Songs and Tales of a Wandering Bard

Years ago on the Isle of Gwynneth near the edges of Mal Tamesis lived a miller and his wife in great contentment. They possessed a fair amount of money and land, and their prosperity continued to increase year after year. Alas, misfortune comes like a thief in the night, and their wealth had drastically begun to decrease just as it had increased. The plight became so dire that the miller could hardly call the mill in which he lived his own. He was in such distress that not even the solace of dreams could bring him peace as he continuously tossed about in his bed.

One spring morning, the miller rose before daybreak and went out into the open air, hoping that perhaps there his heart might become lighter. The first sunbeam was just breaking forth as he stepped over the mill-dam, and a gentle rippling echoed from the lake. The miller swiftly turned around and saw a beautiful woman before him rising from the water. Her long pale green hair, which she was holding off her shoulder with her soft hands, fell down on both sides and covered her glistening white form. Immediately the miller knew that before him was the Nixie of Mal Temesis, and in his fright he did not know whether he should run away or remain where he was. Yet the nixie, in her sweetly alluring voice, called him by name and asked him why he was so sad. He was utterly dumbstruck at first, yet the soothing tones of the nixie's voice brought him ease. He took heart and informed the beautiful creature how he had formerly lived in wealth and happiness but now could scarce feed himself and his wife.

“Be easy,” replied the nixie, “I will make thee richer and happier than thou hast been before. Only thou must promise to give me the young thing which will be born in thine house.”

“What else can that be,” thought the miller, “but a young puppy or kitten?” Thus he promised the gorgeous fey what she desired, and she descended back into the depths of the lake as quickly as she rose. The miller, on the other hand, hurried back to the mill consoled and in good spirits.

Months had passed, and all the while prosperity returned to the miller's house. All that he undertook succeeded, and the pressers and coffers seemed to fill themselves of their own accord, coin multiplying nightly by the cupboards. It was not long before the miller's wealth had surpassed all that he had ever possessed before. One afternoon, as the miller was returning home from a short journey into the neighboring town, the maid-servant whom he had hired came rushing out. She cried to him in rejoice for his wife had just given birth a little boy. A great swell of joy erupted inside the man, but it was only short-lived. He soon recalled the promise which he had given the nixie and realized that the cunning creature knew full well that this would occur. Hanging his head, the miller went up to his wife's bed-side.

“Why dost thou not rejoice over our fine boy?” the wife asked, and the miller answered her query by recanting what had befallen him through his encounter with the nixie.

“Of what use are mere riches and prosperity,” he added, “if I am to lose my child? But what can I do?”

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. The family's prosperity continued to flourish, yet the miller and his wife could not rejoice for the bargain with the nixie had tormented their souls. Whensoever the miller passed the lake, he feared the nixie would ascend and remind him of his debt, yet never was there even a glimpse of the elusive creature. Even so, the miller and his wife never let the boy go near the water.

“Beware,” the miller would often say while clasping onto his son's shoulder, “if thou dost but touch the water, a hand will rise, seize thee, and draw thee down.”

The years continued to pass, and the young boy had now become a young man, apprenticed as a huntsman of the village. During his time in the village, he encountered a beautiful young woman with long red hair as bright as the brilliant colors of autumn and eyes that glistened as the stars in the night sky. The two gradually fell for one another and were married, establishing for themselves a modest house in the village where they lived peacefully and happily together.

One green spring day, the young huntsman was out chasing a roe. When the animal turned aside from the forest into the open country, the young man pursued it and last shot it with his bow and arrow. Alas he did not notice that he was now in the area of Mal Tamesis and went, after disemboweling the stag, to the water's edge in order to wash his bloodstained hands. Scarcely had he dipped his hands into the water than the nixie ascended. With a cruel smile, she wrapped her dripping arms around the young man and swiftly drew him down under the waves which closed over him.

When evening had set and the huntsman did not return home, his wife grew alarmed. She went out to seek him in the darkness of night, hoping against all hope that she would see the bright smile of her beloved. When she found no sign of him, she recalled the tale he told her of how he had to be on guard  against the snares of the nixie and dared not travel near the edges of Mal Tamesis. Fearing the worst, she hastened to the lake, tears streaming down her cheeks as she ran. When she found his hunting-pouch lying on the shore, she could no longer have any doubt of the misfortune. Lamenting her sorrow and wringing her hands, she called on her beloved by name but in vain. She hurried across to the other side, calling him anew. She reviled the nixie with harsh words, but no answer followed. The surface of the water remained calm, only the crescent moon staring steadily back at her. The poor woman could not even bring herself to leave the pond. With hasty steps she paced around it without resting a moment, sometimes in silence, sometimes uttering a loud cry, sometimes softly sobbing. At last her strength came to an end, and she collapsed onto the ground, falling into a deep sleep.

A dream had thus overtaken the young woman. She found herself anxiously climbing upwards between great masses of rock; thorns and briars caught her feet, the rain beat her face, and the wind tossed her long hair about. When she had finally reached the summit, an utterly different sight presented itself to her. The sky was blue, the air soft, the ground sloped gently downwards, and on a green meadow gay with flowers of every color stood a quaint little cottage. Walking up to the cottage, she hesitantly opened the door. Next to the fire place in a small rocking chair sat an old woman who smiled to her, beckoning her kindly. At that instant, the young woman awoke from her dream. Day had already dawned, and she at once resolved to act in accordance to what she had seen in her dream. She laboriously climbed the mountain, everything as she had seen in the night. Upon reaching the cottage, the old woman received her warmly and motioned to a chair in which she could sit.

“Thou must have met with a misfortune,” said the old woman in a soft tone, “since thou hast sought my lonely cottage.” With tears, the young woman related what had befallen her to her kind host.

