LITTLE MEN AND TREASURES OF GOLD
And will you come away, my lad,
And search for Fairy-Treasure?
The pots of gold and diamond-heaps
Lie buried without measure.
And Little Men with wagging beards,
Guard all with Elfin-spell.
And you must catch a Little Man;
Then he the Word will tell,
The Magic Word that opes the hills,
Unearths the Golden Crocks,
Uncloses all the Treasure-Caves,
And breaks the Fairy-Locks!
THE BOY WHO FOUND THE POTS OF GOLD
From Ireland
There was once a poor boy who used to drive his cart along the road, and sell turf to the neighbours. He was a strange boy, very silent, and spent his evenings in his little hut, where he lived alone, reading old bits of books he had picked up in his rambles. And as he read, he longed to be rich and live in a fine house with a garden all round him, and to have plenty of books.
Now he once read how the Fairies’ Shoemakers, the Leprechauns—merry, tricksy little sprites—sit at sunset under the hedges mending the shoes of Elfin Folk. And how they chuckle as they work, for they know where the pots of Fairy Gold are hidden.
So, evening after evening, the boy watched the hedges hoping to catch a glimpse of a little cobbler, and to hear the click-clack of his tiny hammer.
At last, one evening, just as the sun was setting, the boy saw a little Leprechaun sitting under a dock-leaf, and working away hard on a small boot. He was dressed in green and wore a red cap on his head. The boy jumped down from his cart, and catching the Leprechaun by the neck, cried merrily:—
“Ho! Ho! My fine little man, you can’t get away until you tell me where the Fairy Gold is hidden!”
“Easy now!” said the little man, laughing. “Don’t hurt me, and I’ll tell you all about it. I could harm you, if I wished, for I have the power; but I like you, and you are an industrious lad. So carry me to yonder fort, and I’ll show you the gold.”
Carrying the Leprechaun carefully, the boy took a few steps, and found himself close to the ruins of an old fort. A door opened in a stone wall, and he walked in.
“Now look around,” said the Leprechaun.
Then the boy saw that the whole ground was covered with gold pieces, while pots full of gold and silver money stood about in such plenty that it seemed as if all the riches of the world were there.
“Take what you want,” said the Leprechaun, “and be quick about it; for if the door shuts you will never leave this place alive.”
The boy hurried, and gathered his arms full of gold and silver, and hastening out of the door, flung all into the cart. Then he brought out some of the pots; but when he was on his way back for more, the door shut with a clap like thunder, and night fell, and all was dark.
The boy saw no more of the Leprechaun; and as he could not even thank him, he thought that it was best to drive home at once and hide his treasure.
When he reached his hut, he counted all the bright yellow pieces and shining silver ones, and found that he was as rich as a king. And because he was wise, he told no one about his adventure, but the next day drove to town and put all his money in the bank.
After that he ordered a fine house, and laid out a spacious garden, and had servants, and carriages, and many books. Then he married the daughter of a magistrate, and became great and powerful. His memory is still held in reverence by his townspeople. His descendants are living rich and happy; and no matter how much they give to the poor, their wealth always increases.
THE RAGWEED
From Ireland
Tom was as clean, clever, and tight looking a lad as any in the whole county Cork. One fine holiday in harvest-time, he was taking a ramble and was sauntering along the sunny side of a hedge, when suddenly he heard a crackling sound among the leaves.
“Dear me!” said he, “but isn’t it really surprising to hear the stone-chats singing so late in the season!”
And with that he stole along, going on the tips of his toes, to see if he could get sight of what was making the noise. He looked sharply under the bushes, and what should he see in a nook in the hedge but a big brown pitcher holding a gallon or more of dark looking liquor. And standing close to it was a little, diny, dony bit of an old man as big as your thumb, with a tiny cocked hat stuck on the top of his head, and a deesy, daushy, leather apron hanging down before him.
The little old man pulled a little brown stool from under the hedge, and, standing upon it, dipped a little cup into the pitcher. Then he took the cup out, full of the brown liquor, and putting it on the ground, sat down on the stool under the shadow of the pitcher. He began to put a heel-piece on a bit of a boot just the size for himself.
“Bless my soul!” said Tom to himself, in great surprise, “I’ve often heard tell of the Leprechauns, but I never rightly believed in them! But here’s one in real earnest! Now if I set about things right, I’m a made man! Folks say that a body must never take his eyes off them or they’ll get away.”
So Tom stole nearer, with his eyes fixed on the little man, just as a cat does with a mouse. And when he got close up to him, he said softly:—
“How goes your work, neighbour?”
The little man raised his head. “Very well, thank you kindly,” said he.
“I’m surprised that you should be working on a holiday,” said Tom.
“That’s my own business, not yours,” said the little man.
“Well, will you be civil enough to tell me what’s in your pitcher?” said Tom.
“That I will, with pleasure,” said the little man. “’Tis Elfin beer.”
“Elfin beer!” said Tom. “Thunder and fire! Where did you get it?”
“Why I made it—I made it of heath,” said the little man.
“Of heath!” said Tom bursting out laughing. “And will you give a body a taste of it?” asked he.
“I’ll tell you what it is, young man,” said the Leprechaun, “it would be fitter for you to be looking after your cows that have broken into the oats yonder, than to stand here asking honest folks foolish questions!”
Tom was so taken by surprise at this, that he was just going to turn his head to look for the cows, when he remembered not to take his eyes off the Leprechaun. Instead, he made a grab at the little man and caught him up in his hand; but, as bad luck would have it, he overturned the pitcher with his foot, and all the liquor was spilt.
“You little rogue!” cried he, shaking the Leprechaun hard, and looking very wicked and angry. “Tell me where your gold is hidden, and show me all your money!”
At that the little man was quite frightened. “Come along with me,” said he, “and I’ll show you a crock of gold in a field over there.”
So they went, Tom holding the Leprechaun very tightly, and never taking his eyes off him. They crossed hedges and ditches and a crooked bit of bog, until they came to a great field of ragweed. Then the Leprechaun pointed to one of the weeds, and said:—
“Dig under that, and you’ll get a crock full of guineas.”
As Tom had no spade with him, he thought to himself: “I’ll run home and fetch one. And so that I’ll know the place again, I’ll tie my garter around this weed.”
So he tied his red garter around the ragweed.
“I suppose,” said the Leprechaun politely, “that now you have no further use for me.”
“No,” said Tom, “you may go, if you wish. And thank you very kindly,” he said, laughing loudly, “for showing me where all your money lies!”
“Well, good-bye to you, Tom,” said the little man, “and much good may it do you, what you’ll get,” said he; and with that he jumped behind the weed, and vanished.
So Tom ran home for dear life and fetched a spade, and then back as hard as he could go to the field.
But when he got there, lo, and behold! not a ragweed in the whole field but had a red garter, just like his own, tied to it! And as for digging up that whole field, it was out of the question, for there were more than forty good Irish acres in it.
So Tom went home again with his spade, a little cooler, and, you may be sure, ashamed to tell any one about the neat turn the Leprechaun had served him.
THE BAD BOY AND THE LEPRECHAUN
From Ireland
Now, it is well known that if a Leprechaun is offended he can be most malicious. So one must treat him politely, or he will not reveal where the pots of Fairy Gold are hidden.
