More English Fairy Tales written by Various
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13 [Illustration: Janet casts the Flaming Sword into the Well]
MORE ENGLISH FAIRY TALES
Collected and Edited by
JOSEPH JACOBS
Editor of "Folk-Lore"
Illustrated by
JOHN D. BATTEN
G.P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
_YOU KNOW HOW
TO GET INTO THIS BOOK_
_Knock at the Knocker on the Door,
Pull the Bell at the side._
_Then, if you are_ very _quiet, you will hear
a teeny tiny voice say through the grating_
"Take down the Key." _This you will find at the
back: you cannot mistake it, for it has J. J.
in the wards. Put the Key in the Keyhole, which
it fits exactly, unlock the door, and_
_WALK IN_
Fourteenth Impression
To
MY SON SYDNEY
AETAT. XIII
Preface
This volume will come, I fancy, as a surprise both to my brother
folk-lorists and to the public in general. It might naturally have been
thought that my former volume (_English Fairy Tales_) had almost
exhausted the scanty remains of the traditional folk-tales of England.
Yet I shall be much disappointed if the present collection is not found
to surpass the former in interest and vivacity, while for the most part
it goes over hitherto untrodden ground, the majority of the tales in
this book have either never appeared before, or have never been brought
between the same boards.
In putting these tales together, I have acted on the same principles as
in the preceding volume, which has already, I am happy to say,
established itself as a kind of English Grimm. I have taken English
tales wherever I could find them, one from the United States, some from
the Lowland Scotch, and a few have been adapted from ballads, while I
have left a couple in their original metrical form. I have rewritten
most of them, and in doing so have adopted the traditional English style
of folk-telling, with its "Wells" and "Lawkamercy" and archaic touches,
which are known nowadays as vulgarisms. From former experience, I find
that each of these principles has met with some dissent from critics who
have written from the high and lofty standpoint of folk-lore, or from
the lowlier vantage of "mere literature." I take this occasion to soften
their ire, or perhaps give them further cause for reviling.
My folk-lore friends look on with sadness while they view me laying
profane hands on the sacred text of my originals. I have actually at
times introduced or deleted whole incidents, have given another turn to
a tale, or finished off one that was incomplete, while I have had no
scruple in prosing a ballad or softening down over-abundant dialect.
This is rank sacrilege in the eyes of the rigid orthodox in matters
folk-lorical. My defence might be that I had a cause at heart as sacred
as our science of folk-lore--the filling of our children's imaginations
with bright trains of images. But even on the lofty heights of folk-lore
science I am not entirely defenceless. Do my friendly critics believe
that even Campbell's materials had not been modified by the various
narrators before they reached the great J.F.? Why may I not have the
same privilege as any other story-teller, especially when I know the
ways of story-telling as she is told in English, at least as well as a
Devonshire or Lancashire peasant? And--conclusive argument--wilt thou,
oh orthodox brother folk-lorist, still continue to use Grimm and
Asbjoernsen? Well, they did the same as I.
Then as to using tales in Lowland Scotch, whereat a Saturday Reviewer,
whose identity and fatherland were not difficult to guess, was so
shocked. Scots a dialect of English! Scots tales the same as English!
Horror and Philistinism! was the Reviewer's outcry. Matter of fact is my
reply, which will only confirm him, I fear, in his convictions. Yet I
appeal to him, why make a difference between tales told on different
sides of the Border? A tale told in Durham or Cumberland in a dialect
which only Dr. Murray could distinguish from Lowland Scotch, would on
all hands be allowed to be "English." The same tale told a few miles
farther North, why should we refuse it the same qualification? A tale in
Henderson is English: why not a tale in Chambers, the majority of whose
tales are to be found also south of the Tweed?
The truth is, my folk-lore friends and my Saturday Reviewer differ with
me on the important problem of the origin of folk-tales. They think that
a tale probably originated where it was found. They therefore attribute
more importance than I to the exact form in which it is found and
restrict it to the locality of birth. I consider the probability to lie
in an origin elsewhere: I think it more likely than not that any tale
found in a place was rather brought there than born there. I have
discussed this matter elsewhere[1] with all the solemnity its
importance deserves, and cannot attempt further to defend my position
here. But even the reader innocent of folk-lore can see that, holding
these views, I do not attribute much anthropological value to tales
whose origin is probably foreign, and am certainly not likely to make a
hard-and-fast division between tales of the North Countrie and those
told across the Border.
