Old Fashioned Fairy Tales by Juliana Horatia Gatty Ewing

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OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY TALES

by

JULIANA HORATIA EWING.

London:
Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge,
Northumberland Avenue, W.C.
New York: E. & J.B. Young & Co.
[Published under the direction of the General Literature Committee.]

DEDICATED TO MY DEAR SISTER, UNDINE MARCIA GATTY.

J.H.E.

"Know'st thou not the little path
That winds about the Ferny brae,
That is the road to bonnie Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae."

_Thomas the Rhymer_.

PREFACE.

As the title of this story-book may possibly suggest that the tales
are old fairy tales told afresh, it seems well to explain that this is
not so.

Except for the use of common "properties" of Fairy Drama, and a
scrupulous endeavour to conform to tradition in local colour and
detail, the stories are all new.

They have appeared at intervals during some years past in "AUNT JUDY'S
MAGAZINE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE," and were written in conformity to certain
theories respecting stories of this kind, with only two of which shall
the kindly reader of prefaces be troubled.

First, that there are ideas and types, occurring in the myths of all
countries, which are common properties, to use which does not lay the
teller of fairy tales open to the charge of plagiarism. Such as the
idea of the weak outwitting the strong; the failure of man to choose
wisely when he may have his wish; or the desire of sprites to exchange
their careless and unfettered existence for the pains and penalties of
humanity, if they may thereby share in the hopes of the human soul.

Secondly, that in these household stories (the models for which were
originally oral tradition) the thing most to be avoided is a
discursive or descriptive style of writing. Brevity and epigram must
ever be soul of their wit, and they should be written as tales that
are told.

The degree in which, if at all, the following tales fulfil these
conditions, nursery critics must decide.

There are older critics before whom fairy tales, as such, need excuse,
even if they do not meet with positive disapprobation.

On this score I can only say that, for myself, I believe them to
be--beyond all need of defence--most valuable literature for the
young. I do not believe that wonder-tales confuse children's ideas of
truth. If there are young intellects so imperfect as to be incapable
of distinguishing between fancy and falsehood, it is surely most
desirable to develop in them the power to do so; but, as a rule, in
childhood we appreciate the distinction with a vivacity which, as
elders, our care-clogged memories fail to recall.

Moreover fairy tales have positive uses in education, which no
cramming of facts, and no merely domestic fiction can serve.

Like Proverbs and Parables, they deal with first principles under the
simplest forms. They convey knowledge of the world, shrewd lessons of
virtue and vice, of common sense and sense of humour, of the seemly
and the absurd, of pleasure and pain, success and failure, in
narratives where the plot moves briskly and dramatically from a
beginning to an end. They treat, not of the corner of a nursery or a
playground, but of the world at large, and life in perspective; of
forces visible and invisible; of Life, Death, and Immortality.

For causes obvious to the student of early myths, they foster sympathy
with nature, and no class of child-literature has done so much to
inculcate the love of animals.

They cultivate the Imagination, that great gift which time and
experience lead one more and more to value--handmaid of Faith, of
Hope, and, perhaps most of all, of Charity!

It is true that some of the old fairy tales do not teach the high and
useful lessons that most of them do; and that they unquestionably deal
now and again with phases of grown-up life, and with crimes and
catastrophes, that seem unsuitable for nursery entertainment.

As to the latter question, it must be remembered that the brevity of
the narrative--whether it be a love story or a robber story--deprives
it of all harm; a point which writers of modern fairy tales do not
always realize for their guidance.

The writer of the following tales has endeavoured to bear this
principle in mind, and it is hoped that the morals--and it is of the
essence of fairy tales to have a moral--of all of them are beyond
reproach.

For the rest they are committed to the indulgence of the gentle
reader.

Hans Anderssen, perhaps the greatest writer of modern fairy tales, was
content to say:

"FAIRY TALE NEVER DIES."

J.H.E.

CONTENTS.

PAGE GOOD LUCK IS BETTER THAN GOLD

THE HILLMAN AND THE HOUSEWIFE

THE NECK, A LEGEND OF A LAKE

THE NIX IN MISCHIEF

THE COBBLER AND THE GHOSTS

THE LAIRD AND THE MAN OF PEACE

THE OGRE COURTING

THE MAGICIANS' GIFTS

THE WIDOWS AND THE STRANGERS

KIND WILLIAM AND THE WATER SPRITE

MURDOCH'S RATH

THE LITTLE DARNER

THE FIDDLER IN THE FAIRY RING

"I WON'T"

THE MAGIC JAR

THE FIRST WIFE'S WEDDING-RING

THE MAGICIAN TURNED MISCHIEF-MAKER

KNAVE AND FOOL

UNDER THE SUN

GOOD LUCK IS BETTER THAN GOLD.

