When Sæmund was priest of Oddi, he once had a cowherd—a good servant withal, but greatly addicted to swearing. Sæmund often reproved him for this, but all his reproofs were of no avail. At last he told him, he really ought to leave off his bad habits, for Old Nick and his servants lived upon people’s curses and wicked words. “Say you so?” said the cowherd, “if I knew for certain that Old Nick would lose his meals by it, I would never say a bad word more.” So he made up his mind to mend his ways.
“I’ll soon see whether you are in earnest or not,” said Sæmund, and so, he forthwith lodged a goblin in the cowhouse. The cowherd did not like his guest, and no wonder: for he was up to every kind of mischief, and almost worried the life out of him with his wicked pranks. The poor cowherd bore up bravely for a time, and never let slip an oath or angry word. The goblin got leaner day by day, to the intense delight of the cowherd, who hoped, bye and bye, to see an end of him.
One morning, on opening the byre door, the poor cowherd found every thing turned topsy-turvy. The milk pails and stools were broken in pieces and scattered about the floor; and the whole of the cows—and there were many of them—tied tail to tail, were straggling about without halters, and goring each other. It needed but half an eye to see who had done the mischief. So the cowherd in a rage turned round to the goblin who, shrunk and haggard, lay crouched up in a corner of a stall, the very picture of wretchedness, and poured forth such a volley of furious curses as would have overwhelmed any human being in the same plight. The goblin all at once began to revive; his skin no longer shrivelled looked smooth and plump; his eye brightened up, and the stream of life again flowed joyously through his veins.
“O, oh!” said the cowherd, as he suddenly checked himself, when he saw the wonderful effect his swearing had on the goblin, “Now I know for certain that Sæmund was right.” And from that day forward he was never known to utter an oath. As for the goblin, he soon pined away again and has long since been beyond troubling anybody. May you and I, and all who hear this story, strive to follow the good example of Sæmund’s cowherd!
IV. OLD NICK MADE HIMSELF AS LITTLE AS HE WAS ABLE.
Sæmund one day asked Old Nick how little he could make himself. “Why,” replied he, “as for that I could make myself as small as the smallest midge.” Thereupon Sæmund bored a tiny hole in the door post, and asked him to make good his boast by walking into it. This he at once did; but no sooner was he in, than Sæmund stopped the hole with a little plug of wood, and made all fast.
Old Nick cursed his folly, cried, and begged for mercy; but Sæmund would not take out the stopper till he promised to become his servant and do all that he was told. This was the reason why Sæmund always had it in his power to employ Old Nick in whatever business he liked.
V. THE FLY.
As might be expected, Old Nick always harboured a great ill will against Sæmund: for he could not help feeling how much he was in Sæmund’s power. He therefore tried to revenge himself on various occasions; but all his tricks failed, for Sæmund was too sharp for him.
Once, he put on the shape of a little fly, and hid himself—so he thought, at least—under the film that had gathered on the priest’s milk jug, hoping that Sæmund would swallow him unawares, and so lose his life. But Sæmund had all his eyes about him; so instead of swallowing the fly he wrapped it up in the film, covered the whole with a bladder, and laid the package on the altar. There, the fly was obliged to remain till after the service, when Sæmund opened the package and gave Old Nick his liberty. It is told, as a truth, that old Nick never found himself in a worse case than when lying on the altar before Sæmund.