It happened one afternoon that a lad was working in the fields when he heard at his feet, “Rip! Rap! Tick! Tack!” and looking down he saw a little fellow no bigger than his hand sitting under a burdock-leaf, mending shoes. He grabbed him up, and putting him in his pocket, ran home. There was no one in the house, so he tied the Leprechaun to the hob, saying:—
“Tell me, you little rogue, where I may find a pot of gold.”
“That I will not tell you,” replied the Leprechaun, “unless you let me go, so that I may finish cobbling the Elfin King’s shoes.”
“I’ll make you tell me now where the gold is!” said the lad.
And with that he built a rousing fire under the Leprechaun to roast him.
“Oh, take me off! Take me off!” yelled the little fellow, “and I’ll tell you! Just go to the burdock-leaf under which I was sitting, and there is the pot of gold. Only go, dig, and find it, before the sun sets.”
The lad was so delighted that, without stopping to untie the Leprechaun, he ran out of the house. It happened that his mother was just coming in with a pail of new milk. He hit the pail and spilt the milk on the floor, but he ran on laughing. And when his mother saw the Leprechaun struggling on the hob, she was furiously angry.
“See what bad luck you have brought us, you rogue!” she cried. And with that she untied the little fellow and kicked him out of the house.
But the lad ran on until he came to the burdock-leaf; and he dug, and dug, and dug, but there was no pot of gold there, for the sun had set. So he started sorrowfully for home, and just as he was passing an old fort he heard laughter, and a squeaky voice crying out:—
“That boy is looking for a pot of gold! ha! ha! But little does he know that a whole crock full is lying at the bottom of the old quarry. Only he must go to fetch it at midnight, and he must not take his mother with him.”
When the lad heard this he hurried home and told his mother. At midnight he started out, after ordering her to stay in the house. But as soon as he was gone she thought to herself: “I’ll get to the quarry before he does, and find and keep the gold!”
So she ran by a shorter way, and when she reached the edge of the quarry she slipped on a stone, fell to the bottom, and broke her leg. And there she lay groaning dreadfully.
Soon the lad came along, and just as he was going to climb down he heard some one groan.
“What’s below?” he cried in a fright. “Is it evil? Is it good?”
“It’s your mother with a broken leg,” groaned she.
“And is this my pot of gold!” exclaimed the lad, angrily.
And with that he ran for a neighbour, and together they drew the woman up and took her home. And from that day on she was lame.
As for the Leprechaun, he is still sitting under the burdock-leaf, and he laughs at the lad and his mother, as he mends his little shoes with his tiny hammer, Rip! Rap! Tick! Tack!—but they are afraid to touch him, for they know he can punish them badly.
TOM AND THE KNOCKERS
From Cornwall
From the time that Tom was old enough to handle pick and shovel, he had worked in the tin mines. And very lucky he was, always finding rich lodes of tin, or stumbling on heaps of Cornish diamonds that some unknown hands had piled up to carry off.
One night Tom was working hard in an old mine—a very ancient mine indeed—when he heard sounds like those of tiny shovels and picks.
“’Tis the Knockers!” said Tom to himself, and he listened quietly. Then he heard, as if only two or three yards away, little miners doing all sorts of underground work. Some were wheeling barrows, others were shovelling; and he could distinguish even the sounds of boring, swabbing the holes, and blasting.
The noises came nearer and nearer, and Tom heard distinctly many squeaky voices all talking at once, and strange cackling laughter. He grew quite savage listening to all this clatter, and to the squeaking and tee-hee-ing; and being a rash fellow, he struck the wall before him violently with his pick, and threw a handful of stones in the direction where the Knockers seemed to be working.
“Scat!” he shouted, “or I’ll beat your brains out, I will, if you don’t leave here!”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when a shower of stones fell all around him, and on him, and frightened him nearly out of his senses. Still he was resolved to work there until morning and so he kept on using his pick for about an hour. Then, as his candle was burned out, he stopped, lit another, and sat down to eat his breakfast.
He had almost finished his bread and cheese, when he heard many little squeaking voices, some far away, and others close to him, crying out:—
“Tom! Tom! Leave us a bite of your breakfast, or bad luck to you, to-morrow, Tom!”
At first he could not make out the words, only his own name, then the cries sounded very plain, and he was angry. “Leave the little rogues a bite of my good breakfast!” thought he, “not a crumb of it do they get!” And with that he ate the last morsel.
Then he heard the little voices squeaking louder than before:—
“Tom! Tom! We’ll send you bad luck to-morrow, Tom! you greedy creature not to leave a single crumb for the Knockers!”
And they kept on squeaking, and tee-heeing in a mocking way; but getting farther and farther in the distance until they were quite gone.
Then Tom felt tired and drowsy, and lay down on the floor to sleep awhile.
When he waked, the place was very still. He rubbed his eyes, and saw a score of Knockers leaning on their tools, and standing in a circle around him. They were little, withered old men, with legs like drum-sticks, and arms longer and thinner than their legs. They kept nodding their great ugly heads, squinting their horrid eyes, wriggling their hooked noses, and grinning from ear to ear.
Tom lay there trembling and frightened almost to death. Then the oldest and ugliest of the Knockers came close to him, and stooping, made the most horrid grimaces in Tom’s face; while all the others lolled out their tongues, and rolled themselves into balls, and grinned at him from between their spindle-legs.
Then Tom saw that his candle was sputtering and just going out, and he sprang to his feet to light another. As he did so, all the little men vanished. They seemed to melt away one into the other like puffs of smoke.
Feeling very stiff and tired, Tom mounted the ladders, and left the mine. When he told the old tinners what he had seen, they were not surprised, for it was well known among them that the mine Tom had been working in was the abode of troops of Knockers. But the tinners, one and all, blamed Tom for speaking to the little men in an unfriendly way, and for not leaving them a bite of his breakfast.
From that time on, all Tom’s luck was gone. The mines closed down, and his money went, and he was hurt by a fall. And though he tried hard to find the Knockers again, so that he might feed them well, he never saw one, nor even heard the sounds of their picks and shovels in the mine.
THE KNOCKERS’ DIAMONDS
From Cornwall
JACK THE TINNER’S STORY
One night I was working away for dear life, in yonder old tin mine. I was in good heart, because at every stroke of my tool I heard three or four clicks from Knockers who were working ahead. By the sounds they seemed to be very near.
Just then a hard stroke of my pick broke open the rock in front of me, and I saw into a large grotto. The light of my candle fell on its walls, and my eyes were dazzled by the glistening of bunches of diamonds and crystals of all colours that hung down from the roof, and encrusted the sides.
While I was rubbing my eyes, I saw three little Knockers. They were no bigger than sixpenny dolls, yet their faces were old and strange. The eldest one was sitting on a stone, his jacket off, and his shirt-sleeves rolled up. Between his knees he held a tiny anvil, and he was sharpening a borer about the size of a needle, for one of the Knockers. The third little fellow was awaiting his turn, pick-axe in hand.
When the Knocker-smith had finished sharpening the borer, he rested his hammer on the anvil, and looked toward me.
“What cheer, comrade?” he said. “I could not think from where the cold wind was coming. The draught from your hole has blown out my light.”
“Oh! Good-morning! Is that you? How are you?” said I. “And how is the rest of your family? I am glad to see you. I’ll fetch you my candle in a minute, that you may see better. In fact, I’ll give you a pound of candles, my dear, with all my heart, if you want them,” said I.