“Be comforted,” the old woman said, “I will help thee. Here is a golden comb for thee. Tarry till the full moon has risen, then go back to the lake, seat thyself on the shore, and comb thy long red hair with this comb. When thou hast done this, lay it down on the bank, and thou wilt see what will happen.”

The woman returned home, but the time till the full moon came passed slowly. At last the shining disc appeared in the heavens, and she went out to Mal Tamesis. Sitting down on the edge of the waters, the young woman combed her long red hair with the golden comb and, once she had finished, laid it down on the water's edge. It was not long before there was movement in the depths. A wave rose, rolled to the shore, and bore the comb away with it. In not more time than was necessary for the comb to sink to the bottom, the surface of the water parted, and the head of the young man arose. He did not speak but gazed upon his wife with sorrow in his eyes. At that instant, a second wave came rushing up and covered the man's head. All had vanished, and the lake lay peaceful as it was before with nothing but the face of the full moon shining upon it.

Full of sorrow, the young woman returned home. Yet as she slept, she once again dreamed of the cottage and the old woman. The following morning she again set out and recanted her woes to the wise woman, though now she was given a golden flute.

“Tarry till the full moon comes again, then take this flute. Play a beautiful air on it and, when thou hast finished, lay it on the sand. Then thou wilt see what will happen.”

The woman did as she was instructed, and no sooner was the flute lying on the sand than a stirring from the depths emerged. A wave rushed up and swiftly carried the flute away with it. Immediately afterwards, the water parted, and not only did the head of the man but half of his body also arose. He stretched out his arms longingly towards her, but a second wave came up, covered him, and drew him down into the depths once again.

“Alas, what good does it profit me,” cried the young woman, “that I should see my beloved only to lose him again!?”

Despair filled her heart anew, but the dream led her a third time to the house of the old woman. She set out, and the wise woman gave her a golden spinning-wheel, consoling her.

“All is not yet fulfilled,” she said with a soft smile. “Tarry till the time of the full moon and take the spinning-wheel to the lake's shores. Seat thyself on its edges and spin the spool full. When thou hast done that, place the spinning-wheel near the water, and thou wilt see what will happen.”

The woman, knowing little else to do, did exactly as was told to her. As the full moon showed itself brilliantly in the night sky, she carried the golden spinning-wheel to the shores of Mal Tamesis and spun industriously until the flax came to an end, and the spool was filled with the threads. No sooner was the wheel standing on the shores than a more violent movement erupted from the depths of the lake than ever before. A mighty wave rushed up and bore the wheel away with it. Immediately the head and then the whole body of the man rose into the air in a spout of water. He quickly sprang to the shore, caught his wife by the hand, and fled.

Yet they had scarcely gone a small distance when the entire lake rose with a frightful roar, streaming about over the open country. The fugitives were staring death in the eye when the woman in desperation cried out, imploring the aid of the old woman. In an instant they were both transformed, she into a toad and her beloved into a frog. The flood which had overtaken them could not destroy them, but it tore them apart and carried them far away.

Once the water had finally dispersed and the touch of dry land was beneath them, they regained their human forms. But alas, neither knew where the other was. They found themselves among strange people who were completely unaware of their native land and unable to offer any help. Both the huntsman and his wife desperately traversed the foreign regions in search for their beloved. Days became weeks, weeks became months, months became years, but their efforts were all in vain. Stranded in separate realms, the man and woman were forced to settle down on their own; nevermore to see one another, nevermore to hold one another, nevermore...

Once upon a time there were two brothers. They decided to start venturing from town to town and from village to village to seek happiness. Along the way, they saw an old man with a long, white beard heading towards them. The old man stopped and asked the boys where they were headed to which they answered truthfully.

"I want to help you," the old man said as he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of golden coins. "Which one of you wants these?"

"I want them," replied the big brother immediately.

The old man placed his hand in his other pocket and pulled out a precious gem, shining like the sun, and asked again, "Which one of you wants to have the gem?"

"I want it," hastily answered the big brother once again.

The old man gave him the gem as he did the coins. Then the old man put down the sack he was carrying on his back and said, "Now who is gonna help me bring this sack to the village?"

The big brother said nothing. On the other hand, the little brother pulled up his sleeves and bent down to help the old man. The old man smiled and said, "Take it with you, my boy, along with everything that is inside."

"No, it's not mine," the little brother swiftly replied.

"Take it, take it," the old man insisted. "It's my gift to you."

The little brother, filled with curiosity, opened the sack. And what did his eyes see? The bag was filled with precious gemstones, more than even a lord would possess. He stood up to thank the old man, but he was nowhere to be found.

There was once a poor but good little girl who lived alone with her mother, and they no longer had anything to eat. So the child went into the forest, and there an aged woman met her who was aware of her sorrow and presented the child with a little pot. When the old woman said, "Cook, little pot, cook," the pot would cook good, sweet porridge; and when she said, "Stop, little pot," it ceased to cook. The young girl took the pot home to her mother, and the two were freed from their poverty of hunger, eating sweet porridge as often as they chose.

One day when the young girl had gone out, her mother said, "Cook, little pot, cook." And it did cook, and she ate till she was satisfied. She then wished for the pot to stop cooking but did not know the word. So it went on cooking, and the porridge rose over the edge. Yet it still went on cooking until the kitchen and the whole house were full, and then the next house, and then the whole street just as if it wanted to satisfy the hunger of all the Realms. There was the greatest distress, but no one knew how to stop it.

At last, when only a single house remained, the child came home and said, "Stop, little pot." Upon those words, the pot stopped and gave up its cooking, and whosoever wished to return to the town had to eat his way back.

