Lang Andrew
The Lilac Fairy Book
THE BELIEVING HUSBANDS
Once upon a time there dwelt in the land of Erin a young man who was seeking a wife, and of all the maidens round about none pleased him as well as the only daughter of a farmer. The girl was willing and the father was willing, and very soon they were married and went to live at the farm. By and bye the season came when they must cut the peats and pile them up to dry, so that they might have fires in the winter. So on a fine day the girl and her husband, and the father and his wife all went out upon the moor.
They worked hard for many hours, and at length grew hungry, so the young woman was sent home to bring them food, and also to give the horses their dinner. When she went into the stable, she suddenly saw the heavy pack-saddle of the speckled mare just over her head, and she jumped and said to herself:
'Suppose that pack-saddle were to fall and kill me, how dreadful it would be!' and she sat down just under the pack-saddle she was so much afraid of, and began to cry.
Now the others out on the moor grew hungrier and hungrier.
'What can have become of her?' asked they, and at length the mother declared that she would wait no longer, and must go and see what had happened.
As the bride was nowhere in the kitchen or the dairy, the old woman went into the stable, where she found her daughter weeping bitterly.
'What is the matter, my dove?' and the girl answered, between her sobs:
'When I came in and saw the pack-saddle over my head, I thought how dreadful it would be if it fell and killed me,' and she cried louder than before.
The old woman struck her hands together: 'Ah, to think of it! If that were to be, what should I do?' and she sat down by her daughter, and they both wrung their hands and let their tears flow.
'Something strange must have occurred,' exclaimed the old farmer on the moor, who by this time was not only hungry, but cross. 'I must go after them.' And he went and found them in the stable.
'What is the matter?' asked he.
'Oh!' replied his wife, 'when our daughter came home, did she not see the pack-saddle over her head, and she thought how dreadful it would be if it were to fall and kill her.'
'Ah, to think of it!' exclaimed he, striking his hands together, and he sat down beside them and wept too.
As soon as night fell the young man returned full of hunger, and there they were, all crying together in the stable.
'What is the matter?' asked he.
'When thy wife came home,' answered the farmer, 'she saw the pack-saddle over her head, and she thought how dreadful it would be if it were to fall and kill her.'
'Well, but it didn't fall,' replied the young man, and he went off to the kitchen to get some supper, leaving them to cry as long as they liked.
The next morning he got up with the sun, and said to the old man and to the old woman and to his wife:
'Farewell: my foot shall not return to the house till I have found other three people as silly as you,' and he walked away till he came to the town, and seeing the door of a cottage standing open wide, he entered. No man was present, but only some women spinning at their wheels.
'You do not belong to this town,' said he.
'You speak truth,' they answered, 'nor you either?'
'I do not,' replied he, 'but is it a good place to live in?'
The women looked at each other.
'The men of the town are so silly that we can make them believe anything we please,' said they.
'Well, here is a gold ring,' replied he, 'and I will give it to the one amongst you who can make her husband believe the most impossible thing,' and he left them.
As soon as the first husband came home his wife said to him:
'Thou art sick!'
'Am I?' asked he.
'Yes, thou art,' she answered; 'take off thy clothes and lie down.'
So he did, and when he was in his bed his wife went to him and said:
'Thou art dead.'
'Oh, am I?' asked he.
'Thou art,' said she; 'shut thine eyes and stir neither hand nor foot.'
And dead he felt sure he was.
Soon the second man came home, and his wife said to him:
'You are not my husband!'
'Oh, am I not?' asked he.
'No, it is not you,' answered she, so he went away and slept in the wood.
When the third man arrived his wife gave him his supper, and after that he went to bed, just as usual. The next morning a boy knocked at the door, bidding him attend the burial of the man who was dead, and he was just going to get up when his wife stopped him.
'Time enough,' said she, and he lay still till he heard the funeral passing the window.
'Now rise, and be quick,' called the wife, and the man jumped out of bed in a great hurry, and began to look about him.
'Why, where are my clothes?' asked he.
'Silly that you are, they are on your back, of course,' answered the woman.
'Are they?' said he.
'They are,' said she, 'and make haste lest the burying be ended before you get there.'
Then off he went, running hard, and when the mourners saw a man coming towards them with nothing on but his nightshirt, they forgot in their fright what they were there for, and fled to hide themselves. And the naked man stood alone at the head of the coffin.
