Old Fashioned Fairy Tales by Juliana Horatia Gatty Ewing

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"And yet thou wouldst not if thou couldst," said the Neck.

"If it be in thy power to prove me--prove me!" cried the maiden; "for
indeed he is the only stay of aged parents, and he is young and
unprepared for death. Moreover his life is dearer to me than my own."

Then the Neck related his own story, and said, "If thou wilt do this
for me, which none yet has done whom I have benefited, I will play
upon my harp, and if the winds wisht, thou must die this easy death;
but if I fail in my part, I shall not expect thine to be fulfilled.
And we must both abide what shall befall, even as others." And to this
the maiden consented most willingly. Only she said, "Do this for me, I
beg of thee. Let him come so near that I may just see his face before
I die." And it was so agreed.

Then the aged Neck drew forth his harp and began to play. And as he
played the wind stayed, as one who pauses to hearken with cleft lips,
and the lake rose and fell gently, like the bosom of a girl moved by
some plaintive song, and the sun burst forth as if to see who made
such sweet music. And so through this happy change the young man got
safe to land. Then the Neck turned to the maiden and said, "Dost thou
hold to thy promise?" And she bowed her head.

"In the long life be thy recompense!" cried the Neck, fervently, and
taking his harp again, he poured his whole spirit into the strain. And
as he played, it seemed as if the night wind moaned among pine-trees,
but it was more mournful. And it was as the wail of a mother for her
only son, and yet fuller of grief. Or like a Dead March wrung from the
heart of a great musician--loading the air with sorrow--and yet all
these were as nothing to it for sadness. And when the maiden heard it,
it was more than she could bear, and her heart broke, as the Neck had
said. Then the young man sprang to shore, and when she could see his
face clearly, her soul passed, and her body fell like a snapped flower
to the earth.

Now when the young man knew what was befallen, he fell upon the Neck
to kill him, who said, "Thou mayest spare thyself this trouble, for in
a few moments I shall be dead. But do thou take my robe and my harp,
and thou shalt be a famous musician."

Now even as the Neck spoke the sun sank, and he fell upon his face.
And when the young man lifted the robe, behold there was nothing under
it but the harp, across which there swept such a wild and piteous
chord that all the strings burst as if with unutterable grief.

Then the young man lifted the body of his sweetheart in his arms, and
carried her home, and she was buried with many tears.

And in due time he put fresh strings to the harp, which, though it was
not as when it was in the hands of the Neck, yet it made most
exquisite music. And the young man became a famous musician. For out
of suffering comes song.

Furthermore, he occupied himself in good works until that his time
also came.

* * * * *

And in Eternity Love was made secure.

THE NIX IN MISCHIEF.

A certain lake in Germany was once the home of a Nix, who became tired
of the monotony of life under water, and wished to go into the upper
world and amuse himself.

His friends and relations all tried to dissuade him. "Be wise," said
they, "and remain where you are safe, seeing that no business summons
you from the lake. Few of our kindred have had dealings with the human
race without suffering from their curiosity or clumsiness; and, do
them what good you may, in the long run you will reap nothing but
ingratitude. From how many waters have they not already banished us?
Wherefore let well alone, and stay where you are."

But this counsel did not please the Nix--(as, indeed, there is no
reason to suppose that advice is more palatable under water than on
dry land)--and he only said, "I shall not expect gratitude, for I have
no intention of conferring benefits; but I wish to amuse myself. The
Dwarfs and Kobolds play what pranks they please on men and women, and
they do not always have the worst of it. When I hear of their
adventures, the soles of my feet tingle. This is a sign of travelling,
and am I to be debarred from fun because I live in a lake instead of a
hill?"

His friends repeated their warnings, but to no purpose. The Nix
remained unconvinced, and spent his time in dreaming of the clever
tricks by which he should outwit the human race, and the fame he would
thereby acquire on his return to the lake.

Mischief seldom lacks opportunity, and shortly after this it happened
that a young girl came down to the lake for water to wash with; and
dipping her pail just above the Nix's head, in a moment he jumped in,
and was brought safe to land. The maid was Bess, the washerwoman's
daughter; and as she had had one good scolding that morning for
oversleeping herself, and another about noon for dawdling with her
work, she took up the pail and set off home without delay.