As to how English folk-tales should be told authorities also differ. I
am inclined to follow the tradition of my old nurse, who was not bred at
Girton and who scorned at times the rules of Lindley Murray and the
diction of smart society. I have been recommended to adopt a diction not
too remote from that of the Authorised Version. Well, quite apart from
memories of my old nurse, we have a certain number of tales actually
taken down from the mouths of the people, and these are by no means in
Authorised form; they even trench on the "vulgar"--_i.e._, the archaic.
Now there is just a touch of snobbery in objecting to these archaisms
and calling them "vulgar." These tales have been told, if not from time
immemorial, at least for several generations, in a special form which
includes dialect and "vulgar" words. Why desert that form for one which
the children cannot so easily follow with "thous" and "werts" and all
the artificialities of pseudo-Elizabethan? Children are not likely to
say "darter" for "daughter," or to ejaculate "Lawkamercyme" because they
come across these forms in their folk-tales. They recognise the unusual
forms while enjoying the fun of them. I have accordingly retained the
archaisms and the old-world formulae which go so well with the folk-tale.
In compiling the present collection I have drawn on the store of 140
tales with which I originally started; some of the best of these I
reserved for this when making up the former one. That had necessarily to
contain the old favourites _Jack the Giant Killer, Dick Whittington_,
and the rest, which are often not so interesting or so well told as the
less familiar ones buried in periodicals or folk-lore collections. But
since the publication of _English Fairy Tales_, I have been specially
fortunate in obtaining access to tales entirely new and exceptionally
well told, which have been either published during the past three years
or have been kindly placed at my disposal by folk-lore friends. Among
these, the tales reported by Mrs. Balfour, with a thorough knowledge of
the peasants' mind and mode of speech, are a veritable acquisition. I
only regret that I have had to tone down so much of dialect in her
versions. She has added to my indebtedness to her by sending me several
tales which are entirely new and inedited. Mrs. Gomme comes only second
in rank among my creditors for thanks which I can scarcely pay without
becoming bankrupt in gratitude. Other friends have been equally kind,
especially Mr. Alfred Nutt, who has helped by adapting some of the book
versions, and by reading the proofs, while to the Councils of the
American and English Folk-Lore Societies I have again to repeat my
thanks for permission to use materials which first appeared in their
publications. Finally, I have had Mr. Batten with me once again--what
should I or other English children do without him?
JOSEPH JACOBS.
[Footnote 1: See "The Science of Folk Tales and the Problem of
Diffusion" in _Transactions of the International Folk-Lore Congress_,
1891. Mr. Lang has honoured me with a rejoinder, which I regard as a
palinode, in his Preface to Miss Roalfe Cox's volume of variants of
_Cinderella_ (Folk-Lore Society, 1892).]
Contents
THE PIED PIPER OF FRANCHVILLE
HEREAFTERTHIS
THE GOLDEN BALL
MY OWN SELF
THE BLACK BULL OF NORROWAY
YALLERY BROWN
THREE FEATHERS
SIR GAMMER VANS
TOM HICKATHRIFT
THE HEDLEY KOW
GOBBORN SEER
LAWKAMERCYME
TATTERCOATS
THE WEE BANNOCK
JOHNNY GLOKE
COAT O' CLAY
THE THREE COWS
THE BLINDED GIANT
SCRAPEFOOT
THE PEDLAR OF SWAFFHAM
THE OLD WITCH
THE THREE WISHES
THE BURIED MOON
A SON OF ADAM
THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD
THE HOBYAHS
A POTTLE O' BRAINS
THE KING OF ENGLAND AND HIS THREE SONS
KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
RUSHEN COATIE
THE KING 'O THE CATS
TAMLANE
THE STARS IN THE SKY
NEWS!
PUDDOCK, MOUSIE AND RATTON
THE LITTLE BULL-CALF
THE WEE, WEE MANNIE
HABETROT AND SCANTLIE MAB
OLD MOTHER WIGGLE-WAGGLE
CATSKIN
STUPID'S CRIES
THE LAMBTON WORM
THE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM
THE PRINCESS OF CANTERBURY
* * * * *
NOTES AND REFERENCES
Full Page Illustrations
TAMLANE
THE BLACK BULL OF NORROWAY
TATTERCOATS
THE OLD WITCH
THE CASTLE OF MELVALES
THE LITTLE BULL-CALF
THE LAMBTON WORM
WARNING TO CHILDREN
MORE ENGLISH FAIRY TALES
The Pied Piper
Newtown, or Franchville, as 't was called of old, is a sleepy little
town, as you all may know, upon the Solent shore. Sleepy as it is now,
it was once noisy enough, and what made the noise was--rats. The place
was so infested with them as to be scarce worth living in. There wasn't
a barn or a corn-rick, a store-room or a cupboard, but they ate their
way into it. Not a cheese but they gnawed it hollow, not a sugar
puncheon but they cleared out. Why the very mead and beer in the barrels
was not safe from them. They'd gnaw a hole in the top of the tun, and
down would go one master rat's tail, and when he brought it up round
would crowd all the friends and cousins, and each would have a suck at
the tail.