In less than no time I put my hand through the hole to give him my candle, when, what do you think?—there wasn’t a Knocker in sight!
“Where are they gone?” thought I. Then I heard them somewhere in the lode ahead, tee-heeing, and cackling, and squeaking like young rabbits.
And there I was left in their pretty workshop, with bunches of diamonds all around me. I laid my coat on the floor, and filled it with diamonds and coloured crystals, and then hurried out of the mine. But when I went back to get some more, the rocks had caved in, and I never could find the grotto again.
SKILLYWIDDEN
From Cornwall
Every one knows that before King Arthur ruled in Britain, the Danes conquered Cornwall. Then many of the rich Cornish folk buried their gold and treasures, and fled to the land of Wales. A few years after that King Arthur came with his knights, and drove the Danes out of Cornwall. Then the folk came back, but never again could they find their buried treasures. And to-day none but the Spriggans know where the gold is hidden.
Well, one morning not very long ago Uncle Billy of Trevidga was out on the side of a hill, cutting away the furze that was as high as his head, with bare places here and there covered with white clover, heath, and whortleberries. Uncle Billy was working hard, when he spied the prettiest little creature, a real little man, not bigger than a kitten, sleeping on a bank of wild thyme. He was dressed in a green coat, sky-blue breeches, and diamond-buckled shoes. His tiny cocked hat was drawn over his face, to shade it from the sun.
Uncle Billy stooped and looked at him, and longed to carry him home to his children, for he had a houseful of little ones, boys and girls. So he took off his cuff, and slipped it quickly over the Spriggan—for a Spriggan it was that lay there—before he could wake.
The little fellow opened his pretty eyes, and said in a sleepy voice: “Mammy! Where are you? Mammy! Daddy!” Then he saw Uncle Billy looking at him. “Who are you?” he said. “You’re a fine, great giant! I want my Mammy! Can you find her for me?”
“I do not know where she is,” answered Uncle Billy. “But come home with me, and play with my children, until your Mammy finds you.”
“Very well,” said the Spriggan. “I love to ride goats over the rocks, and to have milk and blackberries for supper. Will you give me some?”
“Yes, my son,” said Uncle Billy; and with that he picked up the Spriggan gently, and carried him home.
Well, you should have seen the children! They were so happy to own a Spriggan! They set the little fellow on the hearth, and he played with them as if he had known them always. Uncle Billy and his wife were delighted, and the children shouted for joy, when the pretty little man capered and jumped about. They called him Bobby Spriggan. Twice a day they gave him a wee mug of milk and a few blackberries, and now and then some haws for a change.
In the mornings, while Uncle Billy’s wife and the children were doing the housework, Bobby Spriggan sat perched on the faggots in the wood-corner, and sang and chirped away like a Robin Redbreast.
When the hearth was swept, and the kitchen made tidy, and Uncle Billy’s wife was knitting, Bobby would dance for hours on the hearthstone. The faster her needles clicked, the faster he danced and spun around and around. And the children laughed and clapped their hands, and danced with him.
A week or so after Bobby Spriggan had been found, Uncle Billy had to leave home. As he wished to keep the little fellow safe and sound until he told where the crocks of Cornish gold were hidden, Uncle Billy shut him up with the youngest children in the barn, and put a strong padlock on the door.
“Now stay in the barn and play,” called Uncle Billy to the children. “And don’t try to get out, or when I come home you’ll get a walloping,” said he, and then went away.
The children laughed a part of the time, and a part of the time they cried, for they did not like to be locked in the barn. But Bobby Spriggan was as merry as a cricket. He danced and sang, and peeped through the cracks in the wall at the men who were working in the fields. And when the men went to dinner, up jumped Bobby and unbarred a window.
“Come along, children!” he cried. “Now for a game of hide-and-seek in the furze!”
Then he sprang out the window, and the children followed after. And away they all ran to play in the furze.
They were shouting and throwing whortleberries about, when suddenly they saw a little man and woman no bigger than Bobby. The little man was dressed like Bobby, except that he wore high riding-boots with silver spurs. The little woman’s green gown was spangled with glittering stars. Diamond shoe-buckles shone on her high-heeled shoes, and her tiny steeple-crowned hat was perched on a pile of golden curls, wreathed with heath blossoms. The pretty little soul was weeping and wringing her hands, and crying:—
“O my dear, tender Skillywidden! Where canst thou be! Shall I never set eyes on thee again, my only one, my only joy?”
“Go back! Go back!” cried Bobby Spriggan to the children. Then he called out: “Here I am, Mammy!”
And just as he said, “Here I am,” the little man and the little woman, and Bobby Spriggan himself, who was their precious Skillywidden, vanished, and were seen no more.
The children cried and cried, and went home. And when Uncle Billy came back you may be sure that he whipped them all soundly. And it served them right, for if they had minded and stayed in the barn, Bobby Spriggan would have shown Uncle Billy where the Cornish gold was hidden.
THE LEPRECHAUN, OR FAIRY SHOEMAKER
Stranger
Little Cowboy, what have you heard,
Up on the lonely rath’s green mound?
Little Cowboy
Only the plaintive yellowbird
Sighing in sultry fields around,
“Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee!—”
Only the grasshopper and the bee.
Fairy Shoemaker (singing underground)
Tip-tap, rip-rap,
Tick-a-tack-too!
Scarlet leather, sewn together,
This will make a shoe.
Left, right, pull it tight;
Summer days are warm;
Underground in Winter,
Laughing at the storm!
Stranger
Lay your ear close to the hill.
Do you not catch the tiny clamour,
Busy click of an Elfin hammer,
Voice of the Leprechaun singing shrill
As he merrily plies his trade?
He’s a span
And a quarter in height.
Get him in sight, hold him tight,
And you’re a made
Man!
You watch your cattle the Summer day,
Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay;
How would you like to roll in your carriage,
Look for a Duchess’s daughter in marriage?
Seize the Shoemaker—then you may!
Fairy Shoemaker (singing underground)
Big boots a-hunting,
Sandals in the hall,
White for a wedding-feast,
Pink for a ball.
This way, that way,
So we make a shoe;
Getting rich every stitch,
Tick-a-tack-too!
Stranger
Nine-and-ninety treasure-crocks
This keen Miser-Fairy hath,
Hid in mountains, woods, and rocks,
Ruin and round-tow’r, cave and rath,
And where the cormorants build;
From times of old
Guarded by him;
Each of them filled
Full to the brim
With gold!
I caught him at work one day, myself,
In the castle-ditch, where Foxglove grows,—
A wrinkled, wizened, and bearded Elf,
Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose,
Silver buckles to his hose,
Leather apron—shoe in his lap—
Fairy Shoemaker (singing underground)
Rip-rap, tip-tap,
Tick-a-tack-too!
(A grasshopper on my cap!
Away the moth flew!)
Buskins for a Fairy Prince,
Brogues for his son,—
Pay me well, pay me well,
When the job is done!
Stranger
The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt.
I stared at him; he stared at me;
“Servant, sir!” “Humph!” says he,
And pulled a snuff-box out.
He took a long pinch, looked better pleased,
The queer little Leprechaun;
Offerèd the box with a whimsical grace,—
Pouf! he flung the dust in my face,
And, while I sneezed,
Was gone!
