose a chance is to cheat oneself. Why shouldn't this one darn\nwhile the others boil? Yes, I think you shall try. Six days ought to\nserve for mending all the stockings, though the Ogre hasn't a whole\npair left, and angry enough he'll be. And when household matters are\nnot to his mind he puts that big sack over my head, and ties it round\nmy neck. And if you had ever done housework with your head in a poke,\nyou'd know what it is! So you shall darn the stockings, and if you do\nthem well, I'll cook one of the others first instead of you.\"\n\nSaying which, the Ogress fetched one of the Ogre's stockings, and the\nwidow's child put a big basin into the heel to stretch it, and began\nto darn. The Ogress watched her till she had put all the threads one\nway, and when she began to run the cross threads, interlacing them\nwith the utmost exactness, the old creature was delighted, and went to\nfetch another child to be cooked instead of the widow's.\n\nWhen the other little girl came up, she cried and screamed so that the\nroom rang with her lamentations, and the widow's child laid down her\nneedle and ceased working.\n\n\"Why don't you go on darning?\" asked the Ogress.\n\n\"Alas! dear mother,\" said she, \"the little sister's cries make my\nheart beat so that I cannot darn evenly.\"\n\n\"Then she must go back to the cellar for a bit,\" said the Ogress.\n\"And meanwhile I'll sharpen the knife.\"\n\nSo after she had taken back the crying child, and had watched the\nlittle girl, who now darned away as skilfully as ever, the Ogress took\ndown a huge knife from the wall, and began to sharpen it on a\ngrindstone in a corner of the kitchen. As she sharpened the knife, she\nglanced from time to time at the little maid, and soon perceived that\nshe had once more ceased working.\n\n\"Why don't you go on darning?\" asked the Ogress.\n\n\"Alas! dear mother,\" said the child, \"when I hear you sharpening that\nterrible knife my hands tremble so that I cannot thread my needle.\"\n\n\"Well, it will do now,\" growled the Ogress, feeling the edge of the\nblade with her horny finger; and, having seen the darning-needle once\nmore at work, she went to fetch up one of the children. As she went,\nshe hummed what cookmaids sing--\n\n    \"Dilly, dilly duckling, come and be killed!\"\n\nBut it sounded like the wheezing and groaning of a heavy old door upon\nits rusty hinges.\n\nWhen she came in, with the child in one hand, and the huge knife in\nthe other, she went up to the little darner to look at her work. The\nheel of the Ogre's stocking was exquisitely mended, all but seven\nthreads; but the little maid sat idle with her hands before her.\n\n\"Why don't you go on darning?\" asked the Ogress.\n\n\"Alas! dear mother,\" was the reply, \"when I think of my little\nplaymate about to die, the tears blind my eyes, so that I cannot see\nwhat stitches I take. Wherefore I beg of you, dear mother, to cook one\nof the little pigs instead, that I may be able to go on with my work,\nand that a pair of stockings may be ready to-morrow morning when the\nOgre will ask for them; so my playmate's life will be spared, and your\nhead will not be put into a poke.\"\n\nAt first the Ogress would not hear of such a thing, but at last she\nconsented, and made a stew of one of the little pigs instead of\ncooking the little girl.\n\n\"But supposing the Ogre goes to count the children,\" said she; \"he\nwill find one too many.\"\n\n\"Then let her go, dear mother,\" said the widow's daughter; \"she will\nfind her way home, and you will never be blamed.\"\n\n\"But she must stir the stew with her forefinger first,\" said the\nOgress, \"that it may have a human flavour.\"\n\nSo the little girl had to stir the hot stew with her finger, which\nscalded it badly; and then she was set at liberty, and ran home as\nhard as she could; and as the little maid's needles sparkled here and\nthere on the path, she had no difficulty in finding her way.\n\nThe Ogre was quite contented with his dinner, and the Ogress got great\npraise for the way in which she had darned his stockings. Thus it went\non for four days more. As the widow's little girl wouldn't work if her\ncompanions were killed, the Ogress cooked the pigs one after another,\nand the children were all sent away with burnt forefingers.\n\nWhen the fifth had been dismissed, and all the pigs were eaten, the\nOgress said:\n\n\"To-morrow you will have to be stewed, and now I wish I had kept one\nof the others that I might have saved you altogether to work for me.\nHowever, there is one comfort, the stockings are finished.\"\n\nBut meanwhile the other children had got safely home, and had told\ntheir tale. And all the men of the place set off at once to attack the\nOgre, and release the widow's child. Guided by the needles, they\narrived just as the Ogress was sharpening the big knife for the last\ntime.\n\nSo they killed the Ogre and his wife, and took the industrious little\nmaid back to her mother.\n\nThe other little girls were now very repentant; and when their\nfingers were well, they all learned to darn stockings at once.\n\nAnd as there was now no danger about going into the wood, it was no\nlonger forbidden. And this being the case, the children were much less\nanxious to play there than formerly.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIDDLER IN THE FAIRY RING.\n\n\nGenerations ago, there once lived a farmer's son, who had no great\nharm in him, and no great good either. He always meant well, but he\nhad a poor spirit, and was too fond of idle company.\n\nOne day his father sent him to market with some sheep for sale, and\nwhen business was over for the day, the rest of the country-folk made\nready to go home, and more than one of them offered the lad a lift in\nhis cart.\n\n\"Thank you kindly, all the same,\" said he, \"but I am going back across\nthe downs with Limping Tim.\"\n\nThen out spoke a steady old farmer and bade the lad go home with the\nrest, and by the main road. For Limping Tim was an idle, graceless\nkind of fellow, who fiddled for his livelihood, but what else he did\nto earn the money he squandered, no one knew. And as to the sheep path\nover the downs, it stands to reason that the highway is better\ntravelling after sunset, for the other is no such very short cut; and\nhas a big fairy ring so near it, that a butter-woman might brush it\nwith the edge of her market cloak, as she turned the brow of the hill.\n\nBut the farmer's son would go his own way, and that was with Limping\nTim, and across the downs.\n\nSo they started, and the fiddler had his fiddle in his hand, and a\nbundle of marketings under his arm, and he sang snatches of strange\nsongs, the like of which the lad had never heard before. And the moon\ndrew out their shadows over the short grass till they were as long as\nthe great stones of Stonehenge.\n\nAt last they turned the hill, and the fairy ring looked dark under the\nmoon, and the farmer's son blessed himself that they were passing it\nquietly, when Limping Tim suddenly pulled his cloak from his back, and\nhanding it to his companion, cried, \"Hold this for a moment, will you?\nI'm wanted. They're calling for me.\"\n\n\"I hear nothing,\" said the farmer's son. But before he had got the\nwords out of his mouth, the fiddler had completely disappeared. He\nshouted aloud, but in vain, and had begun to think of proceeding on\nhis way, when the fiddler's voice cried, \"Catch!\" and there came,\nflying at him from the direction of the fairy ring, the bundle of\nmarketings which the fiddler had been carrying.\n\n\"It's in my way,\" he then heard the fiddler cry. \"Ah, this is dancing!\nCome in, my lad, come in!\"\n\nBut the farmer's son was not totally without prudence, and he took\ngood care to keep at a safe distance from the fairy ring.\n\n\"Come back, Tim! Come back!\" he shouted, and, receiving no answer, he\nadjured his friend to break the bonds that withheld him, and return to\nthe right way, as wisely as one man can counsel another.\n\nAfter talking for some time to no purpose, he again heard his friend's\nvoice, crying, \"Take care of it for me! The money dances out of my\npocket.\" And therewith the fiddler's purse was hurled to his feet,\nwhere it fell with a heavy chinking of gold within.\n\nHe picked it up, and renewed his warnings and entreaties, but in vain;\nand, after waiting for a long time, he made the best of his way home\nalone, hoping that the fiddler would follow, and come to reclaim his\nproperty.