Had they stopped here it might have been borne. But the squeaking and
shrieking, the hurrying and scurrying, so that you could neither hear
yourself speak nor get a wink of good honest sleep the live-long night!
Not to mention that, Mamma must needs sit up, and keep watch and ward
over baby's cradle, or there'd have been a big ugly rat running across
the poor little fellow's face, and doing who knows what mischief.
Why didn't the good people of the town have cats? Well they did, and
there was a fair stand-up fight, but in the end the rats were too many,
and the pussies were regularly driven from the field. Poison, I hear you
say? Why, they poisoned so many that it fairly bred a plague.
Ratcatchers! Why there wasn't a ratcatcher from John o' Groat's house to
the Land's End that hadn't tried his luck. But do what they might, cats
or poison, terrier or traps, there seemed to be more rats than ever, and
every day a fresh rat was cocking his tail or pricking his whiskers.
The Mayor and the town council were at their wits' end. As they were
sitting one day in the town hall racking their poor brains, and
bewailing their hard fate, who should run in but the town beadle.
"Please your Honour," says he, "here is a very queer fellow come to
town. I don't rightly know what to make of him." "Show him in," said the
Mayor, and in he stepped. A queer fellow, truly. For there wasn't a
colour of the rainbow but you might find it in some corner of his dress,
and he was tall and thin, and had keen piercing eyes.
"I'm called the Pied Piper," he began. "And pray what might you be
willing to pay me, if I rid you of every single rat in Franchville?"
Well, much as they feared the rats, they feared parting with their money
more, and fain would they have higgled and haggled. But the Piper was
not a man to stand nonsense, and the upshot was that fifty pounds were
promised him (and it meant a lot of money in those old days) as soon as
not a rat was left to squeak or scurry in Franchville.
Out of the hall stepped the Piper, and as he stepped he laid his pipe to
his lips and a shrill keen tune sounded through street and house. And as
each note pierced the air you might have seen a strange sight. For out
of every hole the rats came tumbling. There were none too old and none
too young, none too big and none too little to crowd at the Piper's
heels and with eager feet and upturned noses to patter after him as he
paced the streets. Nor was the Piper unmindful of the little toddling
ones, for every fifty yards he'd stop and give an extra flourish on his
pipe just to give them time to keep up with the older and stronger of
the band.
Up Silver Street he went, and down Gold Street, and at the end of Gold
Street is the harbour and the broad Solent beyond. And as he paced
along, slowly and gravely, the townsfolk flocked to door and window, and
many a blessing they called down upon his head.
As for getting near him there were too many rats. And now that he was at
the water's edge he stepped into a boat, and not a rat, as he shoved off
into deep water, piping shrilly all the while, but followed him,
plashing, paddling, and wagging their tails with delight. On and on he
played and played until the tide went down, and each master rat sank
deeper and deeper in the slimy ooze of the harbour, until every mother's
son of them was dead and smothered.
The tide rose again, and the Piper stepped on shore, but never a rat
followed. You may fancy the townsfolk had been throwing up their caps
and hurrahing and stopping up rat holes and setting the church bells
a-ringing. But when the Piper stepped ashore and not so much as a single
squeak was to be heard, the Mayor and the Council, and the townsfolk
generally, began to hum and to ha and to shake their heads.
For the town money chest had been sadly emptied of late, and where was
the fifty pounds to come from? Such an easy job, too! Just getting into
a boat and playing a pipe! Why the Mayor himself could have done that if
only he had thought of it.
So he hummed and ha'ad and at last, "Come, my good man," said he, "you
see what poor folk we are; how can we manage to pay you fifty pounds?
Will you not take twenty? When all is said and done, 't will be good pay
for the trouble you've taken."
"Fifty pounds was what I bargained for," said the piper shortly; "and if
I were you I'd pay it quickly. For I can pipe many kinds of tunes, as
folk sometimes find to their cost."