William Allingham
GLAD LITTLE, SAD LITTLE,
BAD LITTLE ELVES
Saint Francis and Saint Benedict,
Bless this house from wicked wight;
From the Night-mare and the Goblin
That is hight Good-Fellow Robin;
Keep it from all evil spirits,
Fairies, weasels, rats, and ferrets,
From curfew-time
To the next prime.
William Cartwright (1635?)
LITTLE REDCAP
From Ireland
Sure and it was in old Ireland, some years ago, that Tom Coghlan returned one evening to his house, expecting to find the fire blazing, the potatoes boiling, and his wife and children as merry as grigs. But, instead, the fire was out, his wife was scolding, and the children were all crying from hunger.
Poor Tom was quite astonished to find matters going on so badly, for, though there was a plenty of potatoes in the house, there wasn’t a single stick of wood for the fire. Something had to be done. And Tom bethought himself of the great furze-bushes that grew around the ruins of the old fort on top of the near-by hill. So he snatched up his axe and away he went.
Before he reached the top of the hill the sun had gone down, and the moon had risen and was shedding her wavering, watery light on the ruins of the old fort. The breeze rustled the dark furze-bushes with an eerie sound, and Tom shivered with dread. But he braced up his heart, and, approaching the fort, raised his axe to cut down a big bush. Just then, near him, he heard the shriek of a small, shrill voice.
Tom, startled, let the axe fall from his grasp, and, looking up, saw perched on the furze-bush in front of him a little old man, not more than a foot and a half high. He wore a red cap. His face was the colour of a withered mushroom, while his sparkling eyes, twinkling like diamonds in the dark, illuminated his distorted face. His thin legs dangled from his fat, round body.
“Ho! Ho!” said the Little Redcap, “is that what you’re after, Tom Coghlan? What did me and mine ever do to you that you should cut down our bushes?”
“Why, then, nothing at all, your honour!” said Tom, recovering a bit from his fright, “nothing at all! Only the children were crying from hunger, and I thought I’d make bold to cut a bush or two to boil the potatoes, for we haven’t a stick in the house.”
“You mustn’t cut down these bushes, Tom!” said the Little Redcap. “But, as you are an honest man, I’ll buy them from you, though I have a better right to them than you have. So, if you’ll take my advice, carry this mill home with you, and let the bushes alone,” said the Little Redcap, holding out a tiny stone mill for grinding meal.
“Mill, indeed!” said Tom, looking with astonishment at the thing, which was so small that he could have put it with ease into his breeches pocket. “Mill, indeed! And what good will a bit of a thing like that do me? Sure, it won’t boil the potatoes for the children!”
“What good will it do you?” said the Little Redcap. “I’ll tell you what good it will do you! It will make you and your family as fat and strong as so many stall-fed bullocks. And if it won’t boil the potatoes, it will do a great deal better, for you have only to grind it, and it will give you the greatest plenty of elegant meal. But if you ever sell any of the meal, that moment the mill will lose its power.”
“It’s a bargain,” said Tom. “So give me the mill, and you’re heartily welcome to the bushes.”
“There it is for you, Tom,” said the Little Redcap, throwing the mill down to him; “there it is for you, and much good may it do you! But remember you are not to sell the meal on any account.”
“Let me alone for that!” said Tom.
And then he made the best of his way home, where his wife was trying to comfort the children, wondering all the time what in the world was keeping Tom. And when she saw him return without so much as one stick of wood to boil the potatoes, her anger burst out. But Tom soon quieted her by placing the mill on the table and telling her how he had got it from the Little Redcap.
“We’ll try it directly,” said she. And they pulled the table into the middle of the floor, and commenced grinding away with the mill. Before long a stream of beautiful meal began pouring from it; and in a short time they had filled every dish and pail in the house. Tom’s wife was delighted, as you may believe, and the children managed the best they could for that night by eating plenty of raw meal.
Well, after that everything went very well with Tom and his family. The mill gave them all the meal they wanted, and they grew as fat and sleek as coach-horses. But one morning when Tom was away from home, his wife needed money. So she took a few pecks of the meal to town and sold it in the market.
And sorry enough she was, for that night, when Tom came home and began to grind the mill, not a speck of meal would come from it! He could not for the life of him find out the reason, for his wife was afraid to tell him about her selling the meal.
“Sure, and the little old fellow cheated me well!” thought Tom, as mad as a nest of hornets. So he put his axe under his arm, and away he went to the old fort, determined to punish the Little Redcap by cutting down his bushes. But scarcely had he lifted his axe, when the Little Redcap appeared, and mighty angry he was, too, that Tom should come cutting his bushes, after having made a fair bargain with him.
“You deceitful, little, ugly vagabond!” cried Tom, flourishing his axe, “to give me a mill that wasn’t worth a sixpence! If you don’t give me a good one for it, I’ll cut down every bush!”
“What a blusterer you are, Tom!” said the Little Redcap, “but you’d better be easy and let the bushes alone, or maybe you’ll pay for it! Deceive you, indeed! Didn’t I tell you that mill would lose its power if you sold any of the meal?”
“And sure and I didn’t, either,” said Tom.
“Well, it’s all one for that,” answered the Little Redcap, “for if you didn’t, your wife did. And as to giving you another mill, it’s out of the question. For the one I gave you was the only one in the fort. And a hard battle we had to get it away from another party of the Good People! But I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you, Tom; let the bushes alone, and I’ll make a doctor of you.”
“A doctor, indeed!” said Tom. “Maybe it’s a fool you’re making of me!”
But it was no such thing, for the Little Redcap gave Tom Coghlan a charm so that he could cure any sick person. And Tom took it home, and became a great man with a very full purse. He gave good schooling to his children. One of them he made a grand butter-merchant in the city of Cork, and the youngest son—being ever and always a well-spoken lad—he made a lawyer; and his two daughters married well.
And Tom is as happy as a man can be!
THE CURMUDGEON’S SKIN
From Ireland
It is well known in old Ireland that a Four-leaved Shamrock has the power to open a man’s eyes so that he can see all kinds of enchantments, and this is what happened to Billy Thompson:—
One misfortune after another decreased his goods. His sheep died; and his pig got the measles, so that he was obliged to sell it for little or nothing. But still he had his cow.
“Well,” said Billy to his wife, for he was a good-humoured fellow, and always made the best of things,—“Well!” said he, “it can’t be helped! Anyhow, we’ll not want the drop of milk to our potatoes, as long as the cow’s left to comfort us!”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when a neighbour came running up to tell him that his cow had fallen from a cliff, and was lying dead in the Horses’ Glen. For Billy, you must know, had sent his cow that very morning to graze on the cliff.
“Och! Ullagone!” cried Billy. “What’ll we do now! Och! you cruel, unnatural beast as to clift yourself, when you knowed as well as myself that we couldn’t do without you at all! For sure enough now the children will be crying for the drop of milk to their potatoes!”
Such was Billy’s lament, as with a sorrowful heart he made the best of his way to the Horses’ Glen. “Anyway,” thought he, “I’ll skin the carcass, and the meat will make fine broth for the children.”
It took him some time to find where the poor beast was lying, but at last he did find her, all smashed to pieces at the foot of a big rock. And he began to skin her as fast as he could, but having no one to help him, by the time the job was finished, the sun had gone down.