\n\nThe fiddler never came. And when at last there was a fuss about his\ndisappearance, the farmer's son, who had but a poor spirit, began to\nbe afraid to tell the truth of the matter. \"Who knows but they may\naccuse me of theft?\" said he. So he hid the cloak, and the bundle,\nand the money-bag in the garden.\n\nBut when three months passed, and still the fiddler did not return, it\nwas whispered that the farmer's son had been his last companion; and\nthe place was searched, and they found the cloak, and the bundle, and\nthe money-bag and the lad was taken to prison.\n\nNow, when it was too late, he plucked up a spirit, and told the truth;\nbut no one believed him, and it was said that he had murdered the\nfiddler for the sake of his money and goods. And he was taken before\nthe judge, found guilty, and sentenced to death.\n\nFortunately, his old mother was a Wise Woman. And when she heard that\nhe was condemned, she said, \"Only follow my directions, and we may\nsave you yet; for I guess how it is.\"\n\nSo she went to the judge, and begged for her son three favours before\nhis death.\n\n\"I will grant them,\" said the judge, \"if you do not ask for his life.\"\n\n\"The first,\" said the old woman, \"is, that he may choose the place\nwhere the gallows shall be erected; the second, that he may fix the\nhour of his execution; and the third favour is, that you will not fail\nto be present.\"\n\n\"I grant all three,\" said the judge. But when he learned that the\ncriminal had chosen a certain hill on the downs for the place of\nexecution, and an hour before midnight for the time, he sent to beg\nthe sheriff to bear him company on this important occasion.\n\nThe sheriff placed himself at the judge's disposal, but he commanded\nthe attendance of the gaoler as some sort of protection; and the\ngaoler, for his part, implored his reverence the chaplain to be of the\nparty, as the hill was not in good spiritual repute. So, when the time\ncame, the four started together, and the hangman and the farmer's son\nwent before them to the foot of the gallows.\n\nJust as the rope was being prepared, the farmer'a son called to the\njudge, and said, \"If your Honour will walk twenty paces down the hill,\nto where you will see a bit of paper, you will learn the fate of the\nfiddler.\"\n\n\"That is, no doubt, a copy of the poor man's last confession,\" thought\nthe judge.\n\n\"Murder will out, Mr. Sheriff,\" said he; and in the interests of truth\nand justice he hastened to pick up the paper.\n\nBut the farmer's son had dropped it as he came along, by his mother's\ndirection, in such a place that the judge could not pick it up without\nputting his foot on the edge of the fairy ring. No sooner had he done\nso than he perceived an innumerable company of little people dressed\nin green cloaks and hoods, who were dancing round in a circle as wide\nas the ring itself.\n\nThey were all about two feet high, and had aged faces, brown and\nwithered, like the knots on gnarled trees in hedge bottoms, and they\nsquinted horribly; but, in spite of their seeming age, they flew round\nand round like children.\n\n\"Mr. Sheriff! Mr. Sheriff!\" cried the judge, \"come and see the\ndancing. And hear the music, too, which is so lively that it makes the\nsoles of my feet tickle.\"\n\n\"There is no music, my Lord Judge,\" said the sheriff, running down the\nhill. \"It is the wind whistling over the grass that your lordship\nhears.\"\n\nBut when the sheriff had put his foot by the judge's foot, he saw and\nheard the same, and he cried out, \"Quick, Gaoler, and come down! I\nshould like you to be witness to this matter. And you may take my arm,\nGaoler, for the music makes me feel unsteady.\"\n\n\"There is no music, sir,\" said the gaoler; \"but your worship doubtless\nhears the creaking of the gallows.\"\n\nBut no sooner had the gaoler's feet touched the fairy ring, than he\nsaw and heard like the rest, and he called lustily to the chaplain to\ncome and stop the unhallowed measure.\n\n\"It is a delusion of the Evil One,\" said the parson; \"there is not a\nsound in the air but the distant croaking of some frogs.\" But when he\ntoo touched the ring, he perceived his mistake.\n\nAt this moment the moon shone out, and in the middle of the ring they\nsaw Limping Tim the fiddler, playing till great drops stood out on his\nforehead, and dancing as madly as he played.\n\n\"Ah, you rascal!\" cried the judge. \"Is this where you've been all the\ntime, and a better man than you as good as hanged for you? But you\nshall come home now.\"\n\nSaying which, he ran in, and seized the fiddler by the arm, but\nLimping Tim resisted so stoutly that the sheriff had to go to the\njudge's assistance, and even then the fairies so pinched and hindered\nthem that the sheriff was obliged to call upon the gaoler to put his\narms about his waist, who persuaded the chaplain to add his strength\nto the string. But as ill luck would have it, just as they were\ngetting off, one of the fairies picked up Limping Tim's fiddle, which\nhad fallen in the scuffle, and began to play. And as he began to play,\nevery one began to dance--the fiddler, and the judge, and the sheriff,\nand the gaoler, and even the chaplain.\n\n\"Hangman! hangman!\" screamed the judge, as he lifted first one leg and\nthen the other to the tune, \"come down, and catch hold of his\nreverence the chaplain. The prisoner is pardoned, and he can lay hold\ntoo.\"\n\nThe hangman knew the judge's voice, and ran towards it; but as they\nwere now quite within the ring he could see nothing, either of him or\nhis companions.\n\nThe farmer's son followed, and warning the hangman not to touch the\nring, he directed him to stretch his hands forwards in hopes of\ncatching hold of some one. In a few minutes the wind blew the\nchaplain's cassock against the hangman's fingers, and he caught the\nparson round the waist. The farmer's son then seized him in like\nfashion, and each holding firmly by the other, the fiddler, the judge,\nthe sheriff, the gaoler, the parson, the hangman, and the farmer's son\nall got safely out of the charmed circle.\n\n\"Oh, you scoundrel!\" cried the judge to the fiddler; \"I have a very\ngood mind to hang you up on the gallows without further ado.\"\n\nBut the fiddler only looked like one possessed, and upbraided the\nfarmer's son for not having the patience to wait three minutes for\nhim.\n\n\"Three minutes!\" cried he; \"why, you've been here three months and a\nday.\"\n\nThis the fiddler would not believe, and as he seemed in every way\nbeside himself, they led him home, still upbraiding his companion,\nand crying continually for his fiddle.\n\nHis neighbours watched him closely, but one day he escaped from their\ncare and wandered away over the hills to seek his fiddle, and came\nback no more.\n\nHis dead body was found upon the downs, face downwards, with the\nfiddle in his arms. Some said he had really found the fiddle where he\nhad left it, and had been lost in a mist, and died of exposure. But\nothers held that he had perished differently, and laid his death at\nthe door of the fairy dancers.\n\nAs to the farmer's son, it is said that thenceforward he went home\nfrom market by the high-road, and spoke the truth straight out, and\nwas more careful of his company.\n\n\n\n\n\"I WON'T.\"\n\n\n\"Don't Care\"--so they say--fell into a goose-pond; and \"I won't\" is\napt to come to no better an end. At least, my grandmother tells me\nthat was how the Miller had to quit his native town, and leave the tip\nof his nose behind him.\n\nIt all came of his being allowed to say \"I won't\" when he was quite a\nlittle boy. His mother thought he looked pretty when he was pouting,\nand that wilfulness gave him an air which distinguished him from other\npeople's children. And when she found out that his lower lip was\nbecoming so big that it spoilt his beauty, and that his wilfulness\ngained his way twice and stood in his way eight times out of ten, it\nwas too late to alter him.\n\nThen she said, \"Dearest Abinadab, do be more obliging!\"\n\nAnd he replied (as she had taught him), \"I won't.\"\n\nHe always took what he could get, and would neither give nor give up\nto other people. This, he thought, was the way to get more out of life\nthan one's neighbours.\n\nAmongst other things, he made a point of taking the middle of the\nfootpath.\n\n\"Will you allow me to pass you, sir?--I am in a hurry,\" said a voice\nbehind him one day.\n\n\"I won't,\" said Abinadab; on which a poor washerwoman, with her\nbasket, scrambled down into the road, and Abinadab chuckled.\n\nNext day he was walking as before.\n\n\"Will you allow me to pass you, sir?