There was once an enchanter who was standing in the midst of a great crowd of people performing his wonders. He had a cock brought in, which lifted a heavy beam and carried it as if it were as light as a feather. But a girl was present who had just found a four-leaved clover and had thus become so wise that no deception could stand out against her, allowing her to see that the beam was nothing but a straw.

So she cried, "You people, do you not see that it is a straw that the cock is carrying, and no beam?"

Immediately the enchantment vanished, and the people saw what it was and drove the magician away in shame and disgrace. Full of inward anger, he cried, "I will soon revenge myself!"

After some time, the girl's wedding day came. She was decked out and went in a great procession over the fields to the place where the temple was. All at once she came to a stream which was very much swollen, and there was no bridge nor plank to cross it. Then the bride nimbly took her clothes up and began to wade through it. Just as she was thus standing in the water, a man, who just so happened to be the enchanter, cried mockingly close beside her, "Aha! Where are thine eyes that thou takest that for water?"

Then her eyes were opened, and she saw that she was standing with her clothes lifted up in the middle of a field that was blue with the flowers of blue flax. Then all the people saw it likewise, and chased her away with ridicule and laughter.

A very long time ago, there suddenly appeared in old Moonshae two unknown merchants of whom nobody had ever heard and who nevertheless spoke the language of the country with the greatest perfection. Their locks wore black and bound round with gold, and their garments were of rare magnificence. Both seemed of like age; they appeared to be men of fifty, for their foreheads were wrinkled and their beards tinged with grey. In the hostelry where the pompous traders alighted it was sought to penetrate their designs; but in vain--they led a silent and retired life. And whilst they stopped there, they did nothing but count over and over again out of their money-bags pieces of gold, whose yellow brightness could be seen through the windows of their lodging.

“Gentlemen,” said the landlady one day, “how is it that you are so rich, and that, being able to succor the public misery, you do no good works?”

“Fair hostess,” replied one of them, “we didn't like to present alms to the honest poor in dread that we might be deceived by make-believe paupers. Let want knock at our door, we shall open it.”

The following day, when the rumor spread that two rich strangers had come, ready to lavish their gold, a crowd besieged their dwelling. Yet the figures of those who came out were widely different. Some carried pride in their mien; others were shamefaced. The two chapmen traded in souls for a devil. The souls of the aged were worth twenty pieces of gold, not a copper more; for the devil had had time to make his valuation. The soul of a matron was valued at fifty when she was handsome and a hundred when she was ugly. The soul of a young maiden fetched an extravagant sum; the freshest and purest flowers are the dearest.

At that time there lived in the city an angel of beauty, the Countess Keavy Finn. She was the idol of the people and the providence of the indigent. As soon as she learned that these miscreants profited to the public misery to steal away souls to the Hells, she called to her butler.

“Seamus,” said she to him, “how many pieces of gold in my coffers?”

“A hundred thousand.”

“How many jewels?”

“The money's worth of gold.”

“How much property in castles, forests, and lands?”

“Double the rest.”

“Very well, Seamus. Sell all that is not gold and bring me the account. I only wish to keep this mansion and the demesne that surrounds it.”

Two days afterwards, the orders of the Countess were executed, and the treasure was distributed to the poor in proportion to their wants. This, however, did not suit the purposes of the devil, who found no more souls to purchase. He instructed his lackeys to put an end to Countess Keavy's schemes. Aided by the devil's dark magics, they penetrated into the retreat of the noble dame and purloined from her the rest of her treasure. The poor once again called for aid to the plundered Keavy, alas, to no good. She was able to succor their misery no longer and was forced to abandon them to the temptation.

Meanwhile, but eight days had to pass before the grain and provender would arrive in abundance from the eastern lands. Eight such days were an age. Eight days required an immense sum to relieve the exigencies of the dearth, and the poor should either perish in the agonies of hunger or vend their own souls. And Keavy hadn't anything, for she had given up her mansion to the unhappy. She passed twelve hours in tears and mourning, rending her sun-tinted hair and bruising her breast of the whiteness of the lily. Afterwards she stood up, resolute, animated by a vivid sentiment of despair. She went to the traders in souls.

“What do you want?” they asked.

“You buy souls?”

“Yes, a few still, in spite of you. Isn't that so, saint, with the eyes of sapphire?”

“Today I am come to offer you a bargain,” replied she.

“What?”

“I have a soul to sell, but it is costly.”

“What does that signify if it is precious? The soul, like the diamond, is appraised by its transparency.”

“It is mine.”

The two emissaries of the devil started. Their claws were clutched under their gloves of leather; their grey eyes sparkled; the soul, pure, spotless, virginal of Keavy--it was a priceless acquisition!

“Beauteous lady, how much do you ask?”

“A hundred and fifty thousand pieces of gold.”

“It's at your service,” replied the traders, and they tendered Keavy a parchment sealed with black, which she signed with a shudder. The sum was counted out to her.

As soon as she got home, she said to the butler, “Here distribute this. With this money that I give you, the poor can tide over the eight days that remain and not one of their souls will be delivered to the devil.”

Afterwards she shut herself up in her room and gave orders that none should disturb her. Three days passed; she called nobody, she did not come out. When the door was opened, they found her cold and stiff; she was dead of grief.

After the eight days had passed, the abundance of grain and provender had still not arrived, for the vessels carrying the goods had all capsized in a storm at sea. Once the money that had been distributed was all spent, hunger and poverty continued to plague the villagers, bringing many to sell their souls to the devil's emissaries out of utter desperation. Once those villagers perished, they were dragged screaming into the Hells where they suffered eternal torment alongside the Countess Keavy Finn, the woman who unwisely relinquished her own soul to prevent the loss of others'. After all, how can one save others from drowning when he himself is also drowning?