Very soon a man came out of the wood and spoke to him.
'Do you know me?'
'Not I,' answered the naked man. 'I do not know you.'
'But why are you naked?' asked the first man.
'Am I naked? My wife told me that I had all my clothes on,' answered he.
'And my wife told me that I myself was dead,' said the man in the coffin.
But at the sound of his voice the two men were so terrified that they ran straight home, and the man in the coffin got up and followed them, and it was his wife that gained the gold ring, as he had been sillier than the other two.
From 'West Highland Tales.'
THE HOODIE-CROW
Once there lived a farmer who had three daughters, and good useful girls they were, up with the sun, and doing all the work of the house. One morning they all ran down to the river to wash their clothes, when a hoodie came round and sat on a tree close by.
'Wilt thou wed me, thou farmer's daughter?' he said to the eldest.
'Indeed I won't wed thee,' she answered, 'an ugly brute is the hoodie.' And the bird, much offended, spread his wings and flew away. But the following day he came back again, and said to the second girl:
'Wilt thou wed me, farmer's daughter?'
'Indeed I will not,' answered she, 'an ugly brute is the hoodie.' And the hoodie was more angry than before, and went away in a rage. However, after a night's rest he was in a better temper, and thought that he might be more lucky the third time, so back he went to the old place.
'Wilt thou wed me, farmer's daughter?' he said to the youngest.
'Indeed I will wed thee; a pretty creature is the hoodie,' answered she, and on the morrow they were married.
'I have something to ask thee,' said the hoodie when they were far away in his own house. 'Wouldst thou rather I should be a hoodie by day and a man by night, or a man by day and a hoodie by night?'
The girl was surprised at his words, for she did not know that he could be anything but a hoodie at all times.
Still she said nothing of this, and only replied, 'I would rather thou wert a man by day and a hoodie by night.' And so he was; and a handsomer man or a more beautiful hoodie never was seen. The girl loved them both, and never wished for things to be different.
By and bye they had a son, and very pleased they both were. But in the night soft music was heard stealing close towards the house, and every man slept, and the mother slept also. When they woke again it was morning, and the baby was gone. High and low they looked for it, but nowhere could they find it, and the farmer, who had come to see his daughter, was greatly grieved, as he feared it might be thought that he had stolen it, because he did not want the hoodie for a son-in-law.
The next year the hoodie's wife had another son, and this time a watch was set at every door. But it was no use. In vain they all determined that, come what might, they would not close their eyes; at the first note of music they all fell asleep, and when the farmer arrived in the morning to see his grandson, he found them all weeping, for while they had slept the baby had vanished.
Well, the next year it all happened again, and the hoodie's wife was so unhappy that her husband resolved to take her away to another house he had, and her sisters with her for company. So they set out in a coach which was big enough to hold them, and had not gone very far when the hoodie suddenly said:
'You are sure you have not forgotten anything?'
'I have forgotten my coarse comb,' answered the wife, feeling in her pocket, and as she spoke the coach changed into a withered faggot, and the man became a hoodie again, and flew away.
The two sisters returned home, but the wife followed the hoodie. Sometimes she would see him on a hilltop, and then would hasten after him, hoping to catch him. But by the time she had got to the top of the hill, he would be in the valley on the other side. When night came, and she was tired, she looked about for some place to rest, and glad she was to see a little house full of light straight in front of her, and she hurried towards it as fast as she could.
At the door stood a little boy, and the sight of him filled her heart with pleasure, she did not know why. A woman came out, and bade her welcome, and set before her food, and gave her a soft bed to lie on. And the hoodie's wife lay down, and so tired was she, that it seemed to her but a moment before the sun rose, and she awoke again. From hill to hill she went after the hoodie, and sometimes she saw him on the top; but when she got to the top, he had flown into the valley, and when she reached the valley he was on the top of another hill – and so it happened till night came round again. Then she looked round for some place to rest in, and she beheld a little house of light before her, and fast she hurried towards it. At the door stood a little boy, and her heart was filled with pleasure at the sight of him, she did not know why. After that a woman bade her enter, and set food before her, and gave her a soft bed to lie in. And when the sun rose she got up, and left the house, in search of the hoodie. This day everything befell as on the two other days, but when she reached the small house, the woman bade her keep awake, and if the hoodie flew into the room, to try to seize him.
But the wife had walked far, and was very tired, and strive as she would, she fell sound asleep.