Now Billy was so intent on his work that he did not perceive the lapse of time, but when he raised his head and saw the darkness coming on, and listened to the murmuring wind, all the tales he had ever heard of the Pooka, the Banshee, and Little Redcap, the mischievous Fairy, floated through his mind, and made him want to get home as fast as possible. He snatched a tuft of grass, wiped his knife, and seized hold of the hide.
It so happened that in the little tuft of grass with which Billy wiped his knife was a Four-leaved Shamrock. And whether from grief or fear, Billy, instead of throwing away the grass, put it in his pocket along with his knife. And when he stood up and turned to take a last look at the carcass he saw, instead of his poor cow, a little old Curmudgeon sitting bolt upright, looking as if he had just been skinned alive!
“Billy Thompson! Billy Thompson,” cried the little old fellow in a shrill, squeaking voice. “You spalpeen! You’d better come back with my skin! A pretty time of day we’ve come to, when a gentleman like me cannot take a bit of sleep but a rude fellow must come and strip the hide off him! But you’d better bring it back, Billy Thompson, or I’ll make you remember how you dared to skin me, you spalpeen!”
Now Billy, though he was greatly frightened, remembered that he had a black-handled knife in his pocket, and whoever has that, ’tis said, can look all the Fairies of the world in the face without quaking. So he put his hand on the knife, and began backing away, with the skin under his arm.
“Why, then, your honour,” said he, “if it’s this skin you’re wanting, you must know it’s the skin of my poor cow that was clifted yonder there. And sore and sorrowful the children will be for the want of her little drop of milk!”
“Why, then, if that’s what you’d be after, Billy, my boy,” said the little fellow, at the same time jumping before him with the speed of a greyhound, “do you think I’m such a fool as to let you walk off with my skin? If you don’t drop it in the turn of a hand, you’ll sup sorrow!”
“Nonsense!” said Billy, drawing out his black-handled knife, and holding it so the little man could see it. “Never a one of me will let you have this skin till you give me back my cow. I know well enough she was not clifted at all, at all, and that you and the other Curmudgeons have got hold of her!”
“You’d better keep a civil tongue in your head,” said the little fellow, who seemed to get quite soft at the sight of the knife. “But you’re a brave boy, Billy Thompson, and I’ve taken a fancy to you! I don’t say but I might get you your cow again, if you’ll give me back my skin.”
“Thank you kindly,” said Billy, winking slyly. “Give me the cow first; then I will.”
“Well, there she is for you, you unbelieving hound!” said the little Curmudgeon.
And for sure and for certain, what did Billy Thompson hear but his own cow bellowing behind him for the bare life! And when he looked back what should he see but his cow running over rocks and stones with a long rope hanging to one of her legs, and four little fellows, with red caps on them, hunting her as fast as they could!
“There’ll be a battle for her, Billy! There’ll be a battle!” laughed the little Curmudgeon.
And sure enough, the little Redcaps began to fight, and in the meantime the cow, finding herself at liberty, ran towards Billy, who lost not a minute, but, throwing the skin on the ground, seized the cow by the tail and began to drive her away.
“Not so fast, Billy!” said the little Curmudgeon, who stuck close by his side; “not so fast! Though I gave you the cow, I didn’t give you the rope that’s hanging to her leg.”
“A bargain’s a bargain,” said Billy, “so as I’ve got it, I’ll keep rope and all.”
“If you say that again,” said the little fellow, “I’ll be after calling the Redcaps that are fighting below there. But I don’t want to be too hard on you, Billy, for if you have a mind for the rope, I’ll give it to you for the little tuft of grass you have in your pocket.”
“There, take it,” said Billy, throwing down the grass with the Four-leaved Shamrock in it.
No sooner was it out of his hand than he received such a blow that it dashed him to the ground, insensible. When he came to himself, the sun was shining, and where should he be but near his own house with the cow grazing beside him? Billy Thompson could hardly believe his eyes, and thought it was all a dream, till he saw the rope hanging to his cow’s leg.
And that was a lucky rope for him! For, from that day out, his cow gave more milk than any six cows in the parish, and Billy began to look up in the world. He took farms, and purchased cattle till he became very rich. But no one could ever get him to go to the Horses’ Glen. And to-day he never passes an old fort, or hears a blast of wind, without taking off his hat in compliment to the Good People; and ’tis only right that he should.
JUDY AND THE FAIRY CAT
From Ireland
Late one Hallowe’en an old woman was sitting up spinning. There came a soft knock at the door.
“Who’s there?” asked she.
There was no answer, but another knock.
“Who’s there?” she asked a second time.
Still no answer, but a third knock. At that the old woman got up in anger.
“Who’s there?” she cried.
A small voice, like a child’s, sobbed: “Ah, Judy dear, let me in! I am so cold and hungry! Open the door, Judy dear, and let me sit by the fire and dry myself! Judy dear, let me in! Oh—let—me—in!”
Judy, thinking that it must be a small child who had lost its way, ran to the door, and opened it. In walked a large Black Cat waving her tail, and two black kittens followed her. They walked deliberately across the floor, and sat down before the fire, and began to warm themselves and lick their fur, purring all the time. Judy never said a word, but closed the door, and went back to her spinning.
At last the Black Cat spoke.
“Judy dear,” said she, “do not sit up so late. This is the Fairies’ holiday, and they wish to hold a counsel in your kitchen, and eat their supper here. They are very angry because you are still up, and they cannot come in. Indeed, Judy, they are determined to kill you. Only for myself and my two daughters, you would now be dead. So take my advice and do not interfere with the Fairies’ Hallowe’en. But give me some milk, for I must be off.”
Well, Judy got up in a great fright and ran as fast as she could, and brought three saucers full of milk, and set them on the floor before the cats. They lapped up all the milk, then the Black Cat called her daughters and stood up.
“Thank you, Judy dear,” she said. “You have been very civil to me, and I’ll not forget. Good night! Good night!”
And with that she and her kittens whisked up the chimney, and were gone.
Then Judy saw something shining on the hearth. She picked it up; it was a piece of silver money, more than she could earn in a month. She put out the light, and went to bed; and never again did she sit up late on Hallowe’en and interfere with Fairy hours.
THE BOGGART
From Yorkshire
Once upon a time a Boggart lived in a farmer’s house. He was a mischievous Elf, and specially fond of teasing the children. When they were eating their supper, he would make himself invisible, and, standing back of their chairs, would snatch away their bread and butter and drain their mugs of milk. On cold nights he would pull the clothes from their warm beds and tickle their feet.
And the children liked to tease the Boggart in return. There was a closet in the kitchen with a large knot-hole in its wall behind which the Boggart lived. The children used to stick a shoehorn into the hole; and the Boggart would throw it back at them. The shoehorn made the little man so angry that one day he threw it at the youngest boy’s head and hurt him badly.
At length the Boggart became such a torment that the farmer and his wife decided to move to another place and let the mischievous creature have their house to himself.
The day of the moving came. All the furniture was piled into a wagon, and a neighbour called to say good-bye. “So, farmer,” said he, “you are leaving the old house at last!”
“Heigh-ho!” sighed the farmer, “I am forced to do it. That villain Boggart torments us so that we have no rest night or day! He almost killed my youngest boy. So you see we are forced to flit.”