Once upon a time there was a girl who was married to a husband that she never saw. And the way this was, was that he was only at home at night and would never have any light in the house. The girl thought that was funny, and all her friends told her there must be something wrong with her husband, some great deformity that made him want not to be seen.

Well, one night when he came home she suddenly lit a candle and saw him. He was handsome enough to make all the women of the world fall in love with him. But scarcely had she seen him when he began to change into a bird, and then he said, “Now you have seen me, you shall see me no more, unless you are willing to serve seven years and a day for me, so that I may become a man once more.” Then he told her to take three feathers from under his side, and whatever she wished through them would come to pass. Then he left her at a great house to be laundry-maid for seven years and a day.

And the girl used to take the feathers and say, “By virtue of my three feathers may the copper be lit, and the clothes washed, and mangled, and folded, and put away to the missus's satisfaction.”

And then she had no more care about it. The feathers did the rest, and the lady set great store by her for a better laundress she had never had. Well, one day the butler, who had a notion to have the pretty laundry-maid for his wife, said to her, he should have spoken before but he did not want to vex her. “Why should it when I am but a fellow-servant?” the girl asked. And then he felt free to go on, and explain he had seventy gold coins laid by with the master, and how she would like him for a husband.

And the girl told him to fetch her the money, and he asked his master for it and brought it to her. But as they were going up-stairs, she cried, “O John, I must go back, sure I've left my shutters undone, and they'll be slashing and banging all night.”

The butler said, “Never you trouble, I'll put them right.” And he ran back, while she took her feathers and said, “By virtue of my three feathers may the shutters slash and bang till morning, and John not be able to fasten them nor yet to get his fingers free from them.”

And so it was. Try as he might the butler could not leave hold nor yet keep the shutters from blowing open as he closed them. And he was angry but could not help himself, and he did not care to tell of it and get the laugh on him, so no one knew.

Then after a bit the coachman began to notice her, and she found he had some forty gold coins with the master, and he said she might have it if she would take him with it.

So after the laundry-maid had his money in her apron as they went merrily along, she stopped, exclaiming, “My clothes are left outside, I must run back and bring them in.”

“Stop for me while I go. it is a cold frost night,” said William, “you'd be catching your death.” So the girl waited long enough to take her feathers out and say, “By virtue of my three feathers may the clothes slash and blow about till morning, and may William not be able to take his hand from them nor yet to gather them up.” And then she was away to bed and to sleep.

The coachman did not want to be everyone's jest, and he said nothing. So after a bit the footman comes to her and said, “I have been with my master for years and have saved up a good bit, and you have been three years here and must have saved up as well. Let us put it together and make us a home or else stay on at service as pleases you.” Well, she got him to bring the savings to her as the others had, and then she pretended she was faint and said to him, “James, I feel so queer. Run down cellar for me, that's a dear, and fetch me up a drop of brandy.” Now no sooner had he started than she said, “By virtue of my three feathers may there be slashing and spilling, and James not be able to pour the brandy straight nor yet to take his hand from it until morning.”

And so it was. Try as he might James could not get his glass filled, and there was slashing and spilling, and right on it all, down came the master to know what it meant!

So James told him he could not make it out, but he could not get the drop of brandy the laundry-maid had asked for, and his hand would shake and spill everything, and yet come away he could not.

This got him in for a regular scrape, and the master when he got back to his wife said, “What has come over the men, they were all right until that laundry-maid of yours came. Something is up now though. They have all drawn out their pay, and yet they don't leave, and what can it be anyway?”

But his wife said she could not hear of the laundry-maid being blamed, for she was the best servant she had and worth all the rest put together.

So it went on until one day as the girl stood in the hall door, the coachman happened to say to the footman, “Do you know how that girl served me, James?” And then William told about the clothes. The butler put in, “That was nothing to what she served me,” and he told of the shutters clapping all night.

Just then the master came through the hall, and the girl said, “By virtue of my three feathers may there be slashing and striving between master and men, and may all get splashed in the pond.”

And so it was, the men fell to disputing which had suffered the most by her, and when the master came up all would be heard at once and none listened to him, and it came to blows all round, and the first they knew they had shoved one another into the pond.

When the girl thought they had had enough she took the spell off, and the master asked her what had begun the row, for he had not heard in the confusion.

And the girl said, “They were ready to fall on any one; they'd have beat me if you had not come by.”

So it blew over for that time, and through her feathers she made the best laundress ever known. But to make a long story short, when the seven years and a day were up, the bird-husband, who had known her doings all along, came after her, restored to his own shape again. And he told her mistress he had come to take her from being a servant, and that she should have servants under her. But he did not tell of the feathers. And then he bade her give the men back their savings.

“That was a rare game you had with them,” said he, “but now you are going where there is plenty, leave them each their own.” So she did; and they drove off to their castle, where they lived happy ever after.

Tom Moore was a linen draper in Sackville Street. His father, when he died, left him an affluent fortune and a shop of excellent trade. As he was standing at his door one day, a countryman came up to him with a nest of jackdaws, and accosting him, says, “Master, will you buy a nest of daws?”

“No, I don't want any.”

“Master,” replied the man, “I will sell them all cheap; you shall have the whole nest for ninepence.”

“I don't want them,” answered Tom Moore, “so go about your business.”

As the man was walking away one of the daws popped out his head, and cried, “Mawk, mawk!”

“Damn it,” says Tom Moore, “that bird knows my name; halloo, countryman, what will you take for the bird?”

“Why, you shall have him for threepence.”

Tom Moore bought him, had a cage made, and hung him up in the shop. The journeymen took much notice of the bird and would frequently tap at the bottom of the cage and say, “Who are you? Who are you? Tom Moore of Sackville Street.”