Many hours she slept, and the hoodie entered through a window, and let fall a ring on her hand. The girl awoke with a start, and leant forward to grasp him, but he was already flying off, and she only seized a feather from his wing. And when dawn came, she got up and told the woman.
'He has gone over the hill of poison,' said she, 'and there you cannot follow him without horse-shoes on your hands and feet. But I will help you. Put on this suit of men's clothes, and go down this road till you come to the smithy, and there you can learn to make horse-shoes for yourself.'
The girl thanked her, and put on the clothes and went down the road to do her bidding. So hard did she work, that in a few days she was able to make the horse-shoes. Early one morning she set out for the hill of poison. On her hands and feet she went, but even with the horse-shoes on she had to be very careful not to stumble, lest some poisoned thorns should enter into her flesh, and she should die. But when at last she was over, it was only to hear that her husband was to be married that day to the daughter of a great lord.
Now there was to be a race in the town, and everyone meant to be there, except the stranger who had come over the hill of poison – everyone, that is, but the cook, who was to make the bridal supper. Greatly he loved races, and sore was his heart to think that one should be run without his seeing it, so when he beheld a woman whom he did not know coming along the street, hope sprang up in him.
'Will you cook the wedding feast in place of me?' he said, 'and I will pay you well when I return from the race.'
Gladly she agreed, and cooked the feast in a kitchen that looked into the great hall, where the company were to eat it. After that she watched the seat where the bridegroom was sitting, and taking a plateful of the broth, she dropped the ring and the feather into it, and set it herself before him.
With the first spoonful he took up the ring, and a thrill ran through him; in the second he beheld the feather and rose from his chair.
'Who has cooked this feast?' asked he, and the real cook, who had come back from the race, was brought before him.
'He may be the cook, but he did not cook this feast,' said the bridegroom, and then inquiry was made, and the girl was summoned to the great hall.
'That is my married wife,' he declared, 'and no one else will I have,' and at that very moment the spells fell off him, and never more would he be a hoodie. Happy indeed were they to be together again, and little did they mind that the hill of poison took long to cross, for she had to go some way forwards, and then throw the horse-shoes back for him to put on. Still, at last they were over, and they went back the way she had come, and stopped at the three houses in order to take their little sons to their own home.
But the story never says who had stolen them, nor what the coarse comb had to do with it.
From 'West Highland Tales.'
THE BROWNIE OF THE LAKE
Once upon a time there lived in France a man whose name was Jalm Riou. You might have walked a whole day without meeting any one happier or more contented, for he had a large farm, plenty of money, and, above all, a daughter called Barbaïk, the most graceful dancer and the best-dressed girl in the whole country side. When she appeared on holidays in her embroidered cap, five petticoats, each one a little shorter than the other, and shoes with silver buckles, the women were all filled with envy, but little cared Barbaïk what they might whisper behind her back as long as she knew that her clothes were finer than any one else's and that she had more partners than any other girl.
Now amongst all the young men who wanted to marry Barbaïk, the one whose heart was most set on her was her father's head man, but as his manners were rough and he was exceedingly ugly she would have nothing to say to him, and, what was worse, often made fun of him with the rest.
Jégu, for that was his name, of course heard of this, and it made him very unhappy. Still, he would not leave the farm, and look for work elsewhere, as he might have done, for then he would never see Barbaïk at all, and what was life worth to him without that?
One evening he was bringing back his horses from the fields, and stopped at a little lake on the way home to let them drink. He was tired with a long day's work, and stood with his hand on the mane of one of the animals, waiting till they had done, and thinking all the while of Barbaïk, when a voice came out of the gorse close by.
'What is the matter, Jégu? You mustn't despair yet.'
The young man glanced up in surprise, and asked who was there.
'It is I, the brownie of the lake,' replied the voice.
'But where are you?' inquired Jégu.
'Look close, and you will see me among the reeds in the form of a little green frog. I can take,' he added proudly, 'any shape I choose, and even, which is much harder, be invisible if I want to.'
'Then show yourself to me in the shape in which your family generally appear,' replied Jégu.
'Certainly, if you wish,' and the frog jumped on the back of one of the horses, and changed into a little dwarf, all dressed green.
This transformation rather frightened Jégu, but the brownie bade him have no fears, for he would not do him any harm; indeed, he hoped that Jégu might find him of some use.
'But why should you take all this interest in me?' asked the peasant suspiciously.