But though she held it steadily enough, the bucket shook, and the
water spilled hither and thither. Thinking that her right arm might be
tired, she moved the weight to her left, but with no better success,
for the water still spilled at every step. "One would think there were
fishes in the pail," said Bess, as she set it down. But there was
nothing to be seen but a thin red water-worm wriggling at the bottom,
such as you may see any day in a soft-water tub. It was in this shape,
however, that the Nix had disguised himself, and he almost writhed out
of his skin with delight at the success of his first essay in
mischief.

When they once more set forward the Nix leaped and jumped harder than
ever, so that not only was the water spilled, but the maiden's dress
was soaked, and her tears dropped almost as fast as the wet dripped
from her clothes.

"The pail is bewitched!" cried the poor girl. "How my mother will beat
me for this! And my back aches as if I were carrying lead, and yet the
water is nearly all gone."

"This is something like fun!" laughed the Nix. "When I go home and
relate _my_ adventures, no dwarfs pranks will be named again!" But
when Bess looked into the pail, he was the same slimy, stupid-looking
worm as before. She dared not return to the lake for more
water--"for," said she, "I should be as much beaten for being late as
for bringing short measure, and have the labour to boot." So she took
up her burden again, and the Nix began his dance afresh, and by the
time they came to their journey's end, there was not a quart of water
in the pail.

"Was ever a poor woman plagued with such a careless hussy?" cried the
mother when she saw the dripping dress; and, as Bess had expected, she
seasoned her complaints with a hearty slap. "And look what she calls a
pailful of water!" added the mother, with a second blow.

"Late in the morning's unlucky all day," thought poor Bess, and, as
her mother curled her, she screamed till the house rang with the
noise; for she had good lungs, and knew that it is well to cry out
before one gets too much hurt.

Meanwhile the Nix thought she was enduring agonies, and could hardly
contain his mischievous glee; and when the woman bade her "warm some
water quickly for the wash," he was in no way disturbed, for he had
never seen boiling water, and only anticipated fresh sport as he
slipped from the pail into the kettle.

"Now," cried the mother sharply, "see if you can lift _that_ without
slopping your clothes."

"Aye, aye," laughed the Nix, "see if you can, my dear!" and as poor
Bess seized it in her sturdy red hands he began to dance as before.
But the kettle had a lid, which the pail had not. Moreover Bess was a
strong, strapping lass, and, stimulated by the remembrance of her
mother's slaps, with a vigorous effort she set the kettle on the fire.
"I shall be glad when I'm safely in bed," she muttered. "Everything
goes wrong to-day."

"It is warm in here," said the Nix to himself, after a while; "in
fact--stuffy. But one must pay something for a frolic, and it tickles
my ears to hear that old woman rating her daughter for my pranks. Give
me time and opportunity, and I'll set the whole stupid race by the
ears. There she goes again! It is worth enduring a little discomfort,
though it certainly is warm, and I fancy it grows warmer."

By degrees the bottom of the kettle grew quite hot, and burnt the Nix,
so that he had to jump up and down in the water to keep himself cool.
The noise of this made the woman think that the kettle was boiling,
and she began to scold her daughter as before, shouting, "Are you
coming with that tub to-night or not? The water is hot already."

This time the Nix laughed (as they say) on the other side of his
mouth; for the water had now become as hot as the bottom of the
kettle, and he screamed at the top of his shrill tiny voice with pain.

"How the kettle sings to-night!" said Bess, "and how it rains!" she
added. For at that moment a tremendous storm burst around the house,
and the rain poured down in sheets of water, as if it meant to wash
everything into the lake. The kettle now really boiled, and the lid
danced up and down with the frantic leaping and jumping of the
agonized Nix, who puffed and blew till his breath came out of the
spout in clouds of steam.

"If your eyes were as sharp as your ears you'd see that the water is
boiling over," snapped the woman; and giving her daughter a passing
push, she hurried to the fire-place, and lifted the kettle on to the
ground.

But no sooner had she set it down, than the lid flew off, and out
jumped a little man with green teeth and a tall green hat, who ran out
of the door wringing his hands and crying--

"Three hundred and three years have I lived in the water of this lake,
and I never knew it boil before!"

As he crossed the threshold, a clap of thunder broke with what sounded
like a peal of laughter from many voices, and then the storm ceased as
suddenly as it had begun.

The woman now saw how matters stood, and did not fail next morning to
fasten an old horseshoe to the door of her house. And seeing that she
had behaved unjustly to her daughter, she bought her the gayest set
of pink ribbons that were to be found at the next fair.

It is on record that Bess (who cared little for slaps and sharp
speeches) thought this the best bargain she had ever made. But whether
the Nix was equally well satisfied is not known.

