Celtic Fairy Tales (23 page)

"Come with me," says the shoemaker, "I am well acquainted with the
servants at the castle, and you shall get a sight of the king's son
and all the company."

And when the gentles saw the pretty woman that was here they took
her to the wedding-room, and they filled for her a glass of wine.
When she was going to drink what is in it, a flame went up out of
the glass, and a golden pigeon and a silver pigeon sprang out of it.
They were flying about when three grains of barley fell on the
floor. The silver pigeon sprung, and ate that up.

Said the golden pigeon to him, "If you remembered when I cleared the
byre, you would not eat that without giving me a share."

Again there fell three other grains of barley, and the silver pigeon
sprung, and ate that up as before.

"If you remembered when I thatched the byre, you would not eat that
without giving me my share," says the golden pigeon.

Three other grains fall, and the silver pigeon sprung, and ate that
up.

"If you remembered when I harried the magpie's nest, you would not
eat that without giving me my share," says the golden pigeon; "I
lost my little finger bringing it down, and I want it still."

The king's son minded, and he knew who it was that was before him.

"Well," said the king's son to the guests at the feast, "when I was
a little younger than I am now, I lost the key of a casket that I
had. I had a new key made, but after it was brought to me I found
the old one. Now, I'll leave it to any one here to tell me what I am
to do. Which of the keys should I keep?"

"My advice to you," said one of the guests, "is to keep the old key,
for it fits the lock better and you're more used to it."

Then the king's son stood up and said: "I thank you for a wise
advice and an honest word. This is my bride the daughter of the
giant who saved my life at the risk of her own. I'll have her and no
other woman."

So the king's son married Auburn Mary and the wedding lasted long
and all were happy. But all I got was butter on a live coal,
porridge in a basket, and they sent me for water to the stream, and
the paper shoes came to an end.

In Treneglwys there is a certain shepherd's cot known by the name of
Twt y Cymrws because of the strange strife that occurred there.
There once lived there a man and his wife, and they had twins whom
the woman nursed tenderly. One day she was called away to the house
of a neighbour at some distance. She did not much like going and
leaving her little ones all alone in a solitary house, especially as
she had heard tell of the good folk haunting the neighbourhood.

Well, she went and came back as soon as she could, but on her way
back she was frightened to see some old elves of the blue petticoat
crossing her path though it was midday. She rushed home, but found
her two little ones in the cradle and everything seemed as it was
before.

But after a time the good people began to suspect that something was
wrong, for the twins didn't grow at all.

The man said: "They're not ours."

The woman said: "Whose else should they be?"

And so arose the great strife so that the neighbours named the
cottage after it. It made the woman very sad, so one evening she
made up her mind to go and see the Wise Man of Llanidloes, for he
knew everything and would advise her what to do.

So she went to Llanidloes and told the case to the Wise Man. Now
there was soon to be a harvest of rye and oats, so the Wise Man said
to her, "When you are getting dinner for the reapers, clear out the
shell of a hen's egg and boil some potage in it, and then take it to
the door as if you meant it as a dinner for the reapers. Then listen
if the twins say anything. If you hear them speaking of things
beyond the understanding of children, go back and take them up and
throw them into the waters of Lake Elvyn. But if you don't hear
anything remarkable, do them no injury."

So when the day of the reap came the woman did all that the Wise Man
ordered, and put the eggshell on the fire and took it off and
carried it to the door, and there she stood and listened. Then she
heard one of the children say to the other:

Acorn before oak I knew,
An egg before a hen,
But I never heard of an eggshell brew
A dinner for harvest men.

So she went back into the house, seized the children and threw them
into the Llyn, and the goblins in their blue trousers came and saved
their dwarfs and the mother had her own children back and so the
great strife ended.