"Would you threaten us, you strolling vagabond?" shrieked the Mayor, and
at the same time he winked to the Council; "the rats are all dead and
drowned," muttered he; and so "You may do your worst, my good man," and
with that he turned short upon his heel.
"Very well," said the Piper, and he smiled a quiet smile. With that he
laid his pipe to his lips afresh, but now there came forth no shrill
notes, as it were, of scraping and gnawing, and squeaking and scurrying,
but the tune was joyous and resonant, full of happy laughter and merry
play. And as he paced down the streets the elders mocked, but from
school-room and play-room, from nursery and workshop, not a child but
ran out with eager glee and shout following gaily at the Piper's call.
Dancing, laughing, joining hands and tripping feet, the bright throng
moved along up Gold Street and down Silver Street, and beyond Silver
Street lay the cool green forest full of old oaks and wide-spreading
beeches. In and out among the oak-trees you might catch glimpses of the
Piper's many-coloured coat. You might hear the laughter of the children
break and fade and die away as deeper and deeper into the lone green
wood the stranger went and the children followed.
All the while, the elders watched and waited. They mocked no longer now.
And watch and wait as they might, never did they set their eyes again
upon the Piper in his parti-coloured coat. Never were their hearts
gladdened by the song and dance of the children issuing forth from
amongst the ancient oaks of the forest.
Hereafterthis
Once upon a time there was a farmer called Jan, and he lived all alone
by himself in a little farmhouse.
By-and-by he thought that he would like to have a wife to keep it all
vitty for him.
So he went a-courting a fine maid, and he said to her: "Will you marry
me?"
"That I will, to be sure," said she.
So they went to church, and were wed. After the wedding was over, she
got up on his horse behind him, and he brought her home. And they lived
as happy as the day was long.
One day, Jan said to his wife, "Wife can you milk-y?"
"Oh, yes, Jan, I can milk-y. Mother used to milk-y, when I lived home."
So he went to market and bought her ten red cows. All went well till one
day when she had driven them to the pond to drink, she thought they did
not drink fast enough. So she drove them right into the pond to make
them drink faster, and they were all drowned.
When Jan came home, she up and told him what she had done, and he said,
"Oh, well, there, never mind, my dear, better luck next time."
So they went on for a bit, and then, one day, Jan said to his wife,
"Wife can you serve pigs?"
"Oh, yes, Jan, I can serve pigs. Mother used to serve pigs when I lived
home."
So Jan went to market and bought her some pigs. All went well till one
day, when she had put their food into the trough she thought they did
not eat fast enough, and she pushed their heads into the trough to make
them eat faster, and they were all choked.
When Jan came home, she up and told him what she had done, and he said,
"Oh, well, there, never mind, my dear, better luck next time."
So they went on for a bit, and then, one day, Jan said to his wife,
"Wife can you bake-y?"
"Oh, yes, Jan, I can bake-y. Mother used to bake-y when I lived home."
So he bought everything for his wife so that she could bake bread. All
went well for a bit, till one day, she thought she would bake white
bread for a treat for Jan. So she carried her meal to the top of a high
hill, and let the wind blow on it, for she thought to herself that the
wind would blow out all the bran. But the wind blew away meal and bran
and all--so there was an end of it.
When Jan came home, she up and told him what she had done, and he said,
"Oh, well, there, never mind, my dear, better luck next time."
So they went on for a bit, and then, one day, Jan said to his wife,
"Wife can you brew-y?"
"Oh, yes, Jan, I can brew-y. Mother used to brew-y when I lived home."
So he bought everything proper for his wife to brew ale with. All went
well for a bit, till one day when she had brewed her ale and put it in
the barrel, a big black dog came in and looked up in her face. She drove
him out of the house, but he stayed outside the door and still looked up
in her face. And she got so angry that she pulled out the plug of the
barrel, threw it at the dog, and said, "What dost look at me for? I be
Jan's wife." Then the dog ran down the road, and she ran after him to
chase him right away. When she came back again, she found that the ale
had all run out of the barrel, and so there was an end of it.
When Jan came home, she up and told him what she had done, and he said,
"Oh well, there, never mind, my dear, better luck next time."
So they went on for a bit, and then, one day, she thought to herself,
"'T is time to clean up my house." When she was taking down her big bed
she found a bag of groats on the tester. So when Jan came home, she up
and said to him, "Jan, what is that bag of groats on the tester for?"
"That is for Hereafterthis, my dear."
Now, there was a robber outside the window, and he heard what Jan said.
Next day, he waited till Jan had gone to market, and then he came and
knocked at the door. "What do you please to want?" said Mally.
