On another occasion the wren and his twelve sons were going to the peatmoss, when they fell in with a plant of great virtue and high esteem. The old wren caught hold of the plant by the ears, and was jerking it this way and that way, hard-binding it, and pulling it, as if peat-slicing; white was his face and red his cheek, but he failed to pull the plant from the bare surface of the earth: the plant of virtues and blessings—(Bha e ’ga dhudadh null ’s ’ga dhudadh nall, ’ga chruaidh-cheangal ’s ’ga bhuain-mòine; bu gheal a shnuadh ’s bu dhearg a ghruaidh, ’s cha tugadh e Meacain o chraicionn loma na talmhain; Meacan nam buadh ’s nam beannachd).
The wren called for the assistance of one of his sons, saying, “Over here one of my sons to help me” (An so aon eallach mo mhac nall), and they caught the plant in the same way, jerking it this way and that way, hard-binding and peat-slicing with it; white were their faces and red their cheeks, but they could not with all their ardour, and their utmost strength pull the plant from the bare surface of the earth: the plant of virtues and blessings (’S bha iad ’ga dhudadh null ’s ’ga dhudadh nall, ’ga chruaidh-cheangal ’s ’ga bhuain-mòine; bu gheal an snuadh ’s bu dearg an gruaidh ach le ’n uile dhichioll ’s le ’n cruaidh-neart cha tugadh iad am Meacan o chraicionn loma na talmhain: Meacan nam buadh ’s nam beannachd).
“Over here with two of my sons to help me” (An so dà eallach mo mhac nall), and the same operation was again performed unsuccessfully, and in the same way one after another, until the whole twelve sons came to the assistance of the old wren. Then they grasped it altogether, and under the severe strain the plant at last yielded, and all the wrens fell backwards into a peat pond and were drowned.
The old man from whom this story was heard said, that in winter time, when knitting straw ropes for thatching, he could get all the boys of the village to come to assist him, and keep him company, and this they did with cheerfulness on the understanding that the story of “The wren and his twelve sons” would be illustrated at the end. One after another of the boys sat on the floor behind him, and he having a hold of the straw rope was able easily to resist the strain till he choose to let go, then all the boys fell back and the laughter that ensured was ample reward for their labour.
The fame of the wren for its forwardness and impudence is also illustrated by a story current in the south of Scotland, about Robin Redbreast having fallen sick, and the wren paying him a visit, and expressing great condolence when, after making his will, Robin dismissed her, saying, “Gae pack oot at my chamber door, ye cuttie quean.” In Gaelic the wren is also known by the name of Dreòllan, and Dreathan-donn, and the name as applied to human beings means a weakly, imbecile, trifling person, in whatever he takes in hand to do.
All the other birds in the same manner have their own share of actions ascribed to them, and the manner in which several of them made a brag of their own young is amusing—particularly in Gaelic, in which the call ascribed to them is more capable of imitation, and particularly in the light of the manner in which the young of those who make the boast are looked upon.
“Gleeful, gleeful,” said the Gull, “my young is the supreme beauty.”
“Sorry, sorry,” said the Hooded Crow, “but my son is the little Blue Chick.”
“Croak, croak,” said the Raven, “it is my son that can pick the lambs.”
“Click, click,” said the Eagle, “it is my son that is lord over you.”