--I am in a hurry,\" said a voice\nbehind him.\n\n\"I won't,\" said Abinadab. On which he was knocked into the ditch; and\nthe Baron walked on, and left him to get out of the mud on whichever\nside he liked.\n\nHe quarrelled with his friends till he had none left, and he\nquarrelled with the tradesmen of the town till there was only one who\nwould serve him, and this man offended him at last.\n\n\"I'll show you who's master!\" said the Miller. \"I won't pay a penny of\nyour bill--not a penny.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said the tradesman, \"my giving you offence now, is no just\nreason why you should refuse to pay for what you have had and been\nsatisfied with. I must beg you to pay me at once.\"\n\n\"I won't,\" said the Miller, \"and what I say I mean. I won't; I tell\nyou, I won't.\"\n\nSo the tradesman summoned him before the Justice, and the Justice\ncondemned him to pay the bill and the costs of the suit.\n\n\"I won't,\" said the Miller.\n\nSo they put him in prison, and in prison he would have remained if his\nmother had not paid the money to obtain his release. By and by she\ndied, and left him her blessing and some very good advice, which (as\nis sometimes the case with bequests) would have been more useful if it\nhad come earlier.\n\nThe Miller's mother had taken a great deal of trouble off his hands\nwhich now fell into them. She took in all the small bags of grist\nwhich the country-folk brought to be ground, and kept account of them,\nand spoke civilly to the customers, big and little. But these small\nmatters irritated the Miller.\n\n\"I may be the slave of all the old women in the country-side,\" said\nhe; \"but I won't--they shall see that I won't.\"\n\nSo he put up a notice to say that he would only receive grist at a\ncertain hour on certain days. Now, but a third of the old women could\nread the notice, and they did not attend to it. People came as before;\nbut the Miller locked the door of the mill and sat in the\ncounting-house and chuckled.\n\n\"My good friend,\" said his neighbours, \"you can't do business in this\nway. If a man lives by trade, he must serve his customers. And a\nMiller must take in grist when it comes to the mill.\"\n\n\"Others may if they please,\" said the Miller; \"but I won't. When I\nmake a rule, I stick to it.\"\n\n\"Take advice, man, or you'll be ruined,\" said his friends.\n\n\"I won't,\" said the Miller.\n\nIn a few weeks all the country-folk turned their donkeys' heads\ntowards the windmill on the heath. It was a little farther to go, but\nthe Windmiller took custom when it came to him, gave honest measure,\nand added civil words gratis.\n\nThe other Miller was ruined.\n\n\"All you can do now is to leave the mill while you can pay the rent,\nand try another trade,\" said his friends.\n\n\"I won't,\" said the Miller. \"Shall I be turned out of the house where\nI was born, because the country-folk are fools?\"\n\nHowever, he could not pay the rent, and the landlord found another\ntenant.\n\n\"You must quit,\" said he to the Miller.\n\n\"That I won't,\" said the Miller, \"not for fifty new tenants.\"\n\nSo the landlord sent for the constables, and he was carried out,\nwhich is not a dignified way of changing one's residence. But then it\nis not easy to be obstinate and dignified at the same time.\n\nHis wrath against the landlord knew no bounds.\n\n\"Was there ever such a brute?\" he cried. \"Would any man of spirit hold\nhis home at the whim of a landlord? I'll never rent another house as\nlong as I live.\"\n\n\"But you must live somewhere,\" said his friends.\n\n\"I won't,\" said the Miller.\n\nHe was no longer a young man, and the new tenant pitied him.\n\n\"The poor old fellow is out of his senses,\" he said. And he let him\nsleep in one of his barns. One of the mill cats found out that there\nwas a new warm bed in this barn, and she came and lived there too, and\nkept away the mice.\n\nOne night, however, Mrs. Pussy disturbed the Miller's rest. She was in\nand out of the window constantly, and meowed horribly into the\nbargain.\n\n\"It seems a man can't even sleep in peace,\" said the Miller. \"If this\nhappens again, you'll go into the mill-race to sing to the fishes.\"\n\nThe next night the cat was still on the alert, and the following\nmorning the Miller tied a stone round her neck, and threw her into the\nwater.\n\n\"Oh, spare the poor thing, there's a good soul,\" said a bystander.\n\n\"I won't,\" said the Miller. \"I told her what would happen.\"\n\nWhen his back was turned, however, the bystander got Pussy out, and\ntook her home with him.\n\nNow the cat was away, the mice could play; and they played hide-and\nseek over the Miller's nightcap.\n\nIt came to such a pass that there was no rest to be had.\n\n\"I won't go to bed, I declare I won't,\" said the Miller. So he sat up\nall night in an arm-chair, and threw everything he could lay his hands\non at the corners where he heard the mice scuffling, till the place\nwas topsy-turvy.\n\nTowards morning he lit a candle and dressed himself. He was in a\nterrible humour; and when he began to shave, his hand shook and he cut\nhimself. The draughts made the flame of the candle unsteady too, and\nthe shadow of the Miller's nose (which was a large one) fell in\nuncertain shapes upon his cheeks, and interfered with the progress of\nthe razor. At first he thought he would wait till daylight. Then his\ntemper got the better of him.\n\n\"I won't,\" he said, \"I won't; why should I?\"\n\nSo he began again. He held on by his nose to steady his cheeks, and\nhe gave it such a spiteful pinch that the tears came into his eyes.\n\n\"Matters have come to a pretty pass, when a man's own nose is to stand\nin his light,\" said he.\n\nBy and by a gust of wind came through the window. Up flared the\ncandle, and the shadow of the Miller's nose danced half over his face,\nand the razor gashed his chin.\n\nTransported with fury, he struck at it before he could think what he\nwas doing. The razor was very sharp, and the tip of the Miller's nose\ncame off as clean as his whiskers.\n\nWhen daylight came, and he saw himself in the glass, he resolved to\nleave the place.\n\n\"I won't stay here to be a laughing-stock,\" said he.\n\nAs he trudged out on to the highway, with his bundle on his back, the\nBaron met him and pitied him. He dismounted from his horse, and\nleading it up to the Miller, he said:\n\n\"Friend, you are elderly to be going far afoot. I will lend you my\nmare to take you to your destination. When you are there, knot the\nreins and throw them on her shoulder, saying, 'Home!' She will then\nreturn to me. But mark one thing,--she is not used to whip or spur.\nHumour her, and she will carry you well and safely.\"\n\nThe Miller mounted willingly enough, and set forward. At first the\nmare was a little restive. The Miller had no spurs on, but, in spite\nof the Baron's warning, he kicked her with his heels. On this, she\ndanced till the Miller's hat and bundle flew right and left, and he\nwas very near to following them.\n\n\"Ah, you vixen!\" he cried. \"You think I'll humour you as the Baron\ndoes. But I won't--no, you shall see that I won't!\" And gripping his\nwalking-stick firmly in his hand, he belaboured the Baron's mare as if\nshe had been a donkey.\n\nOn which she sent the Miller clean over her head, and cantered back to\nthe castle; and wherever it was that he went to, he had to walk.\n\nHe never returned to his native village, and everybody was glad to be\nrid of him. One must bear and forbear with his neighbours, if he hopes\nto be regretted when he departs.\n\nBut my grandmother says that long after the mill had fallen into ruin,\nthe story was told as a warning to wilful children of the Miller who\ncut off his nose to spite his own face.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAGIC JAR.\n\n\nThere was once a young fellow whom fortune had blessed with a good\nmother, a clever head, and a strong body. But beyond this she had not\nmuch favoured him; and though able and willing to work, he had often\nlittle to do, and less to eat. But his mother had taught him to be\ncontented with his own lot, and to feel for others. Moreover, from her\nhe inherited a great love for flowers.\n\nOne day, when his pockets were emptiest, a fair was held in the\nneighbouring town, and he must needs go as well as the rest, though he\nhad no money to spend. But he stuck a buttercup in his cap, for which\nhe had nothing to pay, and strode along as merrily as the most.