"I am Hereafterthis," said the robber, "I have come for the bag of
groats."
Now the robber was dressed like a fine gentleman, so she thought to
herself it was very kind of so fine a man to come for the bag of groats,
so she ran upstairs and fetched the bag of groats, and gave it to the
robber and he went away with it.
When Jan came home, she said to him, "Jan, Hereafterthis has been for
the bag of groats."
"What do you mean, wife?" said Jan.
So she up and told him, and he said, "Then I'm a ruined man, for that
money was to pay our rent with. The only thing we can do is to roam the
world over till we find the bag of groats." Then Jan took the house-door
off its hinges, "That's all we shall have to lie on," he said. So Jan
put the door on his back, and they both set out to look for
Hereafterthis. Many a long day they went, and in the night Jan used to
put the door on the branches of a tree, and they would sleep on it. One
night they came to a big hill, and there was a high tree at the foot. So
Jan put the door up in it, and they got up in the tree and went to
sleep. By-and-by Jan's wife heard a noise, and she looked to see what it
was. It was an opening of a door in the side of the hill. Out came two
gentlemen with a long table, and behind them fine ladies and gentlemen,
each carrying a bag, and one of them was Hereafterthis with the bag of
groats. They sat round the table, and began to drink and talk and count
up all the money in the bags. So then Jan's wife woke him up, and asked
what they should do.
"Now's our time," said Jan, and he pushed the door off the branches,
and it fell right in the very middle of the table, and frightened the
robbers so that they all ran away. Then Jan and his wife got down from
the tree, took as many money-bags as they could carry on the door, and
went straight home. And Jan bought his wife more cows, and more pigs,
and they lived happy ever after.
The Golden Ball
There were two lasses, daughters of one mother, and as they came from
the fair, they saw a right bonny young man stand at the house-door
before them. They never saw such a bonny man before. He had gold on his
cap, gold on his finger, gold on his neck, a red gold watch-chain--eh!
but he had brass. He had a golden ball in each hand. He gave a ball to
each lass, and she was to keep it, and if she lost it, she was to be
hanged. One of the lasses, 't was the youngest, lost her ball. I'll tell
thee how. She was by a park-paling, and she was tossing her ball, and it
went up, and up, and up, till it went fair over the paling; and when she
climbed up to look, the ball ran along the green grass, and it went
right forward to the door of the house, and the ball went in and she saw
it no more.
So she was taken away to be hanged by the neck till she was dead because
she'd lost her ball.
But she had a sweetheart, and he said he would go and get the ball. So
he went to the park-gate, but 't was shut; so he climbed the hedge, and
when he got to the top of the hedge, an old woman rose up out of the
dyke before him, and said, if he wanted to get the ball, he must sleep
three nights in the house. He said he would.
Then he went into the house, and looked for the ball, but could not find
it. Night came on and he heard bogles move in the courtyard; so he
looked out o' the window, and the yard was full of them.
Presently he heard steps coming upstairs. He hid behind the door, and
was as still as a mouse. Then in came a big giant five times as tall as
he, and the giant looked round but did not see the lad, so he went to
the window and bowed to look out; and as he bowed on his elbows to see
the bogles in the yard, the lad stepped behind him, and with one blow of
his sword he cut him in twain, so that the top part of him fell in the
yard, and the bottom part stood looking out of the window.
There was a great cry from the bogles when they saw half the giant come
tumbling down to them, and they called out, "There comes half our
master, give us the other half."
So the lad said, "It's no use of thee, thou pair of legs, standing
alone at the window, as thou hast no eye to see with, so go join thy
brother;" and he cast the lower part of the giant after the top part.
Now when the bogles had gotten all the giant they were quiet.
Next night the lad was at the house again, and now a second giant came
in at the door, and as he came in the lad cut him in twain, but the legs
walked on to the chimney and went up them. "Go, get thee after thy
legs," said the lad to the head, and he cast the head up the chimney
too.
The third night the lad got into bed, and he heard the bogles striving
under the bed, and they had the ball there, and they were casting it to
and fro.
Now one of them has his leg thrust out from under the bed, so the lad
brings his sword down and cuts it off. Then another thrusts his arm out
at other side of the bed, and the lad cuts that off. So at last he had
maimed them all, and they all went crying and wailing off, and forgot
the ball, but he took it from under the bed, and went to seek his
true-love.
Now the lass was taken to York to be hanged; she was brought out on the
scaffold, and the hangman said, "Now, lass, thou must hang by the neck
till thou be'st dead." But she cried out:
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