'Because of a service you did me last winter, which I have never forgotten,' answered the little fellow. 'You know, I am sure, that the korigans3 who dwell in the White Corn country have declared war on my people, because they say that they are the friends of man. We were therefore obliged to take refuge in distant lands, and to hide ourselves at first under different animal shapes. Since that time, partly from habit and partly to amuse ourselves, we have continued to transform ourselves, and it was in this way that I got to know you.'
'How?' exclaimed Jégu, filled with astonishment.
'Do you remember when you were digging in the field near the river, three months ago, you found a robin redbreast caught in a net?'
'Yes,' answered Jégu, 'I remember it very well, and I opened the net and let him go.'
'Well, I was that robin redbreast, and ever since I have vowed to be your friend, and as you want to marry Barbaïk, I will prove the truth of what I say by helping you to do so.'
'Ah! my little brownie, if you can do that, there is nothing I won't give you, except my soul.'
'Then let me alone,' rejoined the dwarf, 'and I promise you that in a very few months you shall be master of the farm and of Barbaïk.'
'But how are you going to do it?' exclaimed Jégu wonderingly.
'That is my affair. Perhaps I may tell you later. Meanwhile you just eat and sleep, and don't worry yourself about anything.'
Jégu declared that nothing could be easier, and then taking off his hat, he thanked the dwarf heartily, and led his horses back to the farm.
Next morning was a holiday, and Barbaïk was awake earlier than usual, as she wished to get through her work as soon as possible, and be ready to start for a dance which was to be held some distance off. She went first to the cow-house, which it was her duty to keep clean, but to her amazement she found fresh straw put down, the racks filled with hay, the cows milked, and the pails standing neatly in a row.
'Of course, Jégu must have done this in the hope of my giving him a dance,' she thought to herself, and when she met him outside the door she stopped and thanked him for his help. To be sure, Jégu only replied roughly that he didn't know what she was talking about, but this answer made her feel all the more certain that it was he and nobody else.
The same thing took place every day, and never had the cow-house been so clean nor the cows so fat. Morning and evening Barbaïk found her earthen pots full of milk and a pound of butter freshly churned, ornamented with leaves. At the end of a few weeks she grew so used to this state of affairs that she only got up just in time to prepare breakfast.
Soon even this grew to be unnecessary, for a day arrived when, coming downstairs, she discovered that the house was swept, the furniture polished, the fire lit, and the food ready, so that she had nothing to do except to ring the great bell which summoned the labourers from the fields to come and eat it. This, also, she thought was the work of Jégu, and she could not help feeling that a husband of this sort would be very useful to a girl who liked to lie in bed and to amuse herself.
Indeed, Barbaïk had only to express a wish for it to be satisfied. If the wind was cold or the sun was hot and she was afraid to go out lest her complexion should be spoilt, she need only to run down to the spring close by and say softly, 'I should like my churns to be full, and my wet linen to be stretched on the hedge to dry,' and she need never give another thought to the matter.
If she found the rye bread too hard to bake, or the oven taking too long to heat, she just murmured, 'I should like to see my six loaves on the shelf above the bread box,' and two hours after there they were.
If she was too lazy to walk all the way to market along a dirty road, she would say out loud the night before, 'Why am I not already back from Morlaix with my milk pot empty, my butter bowl inside it, a pound of wild cherries on my wooden plate, and the money I have gained in my apron pocket?' and in the morning when she got up, lo and behold! there were standing at the foot of her bed the empty milk pot with the butter bowl inside, the black cherries on the wooden plate, and six new pieces of silver in the pocket of her apron. And she believed that all this was owing to Jégu, and she could no longer do without him, even in her thoughts.
When things had reached this pass, the brownie told the young man that he had better ask Barbaïk to marry him, and this time the girl did not turn rudely away, but listened patiently to the end. In her eyes he was as ugly and awkward as ever, but he would certainly make a most useful husband, and she could sleep every morning till breakfast time, just like a young lady, and as for the rest of the day, it would not be half long enough for all she meant to do. She would wear the beautiful dresses that came when she wished for them, and visit her neighbours, who would be dying of envy all the while, and she would be able to dance as much as she wished. Jégu would always be there to work for her, and save for her, and watch over her. So, like a well-brought-up girl, Barbaïk answered that it should be as her father pleased, knowing quite well that old Riou had often said that after he was dead there was no one so capable of carrying on the farm.