\n\nTowards evening some of the merrymakers became riotous; and a party of\nthem fell upon an old Jew who was keeping a stall of glass and china,\nand would smash his stock. Now as the Jew stood before his booth\nbeseeching them to spare his property, up came the strong young man,\nwith the flower still unwithered in his cap, and he took the old Jew's\npart and defended him. For from childhood his mother had taught him to\nfeel for others.\n\nSo those who would have ill-treated the old Jew now moved off, and the\nyoung man stayed with him till he had packed up his wares.\n\nThen the Jew turned towards him and said, \"My son, he who delivers the\noppressed, and has respect unto the aged, has need of no reward, for\nthe blessing of Him that blesseth is about him. Nevertheless, that I\nmay not seem ungrateful, choose, I pray thee, one of these china jars;\nand take it to thee for thine own. If thou shalt choose well, it may\nbe of more use to thee than presently appears.\"\n\nThereupon the young man examined the jars, which were highly\nornamented with many figures and devices; but he chose one that was\ncomparatively plain; only it had a bunch of flowers painted on the\nfront, round which was a pretty device in spots or circles of gold.\n\nThen said the Jew, \"My son, why have you chosen this jar, when there\nare others so much finer?\"\n\nThe young man said, \"Because the flowers please me, and I have a love\nfor flowers.\"\n\nThen said the Jew, \"Happy is he whose tastes are simple! Moreover,\nherein is a rare wisdom, and thou hast gained that which is the most\nvaluable of my possessions. This jar has properties which I will\nfurther explain to thee. It was given to me by a wise woman, subject\nto this condition, that I must expose it for sale from sunrise to\nsunset at the yearly fair. When I understood this I took counsel with\nmyself how I should preserve it; and I bought other china jars of more\napparent value, and I marked them all with the same price. For I said\nwithin myself, 'There is no man who does not desire to get as much as\nhe can for his money, therefore, from its contrast with these others,\nmy jar is safe.' And it was even so; for truly, many have desired to\nbuy the jar because of the delicate beauty of the flowers, if I would\nhave sold it for less than others which seemed more valuable.\"\n\n\"Many times it has been almost gone, but when I have shown the others\nat the same price, my customers have reviled me, saying, 'Dog of a\nJew, dost thou ask as much for this as for these others Which are\nmanifestly worth double?' and they have either departed, cursing me,\nand taking nothing; or they have bought one of the more richly\ndecorated jars at the same price. For verily in most men the spirit of\ncovetousness is stronger than the love of beauty, and they rather\ndesire to get much for their money, than to obtain that which is\nsuitable and convenient.\"\n\n\"But in thee, O young man! I have beheld a rare wisdom. To choose that\nwhich is good in thine eyes, and suitable to thy needs, rather than\nthat which satisfieth the lust of over-reaching; and lo! what I have\nso long kept from thousands, has become thine!\"\n\nThen the young man wished to restore to the Jew the jar he valued so\nhighly, and to choose another.\n\nBut the Jew refused, saying, \"A gift cannot be recalled. Moreover, I\nwill now explain to thee its uses. Within the jar lies a toad, whose\nspit is poison. But it will never spit at its master. Every evening\nthou must feed it with bread and milk, when it will fall asleep; and\nat sunrise in the morning it will awake and breathe heavily against\nthe side of the jar, which will thus become warm. As it warms the\nflowers will blossom out, and become real, and full of perfume, and\nthou wilt be able to pluck them without diminishing their number.\nMoreover, these twelve round spots of gold will drop off, and become\ntwelve gold pieces, which will be thine. And thus it will be every\nday. Only thou must thyself rise with the sun, and gather the flowers\nand the gold with thine own hands. Furthermore, when the jar cools,\nthe flowers and gilding will be as before. Fare thee well.\"\n\nAnd even as he spoke the Jew lifted the huge crate of china on to his\nback, and disappeared among the crowd.\n\nAll came about as the Jew had promised. As he had twelve gold pieces a\nday, the young man now wanted for nothing, besides which he had fresh\nflowers on his table all the year round.\n\nNow it is well said, \"Thy business is my business, and the business of\nall beside;\" for every man's affairs are his neighbours' property.\nThus it came about that all those who lived near the young man were\nperplexed that he had such beautiful flowers in all seasons; and\nesteemed it as an injury to themselves that he should have them and\ngive no explanation as to whence they came.\n\nAt last it came to the ears of the king, and he also was disturbed.\nFor he was curious, and fond of prying into small matters; a taste\nwhich ill becomes those of high position. But the king had no child to\nsucceed him; and he was always suspecting those about him of plotting\nto obtain the crown, and thus he came to be for ever prying into the\naffairs of his subjects.\n\nNow when he heard of the young man who had flowers on his table all\nthe year round, he desired one of his officers to go and question him\nas to how he obtained them. But the young man contrived to evade his\nquestions, and the matter was at rest for a while.\n\nThen the king sent another messenger, with orders to press the young\nman more closely; and because the young man disdained to tell a lie,\nhe said, \"I get the flowers from yon china jar.\"\n\nThen the messenger returned, and said to the king, \"The young man says\nthat he gets the flowers from a certain china jar which stands in his\nroom.\"\n\nThen said the king, \"Bring the contents of the jar hither to me.\" And\nthe messenger returned and brought the toad.\n\nBut when the king laid hold upon the toad, it spat in his face; and he\nwas poisoned and died.\n\nThen the toad sat upon the king's mouth, and would not be enticed\naway. And every one feared to touch it because it spat poison. And\nthey called the wise men of the council; and they performed certain\nrites to charm away the toad, and yet it would not go.\n\nBut after three days, the master of the toad came to the palace, and\nwithout saying who he was, he desired to be permitted to try and get\nthe toad from the corpse of the king.\n\nAnd when he was taken into the king's chamber, he stood and beckoned\nto the toad, saying, \"The person of the king and the bodies of the\ndead are sacred, wherefore come away.\"\n\nAnd the toad crawled from the king's face and came to him, and did not\nspit at him; and he put it back into the jar.\n\nThen said the wise men, \"There is no one so fit to succeed to the\nkingdom as this man is; both for wisdom of speech and for the power of\ncommand.\"\n\nAnd what they said pleased the people; and the young man was made\nking. And in due time he married an amiable and talented princess, and\nhad children. And he ruled the kingdom well and wisely, and was\nbeloved till his death.\n\nNow when, after the lapse of many years, he died, there was great\ngrief among the people, and his body was laid out in his own room, and\nthe people were permitted to come and look upon his face for the last\ntime.\n\nAnd among the crowd there appeared an aged Jew. And he did not weep as\ndid the others; but he came and stood by the bier, and gazed upon the\nface of the dead king in silence. And after a while he exclaimed, and\nsaid:\n\n\"Oh, wonderful spectacle! A man, and not covetous. A ruler, and not\noppressive. Contented in poverty, and moderate in wealth. Elect of the\npeople, and beloved to the end!\"\n\nAnd when he had said this, he again became silent, and stood as one\nastonished.\n\nAnd no one knew when he came in, nor perceived when he departed.\n\nBut when they came to search for the china jar, it was gone, and could\nnever afterwards be found.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIRST WIFE'S WEDDING-RING.\n\n\nMany years ago, there lived a certain worthy man who was twice\nmarried. By his first wife he had a son, who soon after his mother's\ndeath resolved to become a soldier, and go to foreign lands. \"When one\nhas seen the world, one values home the more,\" said he; \"and if I live\nI shall return.\"\n\nSo the father gave him a blessing, and his mother's wedding-ring,\nsaying, \"Keep this ring, and then, however long you stay away, and\nhowever changed you may become, by this token I shall know you to be\nmy true son and heir.