In a short time, on the very spot where she had buried the child, there sprang up a most wonderful rose-tree, which bore one large bud; this presently bloomed into a lovely white rose, when lo! from its petals, there flew forth a little bird as white as the purest snow. The bird did not stay in the garden, but flew into the town, and alighting on the window-sill of a toy-maker, at once commenced to sing more sweetly than he had ever heard a bird sing before. So charmed was he that he begged of it to sing again. ‘I will,’ said the bird, ‘if you will give me the best toy sword you have,’ which he gladly promised to do. So the bird sang again, and flew away with the sword to the door of a watchmaker. Here again it sang: this time it received a gold watch and chain. With this and the sword it flew to where some stone-masons were working; to them it promised to repeat its song if they would tie to its neck a large round stone which they had just finished making. This they readily did, and away it flew, alighting on the chimney of its former home. After resting awhile, it rattled the stone against the chimney side, which sounded in the house like thunder. ‘It thunders down the chimney,’ said the mother; so the little boy thrust his head under the chimney, to hear better. No sooner had he done so, than the bird let the sword drop, the leather belt falling round his neck. ‘See,’ cried the lad, ‘what the thunder has sent me,’ jumping about with joy. Again the bird rattled the stone against the brickwork. ‘It thunders again,’ said the father, thrusting his head into the chimney, when round his neck fell a gold chain with a beautiful watch attached. ‘And see what the thunder has sent me,’ said the father, removing the chain from his neck, and admiring his present. A third time the stone was shaken against the chimney side. Pushing the other two aside, the cruel step-mother cried, ‘It is my turn this time.’ So saying, she thrust her head up the chimney, when the bird let the stone ball drop, which falling on her head crushed her skull, and she fell back dead on to the kitchen floor. Such was the sad end of the cruel step-mother.
The variety of forms which this story has taken, and its wide distribution over perhaps the greatest area of any of our early-life stories, gives it a prominence and distinction second to none. In many of the stories of other places, the stone ball is described as a millstone. Possibly this is nearest to the original, as in many early fables the millstone figures as thunder. But to the eminently practical mind of the Yorkshire folk, it has been discarded, owing possibly to the unlikelihood of finding a chimney big enough to admit of its being dropped down. If its mythological root is somewhat obscure, its close relationship to other stories hoary with age is as clear as the noonday sun.
Passing on to other branches of childhood’s lore, we call to mind the many charms of our youthful days. Were we stung with a nettle, we at once searched for a dock-leaf, and rubbing the part stung, repeated with all due solemnity:—
Docken in drahve t’ nettle oot,
Just leyke an au’d dishcloot;
or,
In docken, oot nettle,
Deean’t let t’ warm blood sattle.
The snail-charm is as follows:—
Sneeal[80], sneeal, shut oot yer horn,