There was once upon a time a child who had Good Luck for his godfather.

"I am not Fortune," said Good Luck to the parents; "I have no gifts to
bestow, but whenever he needs help I will be at hand."

"Nothing could be better," said the old couple. They were delighted.
But what pleases the father often fails to satisfy the son: moreover,
every man thinks that he deserves just a little more than he has got,
and does not reckon it to the purpose if his father had less.

Many a one would be thankful to have as good reasons for contentment
as he who had Good Luck for his godfather.

If he fell, Good Luck popped something soft in the way to break his
fall; if he fought, Good Luck directed his blows, or tripped up his
adversary; if he got into a scrape, Good Luck helped him out of it;
and if ever Misfortune met him, Good Luck contrived to hustle her on
the pathway till his godson got safely by.

In games of hazard the godfather played over his shoulder. In matters
of choice he chose for him. And when the lad began to work on his
father's farm the farmer began to get rich. For no bird or field-mouse
touched a seed that his son had sown, and every plant he planted
throve when Good Luck smiled on it.

The boy was not fond of work, but when he did go into the fields, Good
Luck followed him.

"Your christening-day was a blessed day for us all," said the old
farmer.

"He has never given me so much as a lucky sixpence," muttered Good
Luck's godson.

"I am not Fortune--I make no presents," said the godfather.

When we are discontented it is oftener to please our neighbours than
ourselves. It was because the other boys had said--"Simon, the
shoemaker's son, has an alderman for his godfather. He gave him a
silver spoon with the Apostle Peter for the handle; but thy godfather
is more powerful than any alderman"--that Good Luck's godson
complained, "He has never given me so much as a bent sixpence."

By and by the old farmer died, and his son grew up, and had the
largest farm in the country. The other boys grew up also, and as they
looked over the farmer's boundary-wall, they would say:

"Good-morning, Neighbour. That is certainly a fine farm of yours. Your
cattle thrive without loss. Your crops grow in the rain and are reaped
with the sunshine. Mischance never comes your road. What you have
worked for you enjoy. Such success would turn the heads of poor folk
like us. At the same time one would think a man need hardly work for
his living at all who has Good Luck for his godfather."

"That is very true," thought the farmer. "Many a man is prosperous,
and reaps what he sows, who had no more than the clerk and the sexton
for gossips at his christening."

"What is the matter, Godson?" asked Good Luck, who was with him in the
field.

"I want to be rich," said the farmer.

"You will not have to wait long," replied the godfather. "In every
field you sow, in every flock you rear there is increase without
abatement. Your wealth is already tenfold greater than your father's."

"Aye, aye," replied the farmer. "Good wages for good work. But many a
young man has gold at his command who need never turn a sod, and none
of the Good People came to _his_ christening. Fortunatus's Purse now,
or even a sack or two of gold--"

"Peace!" cried the godfather; "I have said that I give no gifts."

Though he had not Fortunatus's Purse, the farmer had now money and to
spare, and when the harvest was gathered in, he bought a fine suit of
clothes, and took his best horse and went to the royal city to see the
sights.

The pomp and splendour, the festivities and fine clothes dazzled him.

"This is a gay life which these young courtiers lead," said he. "A man
has nothing to do but to enjoy himself."

"If he has plenty of gold in his pocket," said a bystander.

By and by the Princess passed in her carriage. She was the King's only
daughter. She had hair made of sunshine, and her eyes were stars.

"What an exquisite creature!" cried the farmer. "What would not one
give to possess her?"

"She has as many suitors as hairs on her head," replied the bystander.
"She wants to marry the Prince of Moonshine, but he only dresses in
silver, and the King thinks he might find a richer son-in-law. The
Princess will go to the highest bidder."

"And I have Good Luck for my godfather, and am not even at court!"
cried the farmer; and he put spurs to his horse, and rode home.

Good Luck was taking care of the farm.

"Listen, Godfather!" cried the young man. "I am in love with the
King's daughter, and want her to wife."

"It is not an easy matter," replied Good Luck, "but I will do what I
can for you. Say that by good luck you saved the Princess's life, or
perhaps better the King's--for they say he is selfish--"

"Tush!" cried the farmer. "The King is covetous, and wants a rich
son-in-law."