The marriage took place the following month, and a few days later the old man died quite suddenly. Now Jégu had everything to see to himself, and somehow it did not seem so easy as when the farmer was alive. But once more the brownie stepped in, and was better than ten labourers. It was he who ploughed and sowed and reaped, and if, as happened occasionally, it was needful to get the work done quickly, the brownie called in some of his friends, and as soon as it was light a host of little dwarfs might have been seen in the fields, busy with hoe, fork or sickle. But by the time the people were about all was finished, and the little fellows had disappeared.
And all the payment the brownie ever asked for was a bowl of broth.
From the very day of her marriage Barbaïk had noted with surprise and rage that things ceased to be done for her as they had been done all the weeks and months before. She complained to Jégu of his laziness, and he only stared at her, not understanding what she was talking about. But the brownie, who was standing by, burst out laughing, and confessed that all the good offices she spoke of had been performed by him, for the sake of Jégu, but that now he had other business to do, and it was high time that she looked after her house herself.
Barbaïk was furious. Each morning when she was obliged to get up before dawn to milk the cows and go to market, and each evening when she had to sit up till midnight in order to churn the butter, her heart was filled with rage against the brownie who had caused her to expect a life of ease and pleasure. But when she looked at Jégu and beheld his red face, squinting eyes, and untidy hair, her anger was doubled.
'If it had not been for you, you miserable dwarf!' she would say between her teeth, 'if it had not been for you I should never have married that man, and I should still have been going to dances, where the young men would have brought me presents of nuts and cherries, and told me that I was the prettiest girl in the parish. While now I can receive no presents except from my husband. I can never dance, except with my husband. Oh, you wretched dwarf, I will never, never forgive you!'
In spite of her fierce words, no one knew better than Barbaïk how to put her pride in her pocket when it suited her, and after receiving an invitation to a wedding, she begged the brownie to get her a horse to ride there. To her great joy he consented, bidding her set out for the city of the dwarfs and to tell them exactly what she wanted. Full of excitement, Barbaïk started on her journey. It was not long, and when she reached the town she went straight to the dwarfs, who were holding counsel in a wide green place, and said to them, 'Listen, my friends! I have come to beg you to lend me a black horse, with eyes, a mouth, ears, bridle and saddle.'
She had hardly spoken when the horse appeared, and mounting on his back she started for the village where the wedding was to be held.
At first she was so delighted with the chance of a holiday from the work which she hated, that she noticed nothing, but very soon it struck her as odd that as she passed along the roads full of people they all laughed as they looked at her horse. At length she caught some words uttered by one man to another, 'Why, the farmer's wife has sold her horse's tail!' and turned in her saddle. Yes; it was true. Her horse had no tail! She had forgotten to ask for one, and the wicked dwarfs had carried out her orders to the letter!
'Well, at any rate, I shall soon be there,' she thought, and shaking the reins, tried to urge the horse to a gallop. But it was of no use; he declined to move out of a walk; and she was forced to hear all the jokes that were made upon her.
In the evening she returned to the farm more angry than ever, and quite determined to revenge herself on the brownie whenever she had the chance, which happened to be very soon.
It was the spring, and just the time of year when the dwarfs held their fête, so one day the brownie asked Jégu if he might bring his friends to have supper in the great barn, and whether he would allow them to dance there. Of course, Jégu was only too pleased to be able to do anything for the brownie, and he ordered Barbaïk to spread her best table-cloths in the barn, and to make a quantity of little loaves and pancakes, and, besides, to keep all the milk given by the cows that morning. He expected she would refuse, as he knew she hated the dwarfs, but she said nothing, and prepared the supper as he had bidden her.
When all was ready, the dwarfs, in new green suits, came bustling in, very happy and merry, and took their seats at the table. But in a moment they all sprang up with a cry, and ran away screaming, for Barbaïk had placed pans of hot coals under their feet, and all their poor little toes were burnt.
'You won't forget that in a hurry,' she said, smiling grimly to herself, but in a moment they were back again with large pots of water, which they poured on the fire. Then they joined hands and danced round it, singing:
Wicked traitress, Barbe Riou,
Our poor toes are burned by you;
Now we hurry from your hall —
Bad luck light upon you all.
That evening they left the country for ever, and Jégu, without their help, grew poorer and poorer, and at last died of misery, while Barbaïk was glad to find work in the market of Morlaix.