\"\n\nIn a short time the father married again, and by this marriage also he\nhad one son.\n\nYears passed by, and the elder brother did not return, and at last\nevery one believed him to be dead. But in reality he was alive, and\nafter a long time he turned his steps homewards. He was so much\nchanged by age and travelling that only his mother would have known\nhim again, but he had the ring tied safe and fast round his neck. One\nnight, however, he was too far from shelter to get a bed, so he slept\nunder a hedge, and when he woke in the morning the string was untied\nand the ring was gone. He spent a whole day in searching for it, but\nin vain; and at last he resolved to proceed and explain the matter to\nhis father.\n\nThe old man was overjoyed to see him, and fully believed his tale, but\nwith the second wife it was otherwise. She was greatly displeased to\nthink that her child was not now to be the sole heir of his father's\ngoods; and she so pestered and worked upon the old man by artful and\nmalicious speeches, that he consented to send away the new-comer till\nhe should have found the first wife's wedding-ring.\n\n\"Is the homestead I have taken such care of,\" she cried, \"to go to the\nfirst vagrant who comes in with a brown face and a ragged coat,\npretending that he is your son?\"\n\nSo the soldier was sent about his business; but his father followed\nhim to the gate, and slipped some money into his hand, saying, \"God\nspeed you back again with the ring!\"\n\nIt was Sunday morning, and the bells were ringing for service as he\nturned sadly away.\n\n\"Ding, dong!\" rang the bells, \"ding, dong! Why do you not come to\nchurch like others? Why are you not dressed in your Sunday clothes,\nand wherefore do you heave such doleful sighs, whilst we ring merrily?\nDing, dong! ding, dong!\"\n\n\"Is there not a cause?\" replied the soldier. \"This day I am turned out\nof home and heritage, though indeed I am the true heir.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless we shall ring for your return,\" said the bells.\n\nAs he went, the sun shone on the green fields, and in the soldier's\neyes, and said, \"See how brightly I shine! But you, comrade, why is\nyour face so cloudy?\"\n\n\"Is there not good reason?\" replied he. \"This day I am turned out of\nhome and heritage, and yet I am the true heir.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless I shall shine on your return,\" said the sun.\n\nAlong the road the hawthorn hedges were white with blossom. \"Heyday!\"\nthey cried, \"who is this that comes trimp tramp, with a face as long\nas a poplar-tree? Cheer up, friend! It is spring! sweet spring! All is\nnow full of hope and joy, and why should you look so sour?\"\n\n\"May I not be excused?\" said the soldier. \"This day I am turned out,\nof home and heritage, and yet I am the true heir.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless we shall blossom when you return,\" said the hedges.\n\nWhen he had wandered for three days and three nights, all he had was\nspent, and there was no shelter to be seen but a dark gloomy forest,\nwhich stretched before him. Just then he saw a small, weazened old\nwoman, who was trying to lift a bundle of sticks on to her back.\n\n\"That is too heavy for you, good mother,\" said the soldier; and he\nraised and adjusted it for her.\n\n\"Have you just come here?\" muttered the old crone; \"then the best\nthanks I can give you is to bid you get away as fast as you can.\"\n\n\"I never retreated yet, dame,\" said the soldier, and on he went.\n\nPresently he met with a giant, who was strolling along by the edge of\nthe wood, knocking the cones off the tops of the fir-trees with his\nfinger-nails. He was an ill-favoured-looking monster, but he said,\ncivilly enough, \"You look in want of employment, comrade. Will you\ntake service with me?\"\n\n\"I must first know two things,\" answered the soldier; \"my work and my\nwages.\"\n\n\"Your work,\" said the giant, \"is to cut a path through this wood to\nthe other side. But then you shall have a year and a day to do it in.\nIf you do it within the time, you will find at the other end a\nmagpie's nest, in which is the ring of which you are in search. The\nnest also contains the crown jewels which have been stolen, and if you\ntake these to the king, you will need no further reward. But, on the\nother hand, if the work is not done within the time, you will\nthenceforth be my servant without wages.\"\n\n\"It is a hard bargain,\" said the soldier, \"but need knows no law, and\nI agree to the conditions.\"\n\nWhen he came into the giant's abode, he was greatly astonished to see\nthe little weazened old woman. She showed no sign of recognizing him,\nhowever, and the soldier observed a like discretion. He soon\ndiscovered that she was the giant's wife, and much in dread of her\nhusband, who treated her with great cruelty.\n\n\"To-morrow you shall begin to work,\" said the giant.\n\n\"If you please,\" said the soldier, and before he went to bed he\ncarried in water and wood for the old woman.\n\n\"There's a kinship in trouble,\" said he.\n\nNext morning the giant led him to a certain place on the outskirts of\nthe forest, and giving him an axe, said, \"The sooner you begin, the\nbetter, and you may see that it is not difficult.\" Saying which, he\ntook hold of one of the trees by the middle, and snapped it off as one\nmight pluck a flower.\n\n\"Thus to thee, but how to me?\" said the soldier; and when the giant\ndeparted he set to work. But although he was so strong, and worked\nwillingly, the trees seemed almost as hard as stone, and he made\nlittle progress. When he returned at night the giant asked him how he\ngot on.\n\n\"The trees are very hard,\" said he.\n\n\"So they always say,\" replied the giant; \"I have always had idle\nservants.\"\n\n\"I will not be called idle a second time,\" thought the soldier, and\nnext day he went early and worked his utmost. But the result was very\nsmall. And when he came home, looking weary and disappointed, he could\nnot fail to perceive that this gave great satisfaction to the giant.\n\nMatters had gone on thus for some time, when one morning, as he went\nto work, he found the little old woman gathering sticks as before.\n\n\"Listen,\" said she. \"He shall not treat you as he has treated others.\nCount seventy to the left from where you are working, and begin again.\nBut do not let him know that you have made a fresh start. And do a\nlittle at the old place from time to time, as a blind.\" And before he\ncould thank her, the old woman was gone. Without more ado, however, he\ncounted seventy from the old place, and hit the seventieth tree such a\nblow with his axe, that it came crashing down then and there. And he\nfound that, one after another, the trees yielded to his blows as if\nthey were touch-wood. He did a good day's work, gave a few strokes in\nthe old spot, and came home, taking care to look as gloomy as before.\n\nDay by day he got deeper and deeper into the wood, the trees falling\nbefore him like dry elder twigs; and now the hardest part of his work\nwas walking backwards and fowards to the giant's home, for the forest\nseemed almost interminable. But on the three hundred and sixty-sixth\nday from his first meeting with the giant, the soldier cut fairly\nthrough on to an open plain, and as the light streamed in, a magpie\nflew away, and on searching her nest, the soldier found his mother's\nwedding-ring. He also found many precious stones of priceless value,\nwhich were evidently the lost crown jewels. And as his term of service\nwith the giant was now ended, he did not trouble himself to return,\nbut with the ring and the jewels in his pocket set off to find his way\nto the capital.\n\nHe soon fell in with a good-humoured, fellow who showed him the way,\nand pointed out everything of interest on the road. As they drew near,\none of the royal carriages was driving out of the city gates, in which\nsat three beautiful ladies who were the king's daughters.\n\n\"The two eldest are engaged to marry two neighbouring princes,\" said\nthe companion.\n\n\"And whom is the youngest to marry?\" asked the soldier, \"for she is by\nfar the most beautiful.\"\n\n\"She will never marry,\" answered his companion, \"for she is pledged to\nthe man who shall find the crown jewels, and cut a path through the\nstone-wood forest that borders the king's domains. And that is much as\nif she were promised to the man who should fetch down the moon for her\nto play with. For the jewels are lost beyond recall, and the wood is\nan enchanted forest.