"A wise man may bring wealth to a kingdom with his head, if not with
his hands," said Good Luck, "and I can show you a district where the
earth only wants mining to be flooded with wealth. Besides, there are
a thousand opportunities that can be turned to account and influence.
By wits and work, and with Good Luck to help him, many a poorer man
than you has risen to greatness."

"Wits and work!" cried the indignant godson. "You speak well--truly! A
hillman would have made a better godfather. Give me as much gold as
will fill three meal-bins, and you may keep the rest of your help for
those who want it."

Now at this moment by Good Luck stood Dame Fortune. She likes handsome
young men, and there was some little jealousy between her and the
godfather so she smiled at the quarrel.

"You would rather have had me for your gossip?" said she.

"If you would give me three wishes, I would," replied the farmer
boldly, "and I would trouble you no more."

"Will you make him over to me?" said Dame Fortune to the godfather.

"If he wishes it," replied Good Luck. "But if he accepts your gifts he
has no further claim on me."

"Nor on me either," said the Dame. "Hark ye, young man, you mortals
are apt to make a hobble of your three wishes, and you may end with a
sausage at your nose, like your betters."

"I have thought of it too often," replied the farmer, "and I know what
I want. For my first wish I desire imperishable beauty."

"It is yours," said Dame Fortune, smiling as she looked at him.

"The face of a prince and the manners of a clown are poor partners,"
said the farmer. "My second wish is for suitable learning and courtly
manners, which cannot be gained at the plough-tail."

"You have them in perfection," said the Dame, as the young man thanked
her by a graceful bow.

"Thirdly," said he, "I demand a store of gold that I can never
exhaust."

"I will lead you to it," said Dame Fortune; and the young man was so
eager to follow her that he did not even look back to bid farewell to
his godfather.

He was soon at court. He lived in the utmost pomp. He had a suit of
armour made for himself out of beaten gold. No metal less precious
might come near his person, except for the blade of his sword. This
was obliged to be made of steel, for gold is not always strong enough
to defend one's life or his honour. But the Princess still loved the
Prince of Moonshine.

"Stuff and nonsense!" said the King. "I shall give you to the Prince
of Gold."

"I wish I had the good luck to please her," muttered the young Prince.
But he had not, for all his beauty and his wealth. However, she was to
marry him, and that was something.

The preparations for the wedding were magnificent.

"It is a great expense," sighed the King, "but then I get the Prince
of Gold for a son-in-law."

The Prince and his bride drove round the city in a triumphal
procession. Her hair fell over her like sunshine, but the starlight of
her eyes was cold.

In the train rode the Prince of Moonshine, dressed in silver, and
with no colour in his face.

As the bridal chariot approached one of the city gates, two black
ravens hovered over it, and then flew away, and settled on a tree.

Good Luck was sitting under the tree to see his godson's triumph, and
he heard the birds talking above him.

"Has the Prince of Gold no friend who can tell him that there is a
loose stone above the archway that is tottering to fall?" said they.
And Good Luck covered his face with his mantle as the Prince drove
through.

Just as they were passing out of the gateway the stone fell on to the
Prince's head. He wore a casque of pure gold, but his neck was broken.

"We can't have all this expense for nothing," said the King:
so he married his daughter to the Prince of Moonshine. If one
can't get gold one must be content with silver.

"Will you come to the funeral?" asked Dame Fortune of the godfather.

"Not I," replied Good Luck. "I had no hand in _this_ matter."

The rain came down in torrents. The black feathers on the ravens'
backs looked as if they had been oiled.

"Caw! caw!" said they. "It was an unlucky end."

However, the funeral was a very magnificent one, for there was no
stint of gold.

THE HILLMAN AND THE HOUSEWIFE.

It is well known that the Good People cannot abide meanness. They like
to be liberally dealt with when they beg or borrow of the human race;
and, on the other hand, to those who come to them in need, they are
invariably generous.

Now there once lived a certain Housewife who had a sharp eye to her
own interests in temporal matters, and gave alms of what she had no
use for, for the good of her soul. One day a Hillman knocked at her
door.

"Can you lend us a saucepan, good Mother?" said he. "There's a wedding
in the hill, and all the pots are in use."

"Is he to have one?" asked the servant lass who had opened the door.

"Aye, to be sure," answered the Housewife. "One must be neighbourly."