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when a squeaky voice cried from the bottom of the churn, that was in the wagon:—
“Aye! Aye! We’re flitting, you see!”
“Ods! Hang it!” cried the poor farmer. “There is that villain Boggart again! If he’s going along with us, I shall not stir a peg. Nay! Nay! It’s no use, Molly,” said he turning to his wife. “We may as well stay here in the old house as to be tormented in the new one that is not so convenient!”
And they stayed.
OWNSELF
From Northumberland
Once upon a time there was a widow and her little boy. Their home was a small cottage in the wood. The mother worked hard from early morning until evening, and she was so tired that she liked to go to bed early. But the little boy did not like to go to bed early at all.
One evening when his mother told him to undress, he begged her, saying: “I’m not sleepy. May I sit up just this once?”
“Very well,” said she. “Sit up if you wish, but if the Fairies catch you here alone, they will surely carry you off.” Then she went to bed.
The little boy laughed, and sat down on the hearth before the fire, watching the blaze and warming his hands.
By and by he heard a giggling and a laughing in the chimney, and the next minute he saw a tiny girl, as big as a doll, come tumbling down and jump on to the hearth in front of him.
At first the little boy was dreadfully frightened, but the tiny girl began to dance so prettily, and to nod her head at him in such a friendly way, that he forgot to be afraid.
“What do they call you, little girl?” said he.
“My name is Ownself,” said she proudly. “What is yours?”
“My name,” he answered, laughing very hard, “is My Ownself.”
Then the two children began to play together as if they had known each other all their lives. They danced, and they sang, and they roasted chestnuts before the fire, and they tickled the house-cat’s ears. Then the fire commenced to flicker, and it grew dimmer and dimmer; so the little boy took the poker and stirred up the embers. And a hot coal tumbled out and rolled on to Ownself’s tiny foot. And, oh! how she screamed! Then she wept, and flew into such a rage that the little boy got frightened and hid behind the door.
Just then a squeaky voice called down the chimney: “Ownself! Ownself! What wicked creature hurt you?”
“My Ownself! My Ownself!” she screamed back.
“Then come here, you troublesome little Fairy,” cried the voice angrily.
And a Fairy mother, slipper in hand, came hurrying down the chimney; and catching Ownself, she whipped her soundly and carried her off, saying:—
“What’s all this noise about, then? If you did it your ownself, there’s nobody to blame but yourself!”
THE SICK-BED ELVES
From China
Wang Little-Third-One lay stretched on his bed of bamboo laths, where a low fever kept him. He complained to every one, especially to his friend the Magician who came to see him.
The Magician was very wise, so he gave Wang a drink of something delicious and cool, and went away.
When Little-Third-One had drunk this, his fever fell, and he was able to enjoy a little sleep. He was awakened by a slight noise. The night was come. The room was lighted by the full moon, which threw a bright gleam through the open door.
Then he saw that the room was full of insects that were moving and flying hither and thither. There were white ants that gnaw wood, bad-smelling bugs, enormous cockroaches, mosquitoes, and many many flies. And they were all buzzing, gnashing their teeth, or falling.
As Little-Third-One looked, he saw something move on the threshold. A small man, not bigger than a thumb, advanced with cautious steps. In his hand he held a bow; a sword was hanging by his side.
Little-Third-One, looking closer, saw two dogs as big as shirt-buttons, running in front of the little man. They suddenly stopped. The archer approached nearer to the bed, and held out his bow, and discharged a tiny arrow. A cockroach that was crawling before the dogs, made a bound, fell on its back, kicked, and was motionless. The arrow had run through it.
Behind the little man, other little men had come. Some rode on small horses, and were armed with swords, and still others were on foot. All these huntsmen scattered about the room, and ran or rode, to and fro, shooting arrows, and brandishing their swords; until hundreds and hundreds of insects were killed. At first the mosquitoes escaped, but, as they cannot fly for long, every time one of them settled on the wall, it was transfixed by a huntsman.
Soon none were left of all the insects that had broken the silence with their buzzing, their gnashing of teeth, and their falling.
A horseman then galloped around the room, looking from right to left. He gave a signal. All the huntsmen called their dogs, went to the door, and disappeared.
Little-Third-One had not moved, for fear that he should disturb the hunt. At last he went peacefully to sleep, and woke the next day cured. When his friend the Magician came to see him, Little-Third-One told him about the mysterious huntsmen, and his friend the Magician smiled.
HOW PEEPING KATE WAS PISKEY-LED
From Cornwall
’Tis Hallowe’en Night, Teddy, my boy. Don’t go out on the moor, or near the Gump, for the Piskeys and the Spriggans are abroad, waiting to mislead straying mortals. Many are the men and women that the Little People have whisked away on Hallowe’en Night; and the poor mortals have never been heard of since.
Sit down, Teddy, my boy, crack these nuts, and eat these red apples; and I’ll tell you how Peeping Kate was Piskey-led.
I have heard the old folks say how long ago—maybe a hundred years or so—the Squire of Pendeen had a housekeeper, an elderly dame, called Kate Tregeer.
Well, one Hallowe’en Night, some spices and other small things were wanted for the feasten-tide, and Kate would not trust any one to go for them except herself. So she put on her red coat and high steeple-crowned hat, and walked to Penzance. She bought the goods and started for home.
It was a bright moonlight night, and though no wind was blowing, the leaves of the trees were murmuring with a hollow sound. And Kate could hear strange rustlings in the bushes by the side of the road.
She had walked a very long time, and her basket was so heavy that she began to feel tired. Her legs bent under her and she could scarcely stand up. Just then she beheld, a little in front of her, a man on horseback. And she could tell by the proud way he sat that he was a gentleman-born.
She was very glad to see him, and as he was going slowly, she soon overtook him; and when she came up, his horse stood stock-still.
“My dear Master,” she said, “how glad I am to see you. Don’t you know me? I’m Kate Tregeer of Pendeen; and I can’t tell you how hard I’ve worked all day.”
Then she explained to him how she had walked to Penzance, and was now so tired that she could not stand up. But the gentleman made no reply.
“My dear Master,” said she, “I’m footsore and leg-weary. I’ve got as far as here, you see, but I can get no farther. Do have pity on a poor unfortunate woman, and take her behind you. I can ride well enough on your horse’s back without a saddle or pillion.”
But still the gentleman made no reply.
“My dear Master,” she said again, “My! but you’re a fine-looking man! How upright you sit on your horse! But why don’t you answer me? Are you asleep? One would think you were taking a nap; and your horse, too, it is standing so still!”
Not having any word in reply to this fine speech, Kate called out as loud as she could: “Even if you are a gentleman-born, you needn’t be so stuck-up that you won’t speak to a poor body afoot!”
Still he never spoke, though Kate thought that she saw him wink at her.
This vexed her the more. “The time was when the Tregeers were among the first in the parish, and were buried with the gentry! Wake up and speak to me!” screamed she in a rage. And then she took up a stone, and threw it at the horse. The stone rolled back to her feet, and the animal did not even whisk its tail.
Kate now got nearer, and saw that the rider had no hat on, nor was there any hair on his bald head. She touched the horse, and felt nothing but a bunch of furze. She rubbed her eyes and saw at once, to her great astonishment, that it was no gentleman and horse at all, only a smooth stone half buried in a heap of furze. And there she was still far away from Pendeen, with her heavy basket, and her legs so tired that she could scarcely move. And then she saw that she had come a short distance only, and knew that she must be bewitched.