In a short time the jackdaw learned these words, and if he wanted victuals or water, would strike his bill against the cage, turn up the white of his eyes, cock his head and cry, “Who are you? Who are you? Tom Moore of Sackville Street.”

Tom Moore was fond of gaming and often lost large sums of money. Finding his business neglected in his absence, he had a small hazard table set up in one corner of his dining-room and invited a party of friends to play at it. The jackdaw had by this time become familiar; his cage was left open, and he hopped into every part of the house. Sometimes he got into the dining-room where the gentlemen were at play, and one of them being a constant winner, the others would say, “Damn it, how he nicks them.”

The bird learned these words also, and adding them to the former, would call, “Who are you? Who are you? Tom Moore of Sackville Street. Damn it, how he nicks them.”

Tom Moore, from repeated losses and neglect of business, failed in trade and became a prisoner in the Fleet. He took his bird with him and lived on the master's side, supported by friends, in a decent manner. They would sometimes ask “what brought you here?” when he used to lift up his hands and answer, “Bad company, by gods.” The bird learned these likewise, and at the end of the former words, would say, “What brought you here? Bad company by gods.”

Some of Tom Moore's friends died, others went abroad, and by degrees he was totally deserted and removed to the common side of the prison where the jail distemper soon attacked him. In the last stage of life, lying on a straw bed, the poor bird, who had been for two days without food or water, came to his feet, and striking his bill on the floor, calls out, “Who are you? Tom Moore of Sackville Street; damn it, how he nicks them. What brought you here? bad company, by gods, bad company, by gods.”

Tom Moore, who had attended to the bird, was struck with his words, and reflecting on himself, cried out, “Good gods, to what a situation am I reduced!? My father, when he died, left me a good fortune and an established trade. I have spent my fortune, ruined my business, and am now dying in a loathsome jail! And to complete all, keeping that poor thing confined without support. I will endeavor to do one piece of justice before I die, by setting him at liberty.”

He made a struggle to crawl from his straw bed, opened the casement, and out flew the bird. A flight of jackdaws from the temple were going over the jail, and Tom Moore's bird mixed among them. The gardener was then laying the plats of the temple gardens, and as often as he placed them in the day the jackdaws pulled them up by night. They got a bow and attempted to shoot some of them, but, being cunning birds, they always placed one as a watch in the stump of a hollow tree; who, as soon as the arrow was drawn cried “Mawk”, and away they flew.

The gardeners were advised to get a net, and the first night it was spread they caught fifteen. Tom Moore's bird was amongst them. One of the men took the net into a garret of an uninhabited house, fastened the doors and windows, and turned the birds loose.

“Now,” said he, “you black rascals, I will be revenged of you.” Taking hold of the first at hand, he twists her neck, and throwing her down, cries, “There goes one.”

Tom Moore's bird, who had hopped up to a beam at one corner of the room unobserved, as the man laid hold of the second, calls out, “Damn it, how he nicks them.”

The man alarmed, cries, “Sure I heard a voice, but the house is uninhabited, and the door is fast; it could only be imagination.”

On laying hold of the third, and twisting his neck, Tom's bird again says, “Damn it, how he nicks them.”

The man dropped the bird in his hand, and turning to where the voice came from, seeing the other with his mouth open, cries out, “Who are you?” to which the bird answered, “Tom Moore of Sackville Street, Tom Moore of Sackville Street.”

“The devil you are; and what brought you here?”

Tom Moore's bird, lifting up his pinions, answered, “Bad company, by gods, bad company by gods.”

The fellow, frightened almost out of his wits, opened the door, ran down stairs, and out of the house, followed by all the birds, who by this means regained their liberty.

Once upon a time there lived an old man and his wife in a dirty, tumble-down cottage, not very far from the splendid palace where the king and queen dwelt. In spite of the wretched state of the hut, which many people declared was too bad even for a pig to live in, the old man was very rich, for he was a great miser, and lucky besides, and would often go without food all day sooner than change one of his beloved gold pieces. But after a while he found that he had starved himself once too often. He fell ill, and had no strength to get well again, and in a few days he died, leaving his wife and one son behind him.

The night following his death, the son dreamed that an unknown man appeared to him and said: “Listen to me; your father is dead and your mother will soon die, and all their riches will belong to you. Half of his wealth is ill-gotten, and this you must give back to the poor from whom he squeezed it. The other half you must throw into the sea. Watch, however, as the money sinks into the water, and if anything should swim, catch it and keep it, even if it is nothing more than a bit of paper.” Then the man vanished, and the youth awoke.

The remembrance of his dream troubled him greatly. He did not want to part with the riches that his father had left him, for he had known all his life what it was to be cold and hungry, and now he had hoped for a little comfort and pleasure. Still, he was honest and good-hearted, and if his father had come wrongfully by his wealth he felt he could never enjoy it, and at last he made up his mind to do as he had been bidden. He found out who were the people who were poorest in the village, and spent half of his money in helping them, and the other half he put in his pocket. From a rock that jutted right out into the sea he flung it in. In a moment it was out of sight, and no man could have told the spot where it had sunk, except for a tiny scrap of paper floating on the water. He stretched down carefully and managed to reach it, and on opening it found six shillings wrapped inside. This was now all the money he had in the world.

The young man stood and looked at it thoughtfully. “Well, I can’t do much with this,” he said to himself; but, after all, six shillings were better than nothing, and he wrapped them up again and slipped them into his coat.