But when the maid was taking a saucepan from the shelf, she pinched
her arm, and whispered sharply--"Not that, you slut! Get the old one
out of the cupboard. It leaks, and the Hillmen are so neat, and such
nimble workers, that they are sure to mend it before they send it
home. So one obliges the Good People, and saves sixpence in tinkering.
But you'll never learn to be notable whilst your head is on your
shoulders."

Thus reproached, the maid fetched the saucepan, which had been laid by
till the tinker's next visit, and gave it to the dwarf, who thanked
her, and went away.

In due time the saucepan was returned, and, as the Housewife had
foreseen, it was neatly mended and ready for use.

At supper-time the maid filled the pan with milk, and set it on the
fire for the children's supper. But in a few minutes the milk was so
burnt and smoked that no one could touch it, and even the pigs refused
the wash into which it was thrown.

"Ah, good-for-nothing hussy!" cried the Housewife, as she refilled the
pan herself, "you would ruin the richest with your carelessness.
There's a whole quart of good milk wasted at once!"

"_And that's twopence_," cried a voice which seemed to come from the
chimney, in a whining tone, like some nattering, discontented old body
going over her grievances.

The Housewife had not left the saucepan for two minutes, when the
milk boiled over, and it was all burnt and smoked as before.

"The pan must be dirty," muttered the good woman, in great vexation;
"and there are two full quarts of milk as good as thrown to the dogs."

"_And that's fourpence_," added the voice in the chimney.

After a thorough cleaning, the saucepan was once more filled and set
on the fire, but with no better success. The milk was hopelessly
spoilt, and the housewife shed tears of vexation at the waste, crying,
"Never before did such a thing befall me since I kept house! Three
quarts of new milk burnt for one meal!"

"_And that's sixpence_," cried the voice from the chimney. "_You
didn't save the tinkering after all Mother_!"

With which the Hillman himself came tumbling down the chimney, and
went off laughing through the door.

But thenceforward the saucepan was as good as any other.

THE NECK.

A Legend of a Lake.

On a certain lake there once lived a Neck, or Water Sprite, who
desired, above all things, to obtain a human soul. Now when the sun
shone this Neck rose up and sat upon the waves and played upon his
harp. And he played so sweetly that the winds stayed to listen to him,
and the sun lingered in his setting, and the moon rose before her
time. And the strain was in praise of immortality.

Furthermore, out of the lake there rose a great rock, whereon dwelt an
aged hermit, who by reason of his loneliness was afflicted with a
spirit of melancholy; so that when the fit was on him, he was
constantly tempted to throw himself into the water, for his life was
burdensome to him. But one day, when this gloomy madness had driven
him to the edge of the rock to cast himself down, the Neck rose at the
same moment, and sitting upon a wave, began to play. And the strain
was in praise of immortality. And the melody went straight to the
heart of the hermit as a sunbeam goes into a dark cave, and it
dispelled his gloom, and he thought all to be as well with him as
before it had seemed ill. And he called to the Neck and said, "What is
that which thou dost play, my son?"

And the Neck answered, "It is in praise of immortality."

Then said the hermit, "I beg that thou wilt play frequently beneath
this rock; for I am an aged and solitary man, and by reason of my
loneliness, life becomes a burden to me, and I am tempted to throw it
away. But by this gracious strain the evil has been dispelled.
Wherefore I beg thee to come often and to play as long as is
convenient. And yet I cannot offer thee any reward, for I am poor and
without possessions."

Then the Neck replied, "There are treasures below the water as above,
and I desire no earthly riches. But if thou canst tell me how I may
gain a human soul, I will play on till thou shalt bid me cease."

And the hermit said, "I must consider the matter. But I will return
to-morrow at this time and answer thee."

Then the next day he returned as he had said, and the Neck was
waiting impatiently on the lake, and he cried, "What news, my father?"

And the hermit said, "If that at any time some human being will freely
give his life for thee, thou wilt gain a human soul. But thou also
must die the selfsame day."

"The short life for the long one!" cried the Neck; and he played a
melody so full of happiness that the blood danced through the hermit's
veins as if he were a boy again. But the next day when he came as
usual the Neck called to him and said, "My father, I have been
thinking. Thou art aged and feeble, and at the most there are but few
days of life remaining to thee. Moreover, by reason of thy loneliness
even these are a burden. Surely there is none more fit than thou to be
the means of procuring me a human soul. Wherefore I beg of thee, let
us die to-day."

But the hermit cried out angrily, "Wretch! Is this thy gratitude?
Wouldst thou murder me?"

