Chapter II: Preface (2)

After a time the Fynoderee went up to the top of Barrule Mountain to live, up to the very peak. Himself and the wife went to make a potful of porridge one day, and they fell out.

She ran and left him. He threw a big white rock after her and it struck her on the heel--the mark of the blood is still on the stone at Cleigh Fainey. While she stooped to put a rag on her heel he threw a lot of small rocks at her, that made her give a spring to the Lagg, two miles away. Then he threw a big rock with the pot-stick in it--it's in the Lagg river to-day. At that she gave two leaps over the sea to the Mountains of Mourne in Ireland; and for all that I know she's living there still.

THE LHONDOO AND THE USHAG-REAISHT

One time Lhondoo, the Blackbird, was living in the mountains and Ushag-reaisht, the Bird of the Waste, as Manx ones call the Golden Plover, was living in the lowlands, and neither of them was able to leave his own haunts. One day, however, the two birds met on the borders between mountain and plain, and they made it up between them that they would change places for a while. The Bird of the Waste should stay in the mountains till the Lhondoo should return.

The Lhondoo found himself better off in his new home than in the old one, and he did not go back. So the poor Bird of the Waste was left in the mountains and any day you may hear him cry in a mournful voice:

'Lhondoo, vel oo cheet, vel oo cheet?
S'foddey my reayllagh oo!'
Black Thrush, are you coming, are you coming?
The time is long and you are not here!

But the Lhondoo answers:

'Cha jig dy braa, cha jig dy braa!'
Will never come, will never come!

Then the poor Ushag-reaisht wails:

'T'eh feer feayr, t'eh feer feayr!'
It's very cold, it's very cold.

Then the Blackbird goes his ways.

BILLY BEG, TOM BEG, AND THE FAIRIES

Not far from Dalby, Billy Beg and Tom Beg, two humpback cobblers, lived together on a lonely croft. Billy Beg was sharper and cleverer than Tom Beg, who was always at his command. One day Billy Beg gave Tom a staff, and quoth he:

'Tom Beg, go to the mountain and fetch home the white sheep.'

Tom Beg took the staff and went to the mountain, but he could not find the white sheep. At last, when he was far from home and dusk was coming on, he began to think that he had best go back. The night was fine, and stars and a small crescent moon were in the sky. No sound was to be heard but the curlew's sharp whistle. Tom was hastening home, and had almost reached Glen Rushen, when a grey mist gathered and he lost his way. But it was not long before the mist cleared, and Tom Beg found himself in a green glen such as he had never seen before, though he thought he knew every glen within five miles of him, for he was born and reared in the neighbourhood. He was marvelling and wondering where he could be, when he heard a far-away sound drawing nearer to him.

'Aw,' said he to himself, 'there's more than myself afoot on the mountains to-night; I'll have company.'

The sound grew louder. First, it was like the humming of bees, then like the rushing of Glen Meay waterfall, and last it was like the marching and the murmur of a crowd. It was the fairy host. Of a sudden the glen was full of fine horses and of Little People riding on them, with the lights on their red caps, shining like the stars above, and making the night as bright as day. There was the blowing of horns, the waving of flags, the playing of music, and the barking of many little dogs. Tom Beg thought that he had never seen anything so splendid as all he saw there. In the midst of the drilling and dancing and singing one of them spied Tom, and then Tom saw coming towards him the grandest Little Man he had ever set eyes upon, dressed in gold and silver, and silk shining like a raven's wing.

'It is a bad time you have chosen to come this way,' said the Little Man, who was the king.

'Yes; but it is not here that I'm wishing to be though,' said Tom.

Then said the king: 'Are you one of us to-night, Tom?'

'I am surely,' said Tom.

'Then,' said the king, 'it will be your duty to take the password. You must stand at the foot of the glen, and as each regiment goes by, you must take the password: it is Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday.'

'I'll do that with a heart and a half,' said Tom.

At daybreak the fiddlers took up their fiddles, the Fairy army set itself in order, the fiddlers played before them out of the glen, and sweet that music was. Each regiment gave the password to Tom as it went by--Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday; and last of all came the king, and he, too, gave it--Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Then he called in Manx to one of his men:

'Take the hump from this fellow's back,' and before the words were out of his mouth the hump was whisked off Tom Beg's back and thrown into the hedge. How proud now was Tom, who so found himself the straightest man in the Isle of Mann! He went down the mountain and came home early in the morning with light heart and eager step. Billy Beg wondered greatly when he saw Tom Beg so straight and strong, and when Tom Beg had rested and refreshed himself he told his story: how he had met the Fairies who came every night to Glen Rushen to drill.