THE COBBLER AND THE GHOSTS.

Long ago there lived a cobbler who had very poor wits, but by strict
industry he could earn enough to keep himself and his widowed mother
in comfort.

In this manner he had lived for many years in peace and prosperity,
when a distant relative died who left him a certain sum of money. This
so elated the cobbler that he could think of nothing else, and his
only talk was of the best way of spending the legacy.

His mother advised him to lay it by against a rainy day.

"For," said she, "we have lived long in much comfort as we are, and
have need of nothing; but when you grow old, or if it should please
Heaven that you become disabled, you will then be glad of your
savings."

But to this the cobbler would not listen. "No," said he, "if we save
the money it may be stolen, but if we spend it well, we shall have
the use of what we buy, and may sell it again if we are so minded."

He then proposed one purchase after another, and each was more foolish
than the rest. When this had gone on for some time, one morning he
exclaimed: "I have it at last! We will buy the house. It cannot be
stolen or lost, and when it is ours we shall have no rent to pay, and
I shall not have to work so hard."

"He will never hit on a wiser plan than that," thought the widow; "it
is not to be expected." So she fully consented to this arrangement,
which was duly carried out; and the bargain left the cobbler with a
few shillings, which he tied up in a bag and put in his pocket, having
first changed them into pence, that they might make more noise when he
jingled the bag as he walked down the street.

Presently he said; "It is not fit that a man who lives in his own
house, and has ready money in his pocket too, should spend the whole
day in labouring with his hands. Since by good luck I can read, it
would be well that I should borrow a book from the professor, for
study is an occupation suitable to my present position."

Accordingly, he went to the professor, whom he found seated in his
library, and preferred his request.

"What book do you want?" asked the professor.

The cobbler stood and scratched his head thoughtfully. The professor
thought that he was trying to recall the name of the work; but in
reality he was saying to himself: "How much additional knowledge one
requires if he has risen ever so little in life! Now, if I did but
know where it is proper to begin in a case full of books like this!
Should one take the first on the top shelf, or the bottom shelf, to
the left, or to the right?"

At last he resolved to choose the book nearest to him; so drawing it
out from the rest, he answered--

"This one, if it please you, learned sir." The professor lent it to
him, and he took it home and began to read.

It was, as it happened, a book about ghosts and apparitions; and the
cobbler's mind was soon so full of these marvels that he could talk of
nothing else, and hardly did a stroke of work for reading and
pondering over what he read. He could find none of his neighbours who
had seen a ghost, though most had heard of such things, and many
believed in them.

"Live and learn," thought the cobbler; "here is fame as well as
wealth. If I could but see a ghost there would be no more to desire."
And with this intent he sallied forth late one night to the
churchyard.

Meanwhile a thief (who had heard the jingle of his money-bag)
resolved to profit by the cobbler's whim; so wrapping himself in a
sheet, he laid wait for him in a field that he must cross to reach the
church.

When the cobbler saw the white figure, he made sure, that he had now
seen a ghost, and already felt proud of his own acquaintance, as a
remarkable character. Meanwhile, the thief stood quite still, and the
cobbler walked boldly up to him, expecting that the phantom would
either vanish or prove so impalpable that he could pass through it as
through a mist, of which he had read many notable instances in the
professor's book. He soon found out his mistake, however, for the
supposed ghost grappled him, and without loss of time relieved him of
his money-bag. The cobbler (who was not wanting in courage) fastened
as tightly on to the sheet, which he still held with desperate
firmness when the thief had slipped through his fingers; and after
waiting in vain for further marvels, he carried the sheet home to his
mother, and narrated his encounter with the ghost.

"Alack-a-day! that I should have a son with so little wit!" cried the
old woman; "it was no ghost, but a thief, who is now making merry with
all the money we possessed."

"We have his sheet," replied her son; "and that is due solely to my
determination. How could I have acted better?"

"You should have grasped the man, not the sheet," said the widow,
"and pummelled him till he cried out and dropped the money-bag."

"Live and learn," said the cobbler. The next night he went out as
before, and this time reached the churchyard unmolested. He was just
climbing the stile, when he again saw what seemed to be a white figure
standing near the church. As before, it proved solid, and this time he
pummelled it till his fingers bled, and for very weariness he was
obliged to go home and relate his exploits. The ghost had not cried
out, however, nor even so much as moved, for it was neither more nor
less than a tall tombstone shining white in the moonlight.