"Nay, old man," replied the Neck, "thou shalt part easily with thy
little fag-end of life. I can play upon my harp a strain of such
surpassing sadness that no human heart that hears it but must break.
And yet the pain of that heartbreak shall be such that thou wilt not
know it from rapture. Moreover, when the sun sets below the water, my
spirit also will depart without suffering. Wherefore I beg of thee,
let us die to-day."

"Truly," said the hermit, "it is because thou art only a Neck, and
nothing better, that thou dost not know the value of human life."

"And art thou a man, possessed already of a soul, and destined for
immortality," cried the Neck, "and dost haggle and grudge to benefit
me by the sacrifice of a few uncertain days, when it is but to
exchange them for the life that knows no end?"

"Our days are always uncertain," replied the hermit; "but existence is
very sweet, even to the most wretched. Moreover, I see not that thou
hast any claim upon mine." Saying which he returned to his cell, but
the Neck, flinging aside his harp, sat upon the water, and wept
bitterly.

Days passed, and the hermit did not show himself, and at last the Neck
resolved to go and visit him. So he took his harp, and taking also the
form of a boy with long fair hair and a crimson cap, he appeared in
the hermit's cell. There he found the old man stretched upon his
pallet, for lie was dying. When he saw the Neck he was glad, and said,
"I have desired to see thee, for I repent myself that I did not
according to thy wishes. Yet is the desire of life stronger in the
human breast than thou canst understand. Nevertheless I am sorry, and
I am sorry also that, as I am sick unto death, my life will no longer
avail thee. But when I am dead, do thou take all that belongs to me,
and dress thyself in my robe, and go out into the world, and do works
of mercy, and perchance some one whom thou hast benefited will be
found willing to die with thee, that thou mayst obtain a soul."

"Now indeed I thank thee!" cried the Neck. "But yet one word
more--what are these works of which thou speakest?"

"The corporal works of mercy are seven," gasped the hermit, raising
himself on his arm. "To feed the hungry and give the thirsty drink, to
visit the sick, to redeem captives, to clothe the naked, to shelter
the stranger and the houseless, to visit the widow and fatherless, and
to bury the dead." Then even as he spoke the last words the hermit
died. And the Neck clothed himself in his robe, and, not to delay in
following the directions given to him, he buried the hermit with pious
care, and planted flowers upon his grave. After which he went forth
into the world.

Now for three hundred years did the Neck go about doing acts of mercy
and charity towards men. And amongst the hungry, and the naked, and
the sick, and the poor, and the captives, there were not a few who
seemed to be weary of this life of many sorrows. But when he had fed
the hungry, and clothed the naked, and relieved the sick, and made
the poor rich, and set the captive free, life was too dear to all of
them to be given up. Therefore he betook himself to the most miserable
amongst men, and offering nothing but an easy death in a good cause,
he hoped to find some aged and want-worn creature who would do him the
kindness he desired. But of those who must look forward to the fewest
days and to the most misery there was not one but, like the fabled
woodcutter, chose to trudge out to the end his miserable span.

So when three hundred years were past, the Neck's heart failed him,
and he said, "All this avails nothing. Wherefore I will return to the
lake, and there abide what shall befall." And this he accordingly did.

Now one evening there came a tempest down from the hills, and there
was a sudden squall on the lake. And a certain young man in a boat
upon the lake was overtaken by the storm. And as he struggled hard,
and it seemed as if every moment must be his last, a young maid who
was his sweetheart came down to the shore, and cried aloud in her
agony, "Alas, that his young life should be cut short thus!"

"Trouble not thyself," said the Neck; "this life is so short and so
uncertain, that if he were rescued to-day he might be taken from thee
to-morrow. Only in eternity is love secure. Wherefore be patient, and
thou shalt soon follow him."

"And who art thou that mockest my sorrow?" cried the maiden.

"One who has watched the passing misfortunes of many generations
before thine," replied the Neck.

And when the maiden looked, and saw one like a little old man wringing
out his beard into the lake, she knew it was a Neck, and cried, "Now
surely thou art a Neck, and they say, 'When Necks play, the winds
wisht;' wherefore I beg of thee to play upon thy harp, and it may be
that the storm will lull, and my beloved will be saved."

But the Neck answered, "It is not worth while."

And when the maiden could not persuade him, she fell upon her face in
bitter grief, and cried, "Oh, my Beloved! Would GOD I could die for
thee!"

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