Never will you make me believe that there are not many things that are not explained to us. I have heard of all sorts since my young days. I have often heard the wheel of the cider press turn at midnight, when there was not a soul about. I have seen our cat when it blew hard, sitting with his back turned to the fire, watching the door and the window as if it expected to see some one enter, and sometimes it uttered curious cries, I assure you, and our dog would hide himself behind my chair when I said my prayers. Sometimes he barked in his sleep, as if he were fighting with other dogs. Oh, it is my opinion that cats and dogs see things in a different way to what we do, and I think it is a great pity that all those who deny that people can change their forms, cannot refer to them.”
A Trifler.
[186] The above Guernsey story of animal transformations I found cut out and placed with Sir Edgar MacCulloch’s MSS. in its Guernsey-French form. I think it better to give both the Guernsey-French and its English translation, the former being the language in which all these old stories are handed down to us.
The Miller and the Duck.
A miller, one day passing by his mill-pond at the Vrangue, was attracted by the noise and struggles of a very beautiful duck. He soon perceived that something was wrong, and that, unless the bird was speedily relieved, it must perish. He accordingly, with some difficulty, succeeded in extricating the duck from the water, and took it into the mill, where, after wiping it dry, and endeavouring to arrange its ruffled feathers, he deposited it in a place of safety and left it. Returning shortly afterwards, he was astonished to find its place supplied by a very beautiful and richly-dressed lady, who thanked him for his humanity, and assured him, but for his assistance, she must inevitably have been drowned, promising him at the same time, that as long as he kept the adventure secret, he should, whenever he was in want, find a sum of money deposited on his mill stone.[187]
[187] From Miss E. Chepmell.
The transformation of princesses into ducks by magical arts is a very common incident in the fairy tales of Norway and Sweden and Denmark. See Thorpe’s Yule-tide Stories.
Mahy de la Catte.
An old sea captain, of the name of Mahy, who for many years had navigated a cutter between Guernsey and England, had, at last, by industry and perseverance, amassed a sufficient competency to enable him to give up his arduous and dangerous profession, and pass the remainder of his days in peace on shore. At least, so he hoped, but, alas! the expectation of happiness, which poor mortals indulge in, is often doomed to be disappointed, and often by apparently trivial causes. Who could have guessed that a cat would have embittered the remaining days of the old sailor? Yet so it was. The mischievous tricks of this imp of Satan rendered his life almost unbearable; not a moment’s rest could he enjoy in his own house. In vain did he attempt to drive the troublesome brute away. If ejected by the door, she returned immediately by the window, or down the chimney. It was useless to attempt to catch her; she never slept, and her activity was so great that she escaped every blow aimed at her. One day, as he was sitting by his fireside, the tricks of the cat became unsupportable; if he dozed off for a moment, his wig was twitched off his head; if he laid down his pipe, puss was watching her opportunity to give a sly pat and knock it off the table; the moment his glass of grog left his hand, it was sure to be upset. At last his patience being quite exhausted, he seized the poker and gave chase, but with as little effect as ever. Puss contrived to elude him, and managed so well that blows, aimed at her, fell on the furniture and crockery. After leading him several times round the room, she escaped into the passage, and seated herself on the “hecq” or half door, which was formerly to be found in almost every house. Mahy seized a gun that was lying on the bacon-rack, and aimed at the cat, exclaiming at the same time, “Now I have you!” The cat paused, turned round, and, in a voice which domestic jars and curtain lectures made by far too familiar to him, said, very quietly and distinctly, “Pas acouâre.” (“Not yet.”)