Well, on she went; and seeing a light at her left hand she thought that it shone from the window of a house where she might rest awhile. So she made for it straight across the moor, floundering through bogs, and tripping over bunches of furze. And still the light was always just ahead, and it seemed to move from side to side. Then suddenly it went out, and she was left standing in a bog. The next minute she found herself among furze-ricks and pigsties, in the yard of Farmer Boslow, miles away from Pendeen.
She opened the door of an old outhouse, and entered, hoping to get a few hours’ rest. There she lay down on straw and fell asleep; but she was soon wakened by some young pigs who were rooting around in the straw. That was too much for Kate. So up she got, and as she did so she heard the noise of a flail. And seeing a glimmer of light in a barn near by, she crept softly to a little window in the barn, and peeped to find what was going on.
At first she could see only two rush-wicks burning in two old iron lamps. Then through the dim light she saw the slash-flash of a flail as it rose and fell, and beat the barn floor. She stood on tiptoes, and stuck her head in farther, and whom did she see, wielding the flail, but a little old man, about three feet high, with hair like a bunch of rushes, and ragged clothes. His face was broader than it was long, and he had great owl-eyes shaded by heavy eyebrows from which his nose poked like a pig’s snout. Kate noticed that his teeth were crooked and jagged, and that at each stroke of the flail, he kept moving his thin lips around and around, and thrusting his tongue in and out. His shoulders were broad enough for a man twice his height, and his feet were splayed like a frog’s.
“Well! Well!” thought Kate. “This is luck! To see the Piskey threshing! For ever since I can remember I have heard it said that the Piskey threshed corn for Farmer Boslow on winter nights, and did other odd jobs for him the year round. But I would not believe it. Yet here he is!”
Then she reached her head farther in, and beheld a score of little men helping the Piskey. Some of them were lugging down the sheaves, and placing them handy for him; and others were carrying away the straw from which the grain had been threshed. Soon a heap of corn was gathered on the floor, as clean as if it had been winnowed.
In doing this the Piskey raised such a dust that it set him and some of the little men sneezing. And Kate, without stopping to think, called out:—
Quick as a wink the lights vanished, and a handful of dust was thrown into her eyes, which blinded her so that for a moment she could not see. And then she heard the Piskey squeak:—
“I spy thy face,
Old Peeping Kate,
I’ll serve thee out,
Early and late!”
Kate, when she heard this, felt very uneasy, for she remembered that the Little People have a great spite against any one who peeps at them, or pries into their doings.
The night being clear, she quickly found her way out of a crooked lane, and ran as fast as she could, and never stopped until she reached the Gump. There she sat down to rest awhile.
After that she stood up; and turn whichever way she might the same road lay before her. Then she knew that the Piskey was playing her a trick. So she ran down a hill as fast as she could, not caring in what direction she was going, so long as she could get away from the Piskey.
After running a long while, she heard music and saw lights at no great distance. Thinking that she must be near a house, she went over the downs toward the lights, feeling ready for a jig, and stopping now and then to dance around and around to the strains of the music.
But instead of arriving at a house, in passing around some high rocks she came out on a broad green meadow, encircled with furze and rocks. And there before her she saw a whole troop of Spriggans holding an Elfin Fair. It was like a feasten-day. Scores of little booths were standing in rows, and were covered with tiny trinkets such as buckles of silver and gold glistening with Cornish diamonds, pins with jewelled heads, brooches, rings, bracelets, and necklaces of crystal beads, green and red or blue and gold; and many other pretty things new to Kate.
There were lights in all directions—lanterns no bigger than Foxgloves were hanging in rows; and on the booths, rushlights in tulip-cups shone among Fairy goodies such as Kate had never dreamed of. Yet with all these lights there was such a shimmer over everything that she got bewildered, and could not see as plainly as she wished.
She did not care to disturb the Little People until she had looked at all that was doing. So she crept softly behind the booths and watched the Spriggans dancing. Hundreds of them, linked hand in hand, went whirling around so fast as to make her dizzy. Small as they were, they were all decked out like rich folk, the little men in cocked hats and feathers, blue coats gay with lace and gold buttons, breeches and stockings of lighter hue, and tiny shoes with diamond buckles.
Kate could not name the colours of the little ladies’ dresses, which were of all the hues of Summer blossoms. The vain little things had powdered their hair, and decked their heads with ribbons, feathers, and flowers. Their shoes were of velvet and satin, and were high-heeled and pointed. And such sparkling black eyes as all the little ladies had, and such dimpled cheeks and chins! And they were merry, sprightly, and laughing.
All the Spriggans were capering and dancing around a pole wreathed with flowers. The pipers, standing in their midst, played such lively airs that Kate never in all her life had wanted to dance more. But she kept quite still, for she did not wish the Little People to know that she was there. She was determined to pocket some of the pretty things in the booths, and steal softly away with them. She thought how nice a bright pair of diamond buckles would look on her best shoes, and how fine her Sunday cap would be ornamented with a Fairy brooch.
So she raised her hand and laid it on some buckles, when—oh! oh!—she felt a palmful of pins and needles stick into her fingers like red-hot points; and she screamed:—
“Misfortune take you, you bad little Spriggans!”
“SHE SAW A WHOLE TROOP OF SPRIGGANS HOLDING AN ELFIN FAIR”
Immediately the lights went out, and she felt hundreds of the Little People leap on her back, and her neck, and her head. At the same moment others tripped up her heels, and laid her flat on the ground, and rolled her over and over.
Then she caught sight of the Piskey mounted on a wild-looking colt, his toes stuck in its mane. He was holding a rush for a whip. And there he sat grinning from ear to ear, and urging on the Spriggans to torment her, with “Haw! Haw! Haw!” and “Tee! Hee! Hee!”
She spread out her arms and squeezed herself tight to the ground, so that the Spriggans might not turn her over; but they squeaked and grunted, and over and over she went. And every time that they turned her face downward, some of the little fellows jumped on her back, and jigged away from her toe to her head.
She reached around to beat them off with a stick, but they pulled it out of her hand; and, balancing it across her body, strided it, and bobbed up and down, singing:—
“See-saw-pate!
Lie still old Peeping Kate!
See-saw-pate!
Here we’ll ride, early and late,
On the back of Peeping Kate!”
And with that, poor Kate, not to be beaten by the Spriggans, tossed back her feet to kick the little fellows away, but they pulled off her shoes and tickled and prickled the soles of her feet until she fell a-laughing and a-crying by turns.
Kate was almost mad with their torment, when by good chance she remembered a charm that would drive away all mischievous spirits, on Hallowe’en. So she repeated it forwards and backwards, and in a twinkling all the little Spriggans fled screeching away, the Piskey galloping after them.
Then she got on her feet and looked around. She saw, by the starlight of a clear frosty morning, that the place to which she had been Piskey-led was a green spot near the Gump, where folks said the Spriggans held their nightly revels. And although the spot was very small, it had seemed to her like a ten-acre field because of enchantment.
And her hat, and her shoes, and her basket were gone; and poor Kate, barefooted and bareheaded, had to hobble home as best she could. And she reached Pendeen gate more dead than alive.