The next night Billy Beg set off along the mountain road and came at last to the green glen. About midnight he heard the trampling of horses, the lashing of whips, the barking of dogs, and a great hullabaloo, and, behold, the Fairies and their king, their dogs and their horses, all at drill in the glen as Tom Beg had said.

When they saw the humpback they all stopped, and one came forward and very crossly asked his business.

'I am one of Yourselves for the night, and should be glad to do you some service,' said Billy Beg.

So he was set to take the password--Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. And at daybreak the King said: 'It's time for us to be off,' and up came regiment after regiment giving Billy Beg the password--Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Last of all came the king with his men, and gave the password also--Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, 'and Sunday,' says Billy Beg, thinking himself clever. Then there was a great outcry.

'Get the hump that was taken off that fellow's back last night and put it on this man's back,' said the King, with flashing eyes, pointing to the hump that lay under the hedge.

Before the words were well out of his mouth the hump was clapt on to Billy Beg's back.

'Now,' said the King, 'be off, and if ever I find you here again, I will clap another hump on to your front!'

And on that they all marched away with one great shout, and left poor Billy Beg standing where they had found him, with a hump growing on each shoulder. And he came home next day dragging one foot after another, with a wizened face and as cross as two sticks, with his two humps on his back, and if they are not off they are there still.

THE LAZY WIFE

Well, there was a woman once, and she was scandalous lazy. She was that lazy she would do nothing but sit in the corner of the chiollagh warming herself, or going on the houses for newses the day long. And one day her man gives her some wool to spin for him; he was terrible badly off for clothes to wear, for she was letting them get all ragged on him. He had told her to mend them until he was tired, but all he could get out of her was 'Traa dy liooar.' Time enough!

One day he comes to her, and says:

'Thou liggey my hraa, here is some wool for thee to spin, and if it is not done a month from this day, I'll throw thee out on the side of the road. Thou and thy Traa dy liooar have left me nearly bare.'

Well, she was too lazy to spin, but she would be pretending to be working hard when the husband was in the house. She used to put the wheel out on the floor every night before the husband came in from work, to let on to him that she had been spinning.

The husband was asking her was the thread getting near spun, for he said he was seeing the wheel so often on the floor that he wanted to know if she had enough to take to the weaver. When it came to the last week but one, she had only one ball spun, and that one was knotted and as coarse as gorse. When her husband says to her:

'I'm seeing the wheel middling often on the floor when I come home at night; maybe there's enough thread spun at thee now for me to take to the weaver next week?'

'I don't know, at all,' says the wife. 'Maybe there is; let us count the balls.'

Then the play began! Up she went on the lout, and flung the ball through the hole, down to him.

'Keep count thyself, and fling the balls back again to me,' says she to the man. And as fast as he flung the ball up to her, so fast she flung it down to him again. When he had counted the ball, maybe, two score times, she says to him:

'That's all that's in.'

'Aw, 'deed, you've spun well, woman, for all,' says he; 'there's plenty done at thee for the weaver.'

Aw, then she was in a great fix, and didn't know in her senses what to do to save herself. She knew she would sup sorrow if she was found out, but she could think of nothing.

At last she bethought herself of the Giant that lived in a lonesome place up the mountain, for she had heard tell he was good to work, and the woman, she says to herself:

'I've a mind to go my ways to him.' She took the road early next morning, she and her rolls of wool, and she walked up hills, down gills, till at last she came to the Giant's house.

'What are thou wanting here?' says the Giant.

'I'm wanting thee to help me,' says she; and she up and told him about the ball of thread and everything.

'I'll spin the wool for thee,' says the Giant, 'if thou'll tell me my name when thou come for the balls a week from this day. Are thou satisfied?'

'Why shouldn't I be satisfied?' says the woman; for she thought to herself it would be a middling queer thing if she couldn't find out his name within a week. Well, the woman she tried every way to find out the Giant's name, but, go where she might, no one had ever heard tell of it. The time was getting over fast, and she was no nearer to the Giant's name. At last it came to the last day but one.