He worked in his garden for the next few weeks, and he and his mother contrived to live on the fruit and vegetables he got out of it, and then she too died suddenly. The poor fellow felt very sad when he had laid her in her grave, and with a heavy heart he wandered into the forest, not knowing where he was going. By-and-by he began to get hungry, and seeing a small hut in front of him, he knocked at the door and asked if they could give him some milk. The old woman who opened it begged him to come in, adding kindly, that if he wanted a night’s lodging he might have it without its costing him anything.

Two women and three men were at supper when he entered, and silently made room for him to sit down by them. When he had eaten he began to look about him, and was surprised to see an animal sitting by the fire different from anything he had ever noticed before. It was grey in color, and not very big; but its eyes were large and very bright, and it seemed to be singing in an odd way, quite unlike any animal in the forest. “What is the name of that strange little creature?” asked he. And they answered, “We call it a cat.”


“I should like to buy it–if it is not too dear,” said the young man, “it would be company for me.” And they told him that he might have it for six shillings, if he cared to give so much. The young man took out his precious bit of paper, handed them the six shillings, and the next morning bade them farewell, with the cat lying snugly in his cloak.

For the whole day they wandered through meadows and forests, till in the evening they reached a house. The young fellow knocked at the door and asked the old man who opened it if he could rest there that night, adding that he had no money to pay for it. “Then I must give it to you,” answered the man, and led him into a room where two women and two men were sitting at supper. One of the women was the old man’s wife, the other his daughter. He placed the cat on the mantel shelf, and they all crowded round to examine this strange beast, and the cat rubbed itself against them, and held out its paw, and sang to them; and the women were delighted, and gave it everything that a cat could eat, and a great deal more besides.

After hearing the youth’s story, and how he had nothing in the world left him except his cat, the old man advised him to go to the palace, which was only a few miles distant, and take counsel of the king, who was kind to everyone, and would certainly be his friend. The young man thanked him, and said he would gladly take his advice; and early next morning he set out for the royal palace.

He sent a message to the king to beg for an audience, and received a reply that he was to go into the great hall, where he would find his Majesty.

The king was at dinner with his court when the young man entered, and he signed to him to come near. The youth bowed low, and then gazed in surprise at the crowd of little black creatures who were running about the floor, and even on the table itself. Indeed, they were so bold that they snatched pieces of food from the King’s own plate, and if he drove them away, tried to bite his hands, so that he could not eat his food, and his courtiers fared no better.

“What sort of animals are these?” asked the youth of one of the ladies sitting near him.

“They are called rats,” answered the king, who had overheard the question, “and for years we have tried some way of putting an end to them, but it is impossible. They come into our very beds.”

At this moment something was seen flying through the air. The cat was on the table, and with two or three shakes a number of rats were lying dead round him. Then a great scuffling of feet was heard, and in a few minutes the hall was clear. For some minutes the King and his courtiers only looked at each other in astonishment. “What kind of animal is that which can work magic of this sort?” asked he. And the young man told him that it was called a cat, and that he had bought it for six shillings.

And the King answered: “Because of the luck you have brought me, in freeing my palace from the plague which has tormented me for many years, I will give you the choice of two things. Either you shall be my Prime Minister, or else you shall marry my daughter and reign after me. Say, which shall it be?”

“The princess and the kingdom,” said the young man.

And so it was.

Many a palace lies under the waves that wash the Isles, for the sea has swallowed up more than one village, and even cities.

When Moonshaean fairies yield to their mortal lovers and consent to become their wives, it is always on some condition or promise. Sometimes there are several of these, which the fairy ladies compel their mortal lovers to pledge them, before they agree to become wives. In fact, the fairies in the Isles are among the most exacting of any known.

A prince named Benlli, of the Isle of Alaron, found this out to his grief, for he had always supposed that wives could be had simply for the asking. All that a man need say, to the girl to whom he took a fancy, was this: "Come along with me, and be my bride," and then she would say, "Thank you, I'll come," and the two would trot off together. This was the man's notion.

Now Benlli was a wicked old fellow. He was already married, but wrinkles had gathered on his wife's face. She had a faded, washed-out look, and her hair was thinning out. She would never be young again, and he was tired of her, and wanted a mate with fresh rosy cheeks, and long, thick hair. He was quite ready to fall in love with such a maiden, whenever his eyes should light upon her.

One day, he went out hunting in the Rushdown Wood. While waiting for a wild boar to rush out, there rode past him a young woman whose beauty was dazzling. He instantly fell in love with her.

The next day, while on horseback, at the same opening in the forest, the same maiden reappeared; but it was only for a moment, and then she vanished.

Again, on the third day, the prince rode out to the appointed place, and again the vision of beauty was there. He rode up to her and begged her to come and live with him at his palace.

"I will come and be your wedded wife on three conditions: You must put away the wife you now have; you must permit me to leave you, one night in every ten, without following after or spying upon me; and you must not ask me where I go or what I do. Swear to me that you will do these three things. Then, if you keep your promises unbroken, my beauty shall never change, no, not until the tall vegetable flag-reeds wave and the long green rushes grow in your hall."

The Prince of Alaron was quite ready to swear this oath and he solemnly promised to observe the three conditions. So the Maid of the Rushdown Wood went to live with him.

"But what of his old wife?" one asks.

Ah! he had no trouble from that quarter, for when the newly-wedded couple arrived at the castle, she had already disappeared.

Happy, indeed, were the long bright days, which the prince and his new bride spent together, whether in the castle, or out doors, riding on horseback, or in hunting the deer. Every day, her beauty seemed diviner, and she more lovely. He lavished various gifts upon her, among others that of a diadem of beryl and sapphire. Then he put on her finger a diamond ring worth what was a very great sum--a king's ransom.  He loved her so dearly that he never suspected for a moment that he would ever have any trouble in keeping his three promises.