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless she shall be wed with my mother's ring,\" thought the\nsoldier. But he kept his own counsel, and only waited till he had\nsmartened himself up, before he sought an audience of the king.\n\nHis claim to the princess was fully proved; the king heaped honours\nand riches upon him; and he made himself so acceptable to his\nbride-elect, that the wedding was fixed for an early day.\n\n\"May I bring my old father, madam?\" he asked of the princess.\n\n\"That you certainly may,\" said she. \"A good son makes a good husband.\"\n\nAs he entered his native village the hedges were in blossom, the sun\nshone; and the bells rang for his return.\n\nHis stepmother now welcomed him, and was very anxious to go to court\nalso. But her husband said, \"No. You took such good care of the\nhomestead, it is but fit you should look to it whilst I am away.\"\n\nAs to the giant, when he found that he had been outwitted, he went\noff, and was never more heard of in those parts. But the soldier took\nhis wife into the city, and cared for her to the day of her death.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAGICIAN TURNED MISCHIEF-MAKER.\n\n\nThere was once a wicked magician who prospered, and did much evil for\nmany years. But there came a day when Vengeance, disguised as a blind\nbeggar, overtook him, and outwitted him, and stole his magic wand.\nWith this he had been accustomed to turn those who offended him into\nany shape he pleased; and now that he had lost it he could only\ntransform himself.\n\nAs Vengeance was returning to his place, he passed through a village,\nthe inhabitants of which had formerly lived in great terror of the\nmagician, and told them of the downfall of his power. But they only\nsaid, \"Blind beggars have long tongues. One must not believe all one\nhears,\" and shrugged their shoulders, and left him.\n\nThen Vengeance waved the wand and said, \"As you have doubted me,\ndistress each other;\" and so departed.\n\nBy and by he came to another village, and told the news. But here the\nvillagers were full of delight, and made a feast, and put the blind\nbeggar in the place of honour; who, when he departed, said, \"As you\nhave done by me, deal with each other always!\" and went on to the next\nvillage.\n\nIn this place he was received with even warmer welcome; and when the\nfeast was over, the people brought him to the bridge which led out of\nthe village, and gave him a guide-dog to help him on his way.\n\nThen the blind beggar waved the wand once more and said;\n\n\"Those who are so good to strangers must needs be good to each other.\nBut that nothing may be wanting to the peace of this place, I grant to\nthe beasts and birds in it that they may understand the language of\nmen.\"\n\nThen he broke the wand in pieces, and threw it into the stream. And\nwhen the people turned their heads back again from watching the bits\nas they floated away, the blind beggar was gone.\n\nMeanwhile the magician was wild with rage at the loss of his wand, for\nall his pleasure was to do harm and hurt. But when he came to himself\nhe said: \"One can do a good deal of harm with his tongue. I will turn\nmischief-maker; and when the place is too hot to hold me, I can escape\nin what form I please.\"\n\nThen he came to the first village, where Vengeance had gone before,\nand here he lived for a year and a day in various disguises; and he\nmade more misery with his tongue than he had ever accomplished in any\nother year with his magic wand. For every one distrusted his\nneighbour, and was ready to believe ill of him. So parents disowned\ntheir children, and husband and wives parted, and lovers broke faith;\nand servants and masters disagreed; and old friends became bitter\nenemies, till at last the place was intolerable even to the magician,\nand he changed himself into a cockchafer, and flew to the next\nvillage, where, Vengeance had gone before.\n\nHere also he dwelt for a year and a day, and then he left it because\nhe could do no harm. For those who loved each other trusted each\nother, and the magician made mischief in vain. In one of his disguises\nhe was detected, and only escaped with his life from the enraged\nvillagers by changing himself into a cockchafer and flying on to the\nnext place, where Vengeance had gone before.\n\nIn this village he made less mischief than in the first, and more than\nin the second. And he exercised all his art, and changed his disguises\nconstantly; but the dogs knew him under all.\n\nOne dog--the oldest dog in the place--was keeping watch over the\nmiller's house, when he saw the magician approaching, in the disguise\nof an old woman.\n\n\"Do you see that old witch?\" said he to the sparrows, who were picking\nup stray bits of grain in the yard. \"With her evil tongue she is\nparting my master's daughter and the finest young fellow in the\ncountry-side. She puts lies and truth together, with more skill than\nyou patch moss and feathers to build nests. And when she is asked\nwhere she heard this or that, she says, 'A little bird told me so.'\"\n\n\"We never told her,\" said the sparrows indignantly, \"and if we had\nyour strength, Master Keeper, she should not malign us long!\"\n\n\"I believe you are right!\" said Master Keeper. \"Of what avail is it\nthat we have learned the language of men, if we do not help them to\nthe utmost of our powers? She shall torment my young mistress no\nmore.\"\n\nSaying which he flew upon the disguised magician as he entered the\ngate, and would have torn him limb from limb, but that the\nmischief-maker changed himself as before into a cockchafer, and flew\nhastily from the village.\n\nAnd thus he might doubtless have escaped to do yet further harm, had\nnot three cock-sparrows overtaken him just before he crossed the\nbridge.\n\nFrom three sides they hemmed him in, crying, \"Which of us told you?\"\n\"Which of us told you?\" \"Which of us told you?\"--and pecked him to\npieces before he could transform himself again.\n\nAfter which peace and prosperity befell all the neighbourhood.\n\n\n\n\nKNAVE AND FOOL.\n\n\nA Fool and a Knave once set up house together; which shows what a fool\nthe Fool was.\n\nThe Knave was delighted with the agreement; and the Fool thought\nhimself most fortunate to have met with a companion who would supply\nhis lack of mother-wit.\n\nAs neither of them liked work, the Knave proposed that they should\nlive upon their joint savings as long as these should last; and, to\navoid disputes, that they should use the Fool's share till it came to\nan end, and then begin upon the Knave's stocking.\n\nSo, for a short time, they lived in great comfort at the Fool's\nexpense, and were very good company; for easy times make easy tempers.\n\nJust when the store was exhausted, the Knave came running to the Fool\nwith an empty bag and a wry face, crying, \"Dear friend, what shall we\ndo? This bag, which I had safely buried under a gooseberry-bush, has\nbeen taken up by some thief, and all my money stolen. My savings were\ntwice as large as yours; but now that they are gone, and I can no\nlonger perform my share of the bargain, I fear our partnership must be\ndissolved.\"\n\n\"Not so, dear friend,\" said the Fool, who was very good-natured; \"we\nhave shared good luck together, and now we will share poverty. But as\nnothing is left, I fear we must seek work.\"\n\n\"You speak very wisely,\" said the Knave, \"And what, for instance, can\nyou do?\"\n\n\"Very little,\" said the Fool; \"but that little I do well.\"\n\n\"So do I,\" said the Knave. \"Now can you plough, or sow, or feed\ncattle, or plant crops?\"\n\n\"Farming is not my business,\" said the Fool.\n\n\"Nor mine,\" said the Knave; \"but no doubt you are a handicraftsman.\nAre you clever at carpentry, mason's work, tailoring, or shoemaking?\"\n\n\"I do not doubt that I should have been had I learned the trades,\"\nsaid the Fool, \"but I never was bound apprentice.\"\n\n\"It is the same with myself,\" said the Knave; \"but you may have finer\ntalents. Can you paint, or play the fiddle?\"\n\n\"I never tried,\" said the Fool; \"so I don't know.\"\n\n\"Just my case,\" said the Knave. \"And now, since we can't find work, I\npropose that we travel till work finds us.\"\n\nThe two comrades accordingly set forth, and they went on and on, till\nthey came to the foot of a hill, where a merchantman was standing by\nhis wagon, which had broken down.