Now, as it happened, the husband was coming home from the mountain that day in the little evening, and as he neared the Giant's house, he saw it all in a blaze of light, and there was a great whirling and whistling coming to his ears, and along with it came singing, and laughing, and shouting. So he drew near the window, and then he sees the big Giant inside sitting at a wheel, spinning like the wind, and his hands flying with the thread to and fro, to and fro, like the lightning, and he shouting to the whistling wheel: 'Spin, wheel, spin faster; and sing, wheel, sing louder!'

And he sings, as the wheel whirls faster and faster:

'Snieu, queeyl, snieu; 'rane, queeyl, 'rane;
Dy chooilley clea er y thie, snieu er my skyn.
Lheeish yn ollan, lhiams y snaie,
S'beg fys t'ec yn ven litcheragh
Dy re Mollyndroat my ennym!'

Spin, wheel, spin; sing, wheel, sing;
Every beam on the house, spin overhead.
Herself's is the wool, mine is the thread,
How little she knows, the lazy wife,
That my name is Mollyndroat!

When the husband got home that evening he was late, and his wife said to him:

'Where have you been so late? Did thou hear anything new?'

Then he said:

'Thou are middling good to spin thyself, ven thie; but I'm thinking there's one in that's better than thee, for all. Never in all my born days did I see such spinning, a thread as fine as a cobweb, and hear such singing as there was going on in the Giant's house to-night.'

'What was he singing?' says the wife. And he sang the song to her:

Snieu, queeyl, snieu; 'rane, queeyl, 'rane;
Dy chooilley clea er y thie, snieu er my skyn.
Lheeish yn ollan, lhiams y snaie,
S'beg fys t'ec yn ven litcheragh
Dy re Mollyndroat my ennym!

Well, well, the joy the woman took when she heard the song!

'Aw, what sweet music! Sing it again, my good man,' says she.

And he sang it to her again, till she knew it by heart.

Early next morning, she went as fast as her feet could carry her to the Giant's house. The road was long, and a bit lonesome under the trees, and to keep up her heart she sang to herself:

'Snieu, queeyl, snieu; snieu, queeyl, snieu;
Dy chooilley vangan er y villey, snieu er my skyn.
S'lesh hene yn ollan, as lesh my hene y snaie,
Son shenn Mollyndroat cha vow eh dy braa.'

Spin, wheel, spin; spin, wheel, spin;
Every branch on the tree, spin overhead.
The wool is Himself's, the thread is my own,
For old Mollyndroat will never get it.

When she got to the house, she found the door open before her, and in she went.

'I've come again for the thread,' says she.

'Aisy, aisy, good woman,' says the Giant. 'If thou don't tell me my name thou won't get the thread--that was the bargain.' And says he: 'Now, what's my name?'

'Is it Mollyrea?' says she--to let on that she didn't know it.

'No, it is not,' says he.

'Are you one of the Mollyruiy ones?' says she.

'I'm not one of that clan,' says he.

'Are they calling you Mollyvridey?' says she.

'They are not,' says he.

'I'll warrant your name is Mollychreest?' says she.

'You are wrong, though,' says he.

'Are you going by the name of Mollyvoirrey?' says she.

''Deed I am not,' says he.

'Maybe your name is Mollyvartin?' says she.

'And, maybe, it's not at all,' says he.

'They're saying,' says she, 'that there was only seven families living on the islan' at one time, and their names all began with "Molly"; and so,' says she, 'if you are not a Mollycharaine, you are none of the rael, oul' Manx ones, at all.'

'I am not a Mollycharaine,' says he. 'Now, be careful, woman; next guess is your last.'

At that she pretended to be frightened, and says she, slowly, pointing her finger at him:

'S'lesh hene yn ollan, as lesh my hene y snaie,
Son shenn--Moll-YN-DROAT cha vow eh dy braa.'

The wool is Himself's, and the thread is my own,
For old--Moll-YN-DROAT will never get it.

Well the Giant, he was done, and he was in a red rage, and he cries:

'Bad luck to you! You never would have found out my name unless you're a mummig yn aishnee.'

'Bad luck to yourself, my boy,' says she, 'for trying to steal a dacent woman's wool.'

'Go to the Devil, yourself and your fortune-telling,' shouts he, jumping up and flinging the balls at her.

And away home with her, and her balls of thread. And if she didn't spin her own wool for ever after, that's nothing to do with you and me.