ONE-EYED PRYING JOAN’S TALE
From Cornwall
Sit down, Bobby, my boy. Eat some bread and cheese. Don’t be afraid to drink the cider. It’s all my own making. Sit down, and I’ll tell you how I lost the sight of my right eye.
The last Christmas Eve I went to Penzance to buy a pair of shoes for myself, and some thread and buttons, and things to mend Master’s clothes. I dearly like company, and as I started out I thought of old Betty down at the cove, she that they say is a Witch, you know.
Thinks I to myself: “If she’s a Witch, she’ll not hurt me, as I never crossed her in my life. Witch or no Witch, I’ll stop and have a bite of something hot at her little house,” thought I.
When I came to the house, the door was tight shut, and I heard a strange mumbling inside, but I could not make out what it was. So I took a peep through the latch-hole. And what did I see but old Betty standing by the chimney-piece with a little box in her hand, and she was muttering something that sounded like a charm. She put her finger into the box and pulled it out again, and smeared some ointment over her eyes. Then she put the box into a hole near the chimney.
I lifted the latch and walked in. “How-de-do, Betty,” said I.
“Welcome,” said she, grinning and pleased. “Sit down by the fire. Now we’ll have a good drop of something hot to ourselves, seeing that it’s Christmas Eve,” said she.
“I’ll take a thimbleful, just to drink your health and a Merry Christmas to you, with all my heart,” said I; for I well knew that Betty made the best sweet drink, with sugar and spice and a roasted apple bobbing around in it.
I put down my basket, and took off my coat, and sat by the fire; while Betty stepped into a closet to fetch the cups.
Now, I had often wondered what made her eyes so clear and piercing. “’Tis the Fairy ointment, or Witch salve in the box,” thought I. “If it will do that to her eyes, it won’t hurt me.” So while she was gone, I took the box from the hole, where she had covered it with ferns, and put a bit of the ointment on my right eye. The stuff had no sooner touched me than it burned like fire, or as if needles and pins were being thrust into my eyeball. Just then Betty came from the closet, and I dragged the brim of my hat down over my right eye, so she should not see what had happened.
After we had drunk each other’s health three or four times, the pain went off, and I ventured to open my anointed eye. And oh! what did I see! The place was full of Spriggans! Troops of the Little People were cutting all sorts of capers in the folds of the nets and sails hung on the walls, in the bunches of herbs that swung from the rafters, and in the pots and pans on the dresser. Some of them were playing seesaw on the beams of the ceiling, tossing their heels and waving their feathered caps, as they teetered up and down on bits of straw or green twigs. Numbers of them were swinging in the cobwebs that festooned the rafters or riding mice in and out through holes in the thatch.
I noted that all the little men were dressed in green tricked out with red, and had feathered caps and high riding-boots with silver spurs. Their ladies, if you please, were all decked in grand fashion—their gowns were of green velvet with long trains and looped up with silver chains and bells. They wore high-crowned steeple-hats, with wreaths of the most beautiful flowers around them; while sprigs of blossoms and garlands decorated all parts of their dress, and were in their hands as well. They were the sauciest Little People I ever did see. They pranced around on their high-heeled boots sparkling with diamond buckles.
When I peeped into the wood-corner under Betty’s bunk, I spied some of the ugly Spriggans sitting there looking very gloomy because they have to watch the treasures that are hidden in the ground, and do other disagreeable things that the merry Spriggans never have to do.
While looking into the dark corner I heard strains of sweet, unearthly music outside the house. Glancing around the room, I saw that all was changed. The walls were hung with tapestry, the chimney stools on which we sat were carved chairs. Betty and I sat under a canopy of embroidered satin, and our feet rested on a silken carpet. And wherever the little Spriggans trod, they left circles like diamonds on the floor.
The sweet music was now close at hand under the little window, and a moment after a troop of the Little People appeared on the window-sill, playing on pipes, flutes, and other instruments made of green reeds from the brook and of shells from the shore.
The Fairy band stepped down most gracefully from the window-sill, and was closely followed by a long train of little men and women magnificently dressed, and carrying bunches of flowers in their hands. All walked in an orderly procession, two by two, and bowed or curtsied, to Betty, and cast the flowers in her lap. I saw their many bunches of Four-leaved Clover and sprigs of magic herbs. With these she makes her salves and lotions.
Then all the Spriggans who had been dancing and capering about the ceiling and floor joined the others and came crowding around Betty. She did not look surprised, and I did not say anything to let her know that I saw. The Spriggans then began to pour dew over her dress out of flower-buds and from the bottles of the Foxglove. Immediately her jacket was changed into the finest and richest cloth of a soft cream colour, and her dress became velvet the colour of all the flowers, and it was draped over a petticoat of silk quilted with silver cord.
The Little People brought tiny nosegays of sky-blue Pimpernel, Forget-me-nots, and dainty flower-bells, blue, pink, and white, and hundreds of other Fairy blossoms like stars and butterflies. These delicate little sprigs they stitched all over Betty’s silver-corded petticoat together with branching moss and the lace-like tips of the wild grass. All around the bottom of her skirt they made a wreath of tiny bramble leaves with roses and berries, red and black.
Many of the Little People perched themselves on the top of the high-backed chair in which Betty sat, and even stood on her shoulders, so that they might arrange her every curl and every hair. Some took the lids off pretty little urns they carried in their hands, and poured perfume on her head, which spread the sweetest odours through the room. I very much admired the lovely little urns, with their grooved lids, but when I picked one up, it was only a seed-pod of the wild Poppy. They placed no other ornament in her hair except a small twig of holly full of bright red berries. Yet Betty, decked out by her Fairy friends, was more beautiful than the loveliest Queen of May.
My senses were overcome by the smell of the Fairy odours, and the scent of the flowers, and the sweet perfume of honey, with which the walls of the house seemed bursting. And my head fell forward and I slept.
How long I dozed I do not know, but when I woke I saw that all the little Spriggans were glaring at me angrily. They thrust out their tongues and made the most horrid grimaces. I was so frightened that I jumped up, and ran out of the house, and shut the door.
But for the life of me, I could not leave the place without taking another peep. I put my left eye to the latch-hole—and would you believe it?—the house was just as it was when I entered it; the floor was bare, and there sat Betty in her old clothes before the fire. Then I winked, and looked with the right eye, and there was the beautiful room, and Betty seated in her fine flower-gown, beneath the silken canopy, while all the little Spriggans were dancing and capering around her.
I tore myself away, glad to get out of the cove, and hurried to Penzance to do my shopping, although it was so late. And as I was standing in front of a booth, what should I see but a little Spriggan helping himself to hanks of yarn, stockings, and all sorts of fine things.
“Ah! Ha! my little man!” cried I. “Are you not ashamed to be carrying on this way, stealing all those goods?”
“Is that thee, old Joan?” said he. “Which eye canst thou see me with?”
After winking both my eyes, I said: “’Tis plain enough that I can see you with my right eye.”
Then in a twinkling he pointed his finger at my right eye, and mumbled a spell, and I just caught the words:—
“Joan the Pry
Shall nor peep nor spy,
But shall lose
Her charmèd eye!”
Then he blew in my face, and was gone. And when I looked around, my right eye was blind. And from that day to this I have never seen a blink with my anointed eye.
THE FAIRY FOLK
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow;
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig one up in spite?
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather.
William Allingham