\n\n\"You seem two strong men,\" said he, as they advanced; \"if you will\ncarry this chest of valuables up to the top of the hill, and down to\nthe bottom on the other side, where there is an inn, I will give you\ntwo gold pieces for your trouble.\"\n\nThe Knave and the Fool consented to this, saying, \"Work has found us\nat last;\" and they lifted the box on to their shoulders.\n\n\"Turn, and turn about,\" said the Knave; \"but the best turn between\nfriends is a good turn; so I will lead the way up-hill, which is the\nhardest kind of travelling, and you shall go first down-hill, the easy\nhalf of our journey.\"\n\nThe Fool thought this proposal a very generous one, and, not knowing\nthat the lower end of their burden was the heavy one, he carried it\nall the way. When they got to the inn, the merchant gave each of them\na gold piece, and, as the accommodation was good, they remained where\nthey were till their money was spent. After this, they lived there\nawhile on credit; and when that was exhausted, they rose one morning\nwhilst the landlord was still in bed, and pursued their journey,\nleaving old scores behind them.\n\nThey had been a long time without work or food, when they came upon a\nman who sat by the roadside breaking stones, with a quart of porridge\nand a spoon in a tin pot beside him.\n\n\"You look hungry, friends,\" said he, \"and I, for my part, want to get\naway. If you will break up this heap, you shall have the porridge for\nsupper. But when you have eaten it, put the pot and spoon under the\nhedge, that I may find them when I return.\"\n\n\"If we eat first, we shall have strength for our work,\" said the\nKnave; \"and as there is only one spoon, we must eat by turns. But\nfairly divide, friendly abide. As you went first the latter part of\nour journey, I will begin on this occasion. When I stop, you fall to,\nand eat as many spoonfuls as I ate. Then I will follow you in like\nfashion, and so on till the pot is empty.\"\n\n\"Nothing could be fairer,\" said the Fool; and the Knave began to eat,\nand went on till he had eaten a third of the porridge. The Fool, who\nhad counted every spoonful, now took his turn, and ate precisely as\nmuch as his comrade. The Knave then began again, and was exact to a\nmouthful; but it emptied the pot. Thus the Knave had twice as much as\nthe Fool, who could not see where he had been cheated.\n\nThey then set to work.\n\n\"As there is only one hammer,\" said the Knave, \"we must work, as we\nsupped, by turns; and as I began last time, you shall begin this.\nAfter you have worked awhile, I will take the hammer from you, and do\nas much myself whilst you rest. Then you shall take it up again, and\nso on till the heap is finished.\"\n\n\"It is not every one who is as just as you,\" said the Fool; and taking\nup the hammer, he set to work with a will.\n\nThe Knave took care to let him go on till he had broken a third of the\nstones, and then he did as good a share himself; after which the Fool\nbegan again, and finished the heap.\n\nBy this means the Fool did twice as much work as the Knave, and yet he\ncould not complain.\n\nAs they moved on again, the Fool perceived that the Knave was taking\nthe can and the spoon with him.\n\n\"I am sorry to see you do that, friend,\" said he.\n\n\"It's a very small theft,\" said the Knave. \"The can cannot have cost\nmore than sixpence when new.\"\n\n\"That was not what I meant,\" said the Fool, \"so much as that I fear\nthe owner will find it out.\"\n\n\"He will only think the things have been stolen by some vagrant,\"\nsaid the Knave--\"which, indeed, they would be if we left them. But as\nyou seem to have a tender conscience, I will keep them myself.\"\n\nAfter a while they met with a farmer, who offered to give them supper\nand a night's lodging, if they would scare the birds from a field of\ncorn for him till sunset.\n\n\"I will go into the outlying fields,\" said the Knave, \"and as I see\nthe birds coming, I will turn them back. You, dear friend, remain in\nthe corn, and scare away the few that may escape me.\"\n\nBut whilst the Fool clapped and shouted till he was tired, the Knave\nwent to the other side of the hedge, and lay down for a nap.\n\nAs they sat together at supper, the Fool said, \"Dear friend, this is\nlaborious work. I propose that we ask the farmer to let us tend sheep,\ninstead. That is a very different affair. One lies on the hillside all\nday. The birds do not steal sheep; and all this shouting and clapping\nis saved.\"\n\nThe Knave very willingly agreed, and next morning the two friends\ndrove a flock of sheep on to the downs. The sheep at once began to\nnibble, the dog sat with his tongue out, panting, and the Knave and\nFool lay down on their backs, and covered their faces with their hats\nto shield them from the sun.\n\nThus they lay till evening, when, the sun being down, they uncovered\ntheir faces, and found that the sheep had all strayed away, and the\ndog after them.\n\n\"The only plan for us is to go separate ways in search of the flock,\"\nsaid the Knave; \"only let us agree to meet here again.\" They\naccordingly started in opposite directions; but when the Fool was\nfairly off, the Knave returned to his place, and lay down as before.\n\nBy and by the dog brought the sheep back; so that, when the Fool\nreturned, the Knave got the credit of having found them; for the dog\nscorned to explain his part in the matter.\n\nAs they sat together at supper, the Fool said, \"The work is not so\neasy as I thought. Could we not find a better trade yet?\"\n\n\"Can you beg?\" said the Knave. \"A beggar's trade is both easy and\nprofitable. Nothing is required but walking and talking. Then one\nwalks at his own pace, for there is no hurry, and no master, and the\nsame tale does for every door. And, that all may be fair and equal,\nyou shall beg at the front door, whilst I ask an alms at the back.\"\n\nTo this the Fool gladly agreed; and as he was as lean as a hunted cat,\ncharitable people gave him a penny or two from time to time.\nMeanwhile, the Knave went round to the back yard, where he picked up\na fowl, or turkey, or anything that he could lay his hands upon.\n\nWhen he returned to the Fool, he would say, \"See what has been given\nto me, whilst you have only got a few pence.\"\n\nAt last this made the Fool discontented, and he said, \"I should like\nnow to exchange with you. I will go to the back doors, and you to the\nfront.\"\n\nThe Knave consented, and at the next house the Fool went to the back\ndoor; but the mistress of the farm only rated him, and sent him away.\nMeanwhile, the Knave, from the front, had watched her leave the\nparlour, and slipping in through the window, he took a ham and a\ncouple of new loaves from the table, and so made off.\n\nWhen the friends met, the Fool was crestfallen at his ill luck, and\nthe Knave complained that all the burden of their support fell upon\nhim. \"See,\" said he, \"what they give me, where you get only a mouthful\nof abuse!\" And he dined heartily on what he had stolen; but the Fool\nonly had bits of the breadcrust, and the parings of the ham.\n\nAt the next place the Fool went to the front door as before, and the\nKnave secured a fat goose and some plums in the back yard, which he\npopped under his cloak. The Fool came away with empty hands, and the\nKnave scolded him, saying, \"Do you suppose that I mean to share this\nfat goose with a lazy beggar like you? Go on, and find for yourself.\"\nWith which he sat down and began to eat the plums, whilst the Fool\nwalked on alone.\n\nAfter a while, however, the Knave saw a stir in the direction of the\nfarm they had left, and he quickly perceived that the loss of the\ngoose was known, and that the farmer and his men were in pursuit of\nthe thief. So, hastily picking up the goose, he overtook the Fool, and\npressed it into his arms, saying, \"Dear friend, pardon a passing ill\nhumour, of which I sincerely repent. Are we not partners in good luck\nand ill? I was wrong, dear friend; and, in token of my penitence, the\ngoose shall be yours alone. And here are a few plums with which you\nmay refresh yourself by the wayside. As for me, I will hasten on to\nthe next farm, and see if I can beg a bottle of wine to wash down the\ndinner, and drink to our good-fellowship.\" And before the Fool could\nthank him, the Knave was off like the wind.\n\nBy and by the farmer and his men came up, and found the Fool eating\nthe plums, with the goose on the grass beside him.