"Alack-a-day!" cried the old woman, "that I should have a son with so
little wit as to beat a gravestone till his knuckles are sore! Now if
he had covered it with something black that it might not alarm timid
women or children, that would at least have been an act of charity."

"Live and learn," said the cobbler. The following night he again set
forth, but this time in another direction. As he was crossing a field
behind his house he saw some long pieces of linen which his mother had
put out to bleach in the dew.

"More ghosts!" cried the shoemaker, "and they know who is behind them.
They have fallen flat at the sound of my footsteps. But one must
think of others as well as oneself, and it is not every heart that is
as stout as mine." Saying which he returned to the house for something
black to throw over the prostrate ghosts. Now the kitchen chimney had
been swept that morning, and by the back door stood a sack of soot.

"What is blacker than soot?" said the cobbler; and taking the sack, he
shook it out over the pieces of linen till not a thread of white was
to be seen. After which he went home, and boasted of his good deeds.

The widow now saw that she must be more careful as to what she said;
so, after weighing the matter for some time, she suggested to the
cobbler that the next night he should watch for ghosts at home; "for
they are to be seen," said she, "as well when one is in bed as in the
fields."

"There you are right," said the cobbler, "for I have this day read of
a ghost that appeared to a man in his own house. The candles burnt
blue, and when he had called thrice upon the apparition, he became
senseless."

"That was his mistake," said the old woman. "He should have turned a
deaf ear, and even pretended to slumber; but it is not every one who
has courage for this. If one could really fall asleep in the face of
the apparition, there would be true bravery."

"Leave that to me," said the cobbler. And the widow went off
chuckling, to herself, "If he comes to any mischance by holding his
tongue and going to sleep, ill-luck has got him by the leg, and
counsel is wasted on him."

As soon as his mother was in bed, the cobbler prepared for his watch.
First he got together all the candles in the house, and stuck them
here and there about the kitchen, and sat down to watch till they
should burn blue. After waiting some time, during which the candles
only guttered with the draughts, the cobbler decided to go to rest for
a while. "It is too early yet," he thought; "I shall see nothing till
midnight."

Very soon, however, he fell asleep; but towards morning he awoke, and
in the dim light perceived a figure in white at his bedside. It was a
blacksmith who lived near, and he had run in in his night-shirt
without so much as slippers on his feet.

"The ghost at last!" thought the cobbler, and, remembering his
mother's advice, he turned over and shut his eyes.

"Neighbour! neighbour!" cried the blacksmith, "your house is on fire!"

"An old bird is not to be caught with chaff," chuckled the cobbler to
himself; and he pulled the bed-clothes over his head.

"Neighbour!" roared the blacksmith, snatching at the quilt to drag it
off, "are you mad? The house is burning over your head. Get up for
your life!"

"I have the courage of a general, and more," thought the cobbler; and
holding tightly on to the clothes he pretended to snore.

"If you will burn, bum!" cried the blacksmith angrily, "but I mean to
save my bones"--with which he ran off.

And burnt the cobbler undoubtedly would have been, had not his
mother's cries at last convinced him that the candles had set fire to
his house, which was wrapped in flames. With some difficulty he
escaped with his life, but of all he possessed nothing remained to him
but his tools and a few articles of furniture that the widow had
saved.

As he was now again reduced to poverty, he was obliged to work as
diligently as in former years, and passed the rest of his days in the
same peace and prosperity which he had before enjoyed.

THE LAIRD AND THE MAN OF PEACE.

In the Highlands of Scotland there once lived a Laird of Brockburn,
who would not believe in fairies. Although his sixth cousin on the
mother's side, as he returned one night from a wedding, had seen the
Men of Peace hunting on the sides of Ben Muich Dhui, dressed in green,
and with silver-mounted bridles to their horses which jingled as they
rode; and though Rory the fiddler having gone to play at a christening
did never come home, but crossing a hill near Brockburn in a mist was
seduced into a _Shian_[1] or fairy turret, where, as all decent bodies
well believe, he is playing still--in spite, I say, of the wise saws
and experience of all his neighbours, Brockburn remained obstinately
incredulous.

[Footnote 1: _Shian_, a Gaelic name for fairy towers, which by day are
not to be told from mountain crags.]

Not that he bore any ill-will to the Good People, or spoke uncivilly
of them; indeed he always disavowed any feeling of disrespect towards
them if they existed, saying that he was a man of peace himself, and
anxious to live peaceably with whatever neighbours he had, but that
till he had seen one of the _Daoine Shi_[2] he could not believe in
them.