But without variety, life has no spice, and monotony wearies the soul. After nine years had passed, and his wife absented herself every tenth night, he began to wonder why it could be. His curiosity, to know the reason for her going away, so increased that it so wore on him that he became both miserable in himself and irritable toward others. Everybody in the castle noticed the change in their master, and grieved over it.

One night, he invited a learned sage from the local town, not far away, to come and take dinner with him. The table in the great banqueting hall was spread with the most delicious viands, the lights were magnificent, and the music gay.

But Wyland, the sage, was a man of magic and could see through things. He noticed that some secret grief was preying upon the Prince's mind. He discerned that, amidst all this splendor, he, Benlli, the lord of the castle, was the most miserable person within its walls. So Wyland went home, resolved to call again and find out what was the trouble.

When they met, some days later, Wyland's greeting was this: "Earthmother save thee, Benlli! What secret sorrow clouds thy brow? Why so gloomy?"

Benlli at once burst out with the story of how he met the Maid of the Rushdown Wood, and how she became his wife on three conditions.

"Think of it," said Benlli, groaning aloud. "When the owls cry and the crickets chirp, my wife leaves my bed, and until the daystar appears, I lie alone, torn with curiosity, to know where she is, and what she is doing. I fall again into heavy sleep, and do not awake until sunrise, when I find her by my side again. It is all such a mystery, that the secret lies heavy on my soul. Despite all my wealth, and my strong castle, with feasting and music by night and hunting by day, I am the most miserable man in the Isles. No beggar is more wretched than I."

Wyland, the sage, listened and his eyes glittered. There came into his head the idea of enriching the academy. He saw his chance, and improved it at once. He could make money by solving the secret for a troubled soul.

"Prince Benlli," said he, "if you will bestow upon the sages of the White Minister, one tenth of all the flocks that feed within your domain, and one tenth of all that flows into the vaults of your palace, and hand over the Maiden of the Rushdown Wood to me, I shall warrant that your soul will be at peace and your troubles end."

To all this, Prince Benlli agreed, making solemn promise. Then the sage Wyland took his book, leather bound, and kept shut by means of metal clasps, and hid himself in the cranny of a rock near the Giant's Cave, from which there was entrance down into Fairyland.

He had not long to wait, for soon, with a crown on her head, a lady, royally arrayed, passed by out of the silvery moonlight into the dark cave. It was none other than the Maiden of the Rushdown Wood.

Now came a battle of magic and spells, as between the sage's own and those of the Rushdown Wood Maiden. He moved forward to the mouth of the cave. Then summoning into his presence the spirits of the air and the cave, he informed them as to Benlli's vow to enrich the monastery, and to deliver the Rushdown Wood Maiden to himself. Then, calling aloud, he said: "Let her forever be, as she now appears, and never leave my side. Bring her, before the break of day, to the hedge near the town of the White Minster, and there will I wed her, and swear to make her my own."

Then, by the power of his magic, he made it impossible for any person or power to recall or hinder the operation of these words. Leaving the cave's mouth, in order to be at the hedge, before day should dawn, the first thing he met was a hideous ogress, grinning and rolling her bleared red eyes at him. On her head seemed what was more like moss, than hair. She stretched out a long bony finger at him. On it, flashed the splendid diamond, which Benlli had given his bride, the beautiful Maid of the Rushdown Wood.

"Take me to thy bosom, sage Wyland," she shrieked, laughing hideously and showing what looked like green snags in her mouth. "For I am the wife you are sworn to wed. Thirty years ago, I was Benlli's blooming bride. When my beauty left me, his love flew out of the window. Now I am a foul ogress, but magic makes me young again every tenth night. I promised that my beauty should last until the tall flag reeds and the long green rushes grow in his hall."

Amazed at her story, Wyland drew in his breath.

"And this promise, I have kept. It is already fulfilled. Your spell and mine are both completed. Yours brought to him the peace of the dead. Mine made the river floods rush in. Now, waters lap to and fro among the reeds and rushes that grow in the banqueting hall, which is now sunk deep below the earth. With the clash of our spells, no charm can redress our fate. Come then and take me as thy bride, for oath and spell have both decreed it as thy reward. As Benlli's promise to you is fulfilled, for
the waters flow in the palace vaults, the pike and the fish feed there."

So, caught in his own dark, sordid plot, the sage, who played conjurer, had become the victim of his own craft. They say that Wyland's Hedge still recalls the sage, while fishermen on the edges of Alaron, can, on nights with smooth water, see towers and chimneys far below, sunk deep beneath the waves.

Once upon a time there was a king who had a wife, whose name was Silver-tree, and a daughter, whose name was Gold-tree. On a certain day of the days, Gold-tree and Silver-tree went to a glen, where there was a well, and in it there was a trout.

Said Silver-tree, "Troutie, bonny little fellow, am not I the most beautiful queen in the world?"

"Oh! indeed you are not."

"Who then?"

"Why, Gold-tree, your daughter."

Silver-tree went home, blind with rage. She lay down on the bed, and vowed she would never be well until she could get the heart and the liver of Gold-tree, her daughter, to eat. At nightfall the king came home, and it was told him that Silver-tree, his wife, was very ill. He went where she was, and asked her what was wrong with her.

"Oh! only a thing—which you may heal if you like."

"Oh! indeed there is nothing at all which I could do for you that I would not do."

"If I get the heart and the liver of Gold-tree, my daughter, to eat, I shall be well."

Now it happened about this time that the son of a great king had come from abroad to ask Gold-tree for marrying. The king now agreed to this, and they went abroad. The king then went and sent his lads to the hunting-hill for a he-goat, and he gave its heart and its liver to his wife to eat; and she rose well and healthy.

A year after this Silver-tree went to the glen, where there was the well in which there was the trout.