Long ago, a poor widow woman lived down near the iron forge, by
Enniscorth, and she was so poor she had no clothes to put on her
son; so she used to fix him in the ash-hole, near the fire, and pile
the warm ashes about him; and according as he grew up, she sunk the
pit deeper. At last, by hook or by crook, she got a goat-skin, and
fastened it round his waist, and he felt quite grand, and took a
walk down the street. So says she to him next morning, "Tom, you
thief, you never done any good yet, and you six foot high, and past
nineteen;—take that rope and bring me a faggot from the wood."

"Never say't twice, mother," says Tom—"here goes."

When he had it gathered and tied, what should come up but a big
giant, nine foot high, and made a lick of a club at him. Well become
Tom, he jumped a-one side, and picked up a ram-pike; and the first
crack he gave the big fellow, he made him kiss the clod.

"If you have e'er a prayer," says Tom, "now's the time to say it,
before I make fragments of you."

"I have no prayers," says the giant; "but if you spare my life I'll
give you that club; and as long as you keep from sin, you'll win
every battle you ever fight with it."

Tom made no bones about letting him off; and as soon as he got the
club in his hands, he sat down on the bresna, and gave it a tap with
the kippeen, and says, "Faggot, I had great trouble gathering you,
and run the risk of my life for you, the least you can do is to
carry me home." And sure enough, the wind o' the word was all it
wanted. It went off through the wood, groaning and crackling, till
it came to the widow's door.

Well, when the sticks were all burned, Tom was sent off again to
pick more; and this time he had to fight with a giant that had two
heads on him. Tom had a little more trouble with him—that's all;
and the prayers he said, was to give Tom a fife; that nobody could
help dancing when he was playing it. Begonies, he made the big
faggot dance home, with himself sitting on it. The next giant was a
beautiful boy with three heads on him. He had neither prayers nor
catechism no more nor the others; and so he gave Tom a bottle of
green ointment, that wouldn't let you be burned, nor scalded, nor
wounded. "And now," says he, "there's no more of us. You may come
and gather sticks here till little Lunacy Day in Harvest, without
giant or fairy-man to disturb you."

Well, now, Tom was prouder nor ten paycocks, and used to take a walk
down street in the heel of the evening; but some o' the little boys
had no more manners than if they were Dublin jackeens, and put out
their tongues at Tom's club and Tom's goat-skin. He didn't like that
at all, and it would be mean to give one of them a clout. At last,
what should come through the town but a kind of a bellman, only it's
a big bugle he had, and a huntsman's cap on his head, and a kind of
a painted shirt. So this—he wasn't a bellman, and I don't know what
to call him—bugleman, maybe, proclaimed that the King of Dublin's
daughter was so melancholy that she didn't give a laugh for seven
years, and that her father would grant her in marriage to whoever
could make her laugh three times.

"That's the very thing for me to try," says Tom; and so, without
burning any more daylight, he kissed his mother, curled his club at
the little boys, and off he set along the yalla highroad to the town
of Dublin.

At last Tom came to one of the city gates, and the guards laughed
and cursed at him instead of letting him in. Tom stood it all for a
little time, but at last one of them—out of fun, as he said—drove
his bayonet half an inch or so into his side. Tom done nothing but
take the fellow by the scruff o' the neck and the waistband of his
corduroys, and fling him into the canal. Some run to pull the fellow
out, and others to let manners into the vulgarian with their swords
and daggers; but a tap from his club sent them headlong into the
moat or down on the stones, and they were soon begging him to stay
his hands.

So at last one of them was glad enough to show Tom the way to the
palace-yard; and there was the king, and the queen, and the
princess, in a gallery, looking at all sorts of wrestling, and
sword-playing, and long-dances, and mumming, all to please the
princess; but not a smile came over her handsome face.

Well, they all stopped when they seen the young giant, with his
boy's face, and long black hair, and his short curly beard—for his
poor mother couldn't afford to buy razors—and his great strong
arms, and bare legs, and no covering but the goat-skin that reached
from his waist to his knees. But an envious wizened bit of a fellow,
with a red head, that wished to be married to the princess, and
didn't like how she opened her eyes at Tom, came forward, and asked
his business very snappishly.