[Footnote 2: _Daoine Shi_ (pronounced _Dheener Shee_) = Men of Peace.]

Now one afternoon, between Hallowmas and Yule, it chanced that the
Laird, being out on the hills looking for some cattle, got parted from
his men and dogs and was overtaken by a mist, in which, familiar as
the country was to him, he lost his way.

In vain he raised his voice high, and listened low, no sound of man or
beast came back to him through the thickening vapour.

Then night fell, and darkness was added to the fog, so that Brockburn
needed to sound every step with his _rung_[3] before he took it.

[Footnote 3: _Rung_ = a thick stick.]

Suddenly light footsteps pattered beside him, then Something rubbed
against him, then It ran between his legs. The delighted Laird made
sure that his favourite collie had found him once more.

"Wow, Jock, man!" he cried; "but ye needna throw me on my face. What's
got ye the night, that _you_ should lose your way in a bit mist?"

To this a voice from the level of his elbow replied, in piping but
patronizing tones;

"Never did I lose my way in a mist since the night that Finn crossed
over to Ireland in the Dawn of History. Eh, Laird! I'm weel acquaint
with every bit path on the hill-side these hundreds of years, and I'll
guide ye safe hame, never fear!"

The hairs on Brockburn's head stood on end till they lifted his broad
bonnet, and a damp chill broke out over him that was not the fog. But,
for all that, he stoutly resisted the evidence of his senses, and only
felt about him for the collie's head to pat, crying:

"Bark! Jock, my mannie, bark! Then I'll recognize your voice, ye ken.
It's no canny to hear ye speak like a Christian, my wee doggie."

"I'm nae your doggie, I'm a Man of Peace," was the reply. "Dinna
miscall your betters, Brockburn: why will ye not credit our existence,
man?"

"Seein's believin'," said the Laird, stubbornly; "but the mist's ower
thick for seein' the night, ye ken."

"Turn roun' to your left, man, and ye'll see," said the Dwarf, and
catching Brockburn by the arm, he twisted him swiftly round three
times, when a sudden blaze of light poured through the mist, and
revealed a crag of the mountain well known to the Laird, and which he
now saw to be a kind of turret, or tower.

Lights shone gaily through the crevices or windows of the _Shian_,
and sounds of revelry came forth, among which fiddling was
conspicuous. The tune played at that moment was "Delvyn-side."

Blinded by the light, and amazed at what he saw, the Laird staggered,
and was silent.

"Keep to your feet, man--keep to your feet!" said the Dwarf, laughing.
"I doubt ye're fou, Brockburn!"

"I'm nae fou," said the Laird, slowly, his rung grasped firmly in his
hand, and his bonnet set back from his face, which was deadly pale.
"But--man-_is yon Rory?_ I'd know his fiddle in a thousand."

"Ask no questions, and ye'll be tellt no lees," said the Dwarf. Then
stepping up to the door of the _Shian_, he stood so that the light
from within fell full upon him, and the astonished Laird saw a tiny
but well-proportioned man, with delicate features, and golden hair
flowing over his shoulders. He wore a cloak of green cloth, lined with
daisies, and had silver shoes. His beautiful face quivered with
amusement, and he cried triumphantly, "D'ye see me?--d'ye see me noo,
Brockburn?"

"Aye, aye," said the Laird; "and seein's believin'."

"Then roun' wi' ye!" shouted the Man of Peace; and once more seizing
the Laird by the arm, he turned him swiftly round--this time, to the
right--and at the third turn the light vanished, and Brockburn and
the Man of Peace were once more alone together in the mist.

"Aweel, Brockburn," said the Man of Peace, "I'll alloo ye're candid,
and have a convincible mind. I'm no ill disposit to ye, and yese get
safe hame, man."

As he spoke he stooped down, and picking up half-a-dozen big stones
from the mountain-side, he gave them to the Laird, saying, "If the
gudewife asks ye about the bit stanes, say ye got them in a
compliment."[4]

[Footnote 4: "In a compliment" = "as a present."]

Brockburn put them into his pocket, briefly saying, "I'm obleeged to
ye;" but as he followed the Man of Peace down the hill-side, he found
the obligation so heavy, that from time to time he threw a stone away,
unobserved, as he hoped, by his companion. When the first stone fell,
the Man of Peace looked sharply round, saying:

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