\n\nThey hurried him off to the justice, where his own story met with no\ncredit. The woman of the next farm came up also, and recognized him\nfor the man who had begged at her door the day she lost a ham and two\nnew loaves. In vain he said that these things also had been given to\nhis friend. The friend never appeared; and the poor Fool was whipped\nand put in the stocks.\n\nTowards evening the Knave hurried up to the village green, where his\nfriend sat doing penance for the theft.\n\n\"My dear friend,\" said he, \"what do I see? Is such cruelty possible?\nBut I hear that the justice is not above a bribe, and we must at any\ncost obtain your release. I am going at once to pawn my own boots and\ncloak, and everything about me that I can spare, and if you have\nanything to add, this is no time to hesitate.\"\n\nThe poor Fool begged his friend to draw off his boots, and to take his\nhat and coat as well, and to make all speed on his charitable errand.\n\nThe Knave, took all that he could get, and, leaving his friend sitting\nin the stocks in his shirt-sleeves, he disappeared as swiftly as one\ncould wish a man to carry a reprieve.\n\nFor those good folks to whom everything must be explained in full, it\nmay be added that the Knave did not come back, and that he kept the\nclothes.\n\nIt was very hard on the Fool; but what can one expect if he keeps\ncompany with a Knave?\n\n\n\n\nUNDER THE SUN.\n\n\nThere once lived a farmer who was so avaricious and miserly, and so\nhard and close in all his dealings that, as folks say, he would skin a\nflint. A Jew and a Yorkshireman had each tried to bargain with him,\nand both had had the worst of it. It is needless to say that he never\neither gave or lent.\n\nNow, by thus scraping, and saving, and grinding for many years, he had\nbecome almost wealthy; though, indeed, he was no better fed and\ndressed than if he had not a penny to bless himself with. But what\nvexed him sorely was that his next neighbour's farm prospered in all\nmatters better than his own; and this, although the owner was as\nopen-handed as our farmer was stingy.\n\nWhen in spring he ploughed his own worn-out land, and reached the top\nof the furrow where his field joined one of the richly-fed fields of\nhis neighbour, he would cast an envious glance over the hedge, and\nsay, \"So far and no farther?\" for he would have liked to have had the\nwhole under his plough. And so in the autumn, when he gathered his own\nscanty crop and had to stop his sickle short of the close ranks of his\nneighbour's corn, he would cry, \"All this, and none of that?\" and go\nhome sorely discontented.\n\nNow on the lands of the liberal farmer (whose name was Merryweather)\nthere lived a dwarf or hillman, who made a wager that he would both\nbeg and borrow of the covetous farmer, and out-bargain him to boot. So\nhe went one day to his house, and asked him if he would kindly give\nhim half a stone of flour to make hasty pudding with; adding, that if\nhe would lend him a bag to carry it in to the hill, this should be\nreturned clean and in good condition.\n\nThe farmer saw with half an eye that this was the dwarf from his\nneighbour's estate, and as he had always laid the luck of the liberal\nfarmer to his being favoured by the good people, he resolved to treat\nthe little man with all civility.\n\n\"Look you, wife,\" said he, \"this is no time to be saving half a stone\nof flour when we may make our fortunes at one stroke. I have heard my\ngrandfather tell of a man who lent a sack of oats to one of the\nfairies, and got it back filled with gold pieces. And as good measure\nas he gave of oats so he got of gold;\" saying which, the farmer took a\ncanvas bag to the flour-bin, and began to fill it. Meanwhile the dwarf\nsat in the larder window and cried--\"We've a big party for supper\nto-night; give us good measure, neighbour, and you shall have anything\nunder the sun that you like to ask for.\"\n\nWhen the farmer heard this he was nearly out of his wits with delight,\nand his hands shook so that the flour spilled all about the larder\nfloor.\n\n\"Thank you, dear sir,\" he said; \"it's a bargain, and I agree to it. My\nwife hears us, and is witness. Wife! wife!\" he cried, running into the\nkitchen, \"I am to have anything under the sun that I choose to ask\nfor. I think of asking for neighbour Merryweather's estate, but this\nis a chance never likely to happen again, and I should like to make a\nwise choice, and that is not easy at a moment's notice.\"\n\n\"You will have a week to think it over in,\" said the dwarf, who had\ncome in behind him; \"I must be off now, so give me my flour, and come\nto the hill behind your house seven days hence at midnight, and you\nshall have your share of the bargain.\"\n\nSo the farmer tied up the flour-sack, and helped the dwarf with it on\nto his back, and as he did so he began thinking how easily the bargain\nhad been made, and casting about in his mind whether, he could not get\nmore where he had so easily got much.\n\n\"And half a stone of flour is half a stone of flour,\" he muttered to\nhimself, \"and whatever it may do with thriftless people, it goes a\nlong way in our house. And there's the bag--and a terrible lot spilled\non the larder floor--and the string to tie it with, which doubtless\nhe'll never think of returning--and my time, which must be counted,\nand nothing whatever for it all for a week to come.\" And the outlay so\nweighed upon his mind that he cleared his throat and began:\n\n\"Not for seven days, did you say, sir? You know, dear sir, or perhaps,\nindeed, you do not know, that when amongst each other we men have to\nwait for the settlement of an account, we expect something over and\nabove the exact amount. Interest we call it, my dear sir.\"\n\n\"And you want me to give you something extra for waiting a week?\"\nasked the dwarf. \"Pray, what do you expect?\"\n\n\"Oh, dear sir, I leave it to you,\" said the farmer. \"Perhaps you may\nadd some trifle--in the flour-bag, or not, as you think fit--but I\nleave it entirely to you.\"\n\n\"I will give you something over and above what you shall choose,\" said\nthe dwarf; \"but, as you say, I shall decide what it is to be.\" With\nwhich he shouldered the flour-sack, and went his way.\n\nFor the next seven days, the farmer had no peace for thinking, and\nplanning, and scheming how to get the most out of his one wish. His\nwife made many suggestions to which he did not agree, but he was\ncareful not to quarrel with her; \"for,\" he said, \"we will not be like\nthe foolish couple who wasted three wishes on black-puddings. Neither\nwill I desire useless grandeur and unreasonable elevation, like the\nfisherman's wife. I will have a solid and substantial benefit.\"\n\nAnd so, after a week of sleepless nights and anxious days, he came\nback to his first thought, and resolved to ask for his neighbour's\nestate.\n\nAt last the night came. It was full moon, and the farmer looked\nanxiously about, fearing the dwarf might not be true to his\nappointment. But at midnight he appeared, with the flour-bag neatly\nfolded in his hand.\n\n\"You hold to the agreement,\" said the farmer, \"of course. My wife was\nwitness. I am to have anything under the sun that I ask for; and I am\nto have it now.\"\n\n\"Ask away,\" said the dwarf.\n\n\"I want neighbour Merryweather's estate,\" said the farmer.\n\n\"What, all this land below here, that joins on to your own?\"\n\n\"Every acre,\" said the farmer.\n\n\"Farmer Merryweather's fields are under the moon at present,\" said the\ndwarf, coolly, \"and thus not within the terms of the agreement. You\nmust choose again.\"\n\nBut as the farmer could choose nothing that was not then under the\nmoon, he soon saw that he had been outwitted, and his rage knew no\nbounds at the trick the dwarf had played him.\n\n\"Give me my bag, at any rate,\" he screamed, \"and the string--and your\nown extra gift that you promised. For half a loaf is better than no\nbread,\" he muttered, \"and I may yet come in for a few gold pieces.\"\n\n\"There's your bag,\" cried the dwarf, clapping it over the miser's head\nlike an extinguisher; \"it's clean enough for a nightcap. And there's\nyour string,\" he added, tying it tightly round the farmer's throat\ntill he was almost throttled. \"And, for my part, I'll give you what\nyou deserve;\" saying which he gave the farmer such a hearty kick that\nhe kicked him straight down from the top of the hill to his own back\ndoor.\n\n\"If that does not satisfy you, I'll give you as much again,\" shouted\nthe dwarf; and as the farmer made no reply, he went chuckling back to\nhis hill.","title":"Old-Fashioned Fairy Tales","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":34130}