"Troutie, bonny little fellow," said she, "am not I the most beautiful queen in the world?"

"Oh! indeed you are not."

"Who then?"

"Why, Gold-tree, your daughter."

"Oh! well, it is long since she was living. It is a year since I ate her heart and liver."

"Oh! indeed she is not dead. She is married to a great prince abroad."

Silver-tree went home, and begged the king to put the long-ship in order, and said, "I am going to see my dear Gold-tree, for it is so long since I saw her." The long-ship was put in order, and they went away. It was Silver-tree herself that was at the helm, and she steered the ship so well that they were not long at all before they arrived. The prince was out hunting on the hills. Gold-tree knew the long-ship of her father coming.

"Oh!" said she to the servants, "my mother is coming, and she will kill me."

"She shall not kill you at all; we will lock you in a room where she cannot get near you."

This is how it was done; and when Silver-tree came ashore, she began to cry out: "Come to meet your own mother, when she comes to see you," Gold-tree said that she could not, that she was locked in the room, and that she could not get out of it.

"Will you not put out," said Silver-tree, "your little finger through the key-hole, so that your own mother may give a kiss to it?"

She put out her little finger, and Silver-tree went and put a poisoned stab in it, and Gold-tree fell dead. When the prince came home, and found Gold-tree dead, he was in great sorrow, and when he saw how beautiful she was, he did not bury her at all, but he locked her in a room where nobody would get near her.

In the course of time he married again, and the whole house was under the hand of this wife but one room, and he himself always kept the key of that room. On a certain day of the days he forgot to take the key with him, and the second wife got into the room. What did she see there but the most beautiful woman that she ever saw. She began to turn and try to wake her, and she noticed the poisoned stab in her finger. She took the stab out, and Gold-tree rose alive, as beautiful as she was ever. At the fall of night the prince came home from the hunting-hill, looking very downcast.

"What gift," asked his wife, "would you give me that I could make you laugh?"

"Oh! indeed, nothing could make me laugh, except Gold-tree were to come alive again."

"Well, you'll find her alive down there in the room."

When the prince saw Gold-tree alive he made great rejoicings, and he began to kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. Said the second wife, "Since she is the first one you had it is better for you to stick to her, and I will go away."

"Oh! indeed you shall not go away, but I shall have both of you."

At the end of the year, Silver-tree went to the glen, where there was the well, in which there was the trout. "Troutie, bonny little fellow," said she, "am not I the most beautiful queen in the world?"

"Oh! indeed you are not."

"Who then?"

"Why, Gold-tree, your daughter."

"Oh! well, she is not alive. It is a year since I put the poisoned stab into her finger."

"Oh! indeed she is not dead at all, at all."

Silver-tree, went home, and begged the king to put the long-ship in order, for that she was going to see her dear Gold-tree, as it was so long since she saw her. The long-ship was put in order, and they went away. It was Silver-tree herself that was at the helm, and she steered the ship so well that they were not long at all before they arrived. The prince was out hunting on the hills. Gold-tree knew her father's ship coming.

"Oh!" said she, "my mother is coming, and she will kill me."

"Not at all," said the second wife; "we will go down to meet her."

Silver-tree came ashore. "Come down, Gold-tree, love," said she, "for your own mother has come to you with a precious drink."

"It is a custom in this country," said the second wife, "that the person who offers a drink takes a draught out of it first."

Silver-tree put her mouth to it, and the second wife went and struck it so that some of it went down her throat, and she fell dead. They had only to carry her home a dead corpse and bury her. The prince and his two wives were long alive after this, pleased and peaceful.

    I left them there.

A story is told of an inhabitant of Borth who, in walking on the sandy margin of a voe, saw a number of mermen and mermaids dancing by moonlight and several seal-skins strewed beside them on the ground. At his approach they immediately fled to secure their garbs and, taking upon themselves the form of seals, plunged immediately into the sea. But as the Ffolkman perceived that one skin lay close to his feet, he snatched it up, bore it swiftly away, and placed it in concealment. On returning to the shore he met the fairest damsel that was ever gazed upon by mortal eyes, lamenting the robbery, by which she had become an exile from her submarine friends, and a tenant of the upper world. Vainly she implored the restitution of her property; the man had drunk deeply of love, and was inexorable; but he offered her protection beneath his roof as his betrothed spouse. The merlady, perceiving that she must become an inhabitant of the land, found that she could not do better than accept of the offer.

This strange attachment subsisted for many years, and the couple had several children. The Ffolkman’s love for his merwife was unbounded, but his affection was coldly returned. The lady would often steal alone to the desert strand, and, on a signal being given, a large seal would make his appearance with whom she would hold an anxious conference in an unknown tongue. Years had thus glided away when it happened that one of the children, in the course of his play, found concealed beneath a stack of corn a seal’s skin. Delighted with the prize, he ran with it to his mother. Her eyes glistened with rapture—she gazed upon it as her own—as the means by which she could pass through the ocean that led to her native home. She burst forth into an ecstasy of joy, which was only moderated when she beheld her children, whom she was now about to leave. And after hastily embracing them, she fled with all speed towards the sea-side.

The husband immediately returned, learned the discovery that had taken place, and ran to overtake his wife, but only arrived in time to see her transformation of shape completed—to see her, in the form of a seal, bound from the ledge of a rock into the sea. The large animal of the same kind with whom she had held a secret converse soon appeared and evidently congratulated her in the most tender manner on her escape. But before she dived to unknown depths, she cast a parting glance at the wretched Ffolkman whose despairing looks excited in her breast a few transient feelings of commiseration.

"Farewell!" said she to him, "and may all good attend you. I loved you very well when I resided upon land, but I always loved my first husband much better."