"My business," says Tom, says he, "is to make the beautiful
princess, God bless her, laugh three times."

"Do you see all them merry fellows and skilful swordsmen," says the
other, "that could eat you up with a grain of salt, and not a
mother's soul of 'em ever got a laugh from her these seven years?"

So the fellows gathered round Tom, and the bad man aggravated him
till he told them he didn't care a pinch o' snuff for the whole
bilin' of 'em; let 'em come on, six at a time, and try what they
could do.

The king, who was too far off to hear what they were saying, asked
what did the stranger want.

"He wants," says the red-headed fellow, "to make hares of your best
men."

"Oh!" says the king, "if that's the way, let one of 'em turn out and
try his mettle."

So one stood forward, with sword and pot-lid, and made a cut at Tom.
He struck the fellow's elbow with the club, and up over their heads
flew the sword, and down went the owner of it on the gravel from a
thump he got on the helmet. Another took his place, and another, and
another, and then half a dozen at once, and Tom sent swords,
helmets, shields, and bodies, rolling over and over, and themselves
bawling out that they were kilt, and disabled, and damaged, and
rubbing their poor elbows and hips, and limping away. Tom contrived
not to kill any one; and the princess was so amused, that she let a
great sweet laugh out of her that was heard over all the yard.

"King of Dublin," says Tom, "I've quarter your daughter."

And the king didn't know whether he was glad or sorry, and all the
blood in the princess's heart run into her cheeks.

So there was no more fighting that day, and Tom was invited to dine
with the royal family. Next day, Redhead told Tom of a wolf, the
size of a yearling heifer, that used to be serenading about the
walls, and eating people and cattle; and said what a pleasure it
would give the king to have it killed.

"With all my heart," says Tom; "send a jackeen to show me where he
lives, and we'll see how he behaves to a stranger."

The princess was not well pleased, for Tom looked a different person
with fine clothes and a nice green birredh over his long curly hair;
and besides, he'd got one laugh out of her. However, the king gave
his consent; and in an hour and a half the horrible wolf was walking
into the palace-yard, and Tom a step or two behind, with his club on
his shoulder, just as a shepherd would be walking after a pet lamb.

The king and queen and princess were safe up in their gallery, but
the officers and people of the court that wor padrowling about the
great bawn, when they saw the big baste coming in, gave themselves
up, and began to make for doors and gates; and the wolf licked his
chops, as if he was saying, "Wouldn't I enjoy a breakfast off a
couple of yez!"

The king shouted out, "O Tom with the Goat-skin, take away that
terrible wolf, and you must have all my daughter."

But Tom didn't mind him a bit. He pulled out his flute and began to
play like vengeance; and dickens a man or boy in the yard but began
shovelling away heel and toe, and the wolf himself was obliged to
get on his hind legs and dance "Tatther Jack Walsh," along with the
rest. A good deal of the people got inside, and shut the doors, the
way the hairy fellow wouldn't pin them; but Tom kept playing, and
the outsiders kept dancing and shouting, and the wolf kept dancing
and roaring with the pain his legs were giving him; and all the time
he had his eyes on Redhead, who was shut out along with the rest.
Wherever Redhead went, the wolf followed, and kept one eye on him
and the other on Tom, to see if he would give him leave to eat him.
But Tom shook his head, and never stopped the tune, and Redhead
never stopped dancing and bawling, and the wolf dancing and roaring,
one leg up and the other down, and he ready to drop out of his
standing from fair tiresomeness.

When the princess seen that there was no fear of any one being kilt,
she was so divarted by the stew that Redhead was in, that she gave
another great laugh; and well become Tom, out he cried, "King of
Dublin, I have two halves of your daughter."

"Oh, halves or alls," says the king, "put away that divel of a wolf,
and we'll see about it."

So Tom put his flute in his pocket, and says he to the baste that
was sittin' on his currabingo ready to faint, "Walk off to your
mountain, my fine fellow, and live like a respectable baste; and if
ever I find you come within seven miles of any town, I'll—"