THE MERMAID OF GOB NY OOYL

Once on a time there lived at the bottom end of Cornah gill a family of the name of Sayle, and the Mermaid who had her haunt up Bulgham way was a friend to them. They were always in luck's way and never seemed to be short of anything. Sure enough they were full of thrift, and to fill in odds of spare time they made lobster pots from the osier that grew around in plenty, and they always found a ready market. They kept a cow and a few sheep, just to give work to the women in the long winter nights, but their living was mostly got by the sea.

It was well known that Sayle had a strong liking for apples, and that he would often bring some with him out in the boat, but when he got well up in years he would be leaving a lot of the boat-work for the boys, and then the luck began to get less, and many a time one of them had to take a gun to keep something in the pot. Then the bigger ones took to the herrings. One, Evan, however, had to stay about to keep things going, and it happened that one day, after he had the creels set, just at Bulgham, that he pulled the boat in and went up the brow after eggs. On coming back to the boat he heard some one calling to him, and, looking round, he saw a fine-looking woman sitting on the edge of a rock.

'And how's your father?' said she. 'It's seldom he's coming this way now.'

Young Sayle was a bit frightened at first, but seeing a pleasant look on her face, he took courage and told her how things were at home. Then, saying she hoped to see him again, she slipped into the water and disappeared.

On getting home he told what had taken place, and the father, his face lighting up, declared:

'There will be luck on the house yet.'

And he said:

'Take some apples with you the next time you go up that way, an' we'll see.'

The very next time the young chap went, he took some apples with him, and when he got to the place where he had seen the beautiful woman, he went, as usual, on the hunt among the rocks. Then he heard sweet singing, and when he turned round what should he see but the Mermaid leaning over the boat and smiling pleasantly. She took an apple and began to eat and chant:

The luck o' the sea be with you, but don't forgetful be
Of bringing some sweet lan' eggs for the children of the sea.

From that time he was nearly living on the water until, at last, he was taken to task for being idle. Then he made up his mind to go sailing in foreign parts. The Mermaid was in great distress, so to please her, he went and planted an apple tree on the brow above her haunt, telling her that when he would be far away this tree would grow land-eggs which, when they would be sweet and ready for eating, would come of themselves to the water for her. And, sure enough, the luck of the family remained, though the boy was gone.

She seemed to bear up well for a long time and would often be seen sitting on the rocks in the evening, singing sad songs, and casting longing glances up to the apple tree above. She kept very shy of everyone coming her way, and at last, finding the apples slow in coming, made up her mind to go in search of young Sayle, hoping the apples would be ready for taking when they would come back.

But neither of them ever came back, though for many a long year the apple tree bore fruit and marked the little creek where the Mermaid used to live.

THE LOST WIFE OF BALLALEECE

One time the Farmer of Ballaleece married a beautiful young wife and they were thinking the world of one another. But before long she disappeared. Some persons said that she was dead and others that she was taken by the Little People. Ballaleece mourned for her with a heavy heart and looked for her from Point of Ayr to the Calf; but in the end, not finding her, he married another wife. This one was not beautiful, but there was some money at her.

Soon after the marriage his first wife appeared to Ballaleece one night, and said to him:

'My man, my man, I was taken away by the Little People, and I live with them near to you. I can be set free if you will but do what I tell you.'

'Tell me quick,' said Ballaleece.

'We'll be riding through Ballaleece barn at midnight on Friday,' said she. 'We'll be going in on one door and out on another. I'll be riding behind one of the men on horseback. You'll sweep the barn clean, and mind there is not one straw left on the floor. Catch hold of my bridle rein, hold it fast, and I shall be free.'

When the night came Ballaleece took a besom and swept the barn floor so clean that not one speck was left on it. Then he waited in the dark.

At midnight the barn doors opened wide, sweet music was heard, and in through the open door came a fine company of Little People, in green jackets and red caps, riding fine horses. On the last horse, sitting behind a Little Fellow, Ballaleece saw his first wife as pretty as a picture, and as young as when she left him. He seized hold of her bridle rein, but he was shaken from side to side like a leaf on a tree, and he was not able to hold her. As she went out through the door she stretched out her right hand and pointed to a bushel in the corner of the barn, and called out in a sad voice:

'There's been a straw put under the bushel--for that reason you couldn't hold me, and you've done with me for ever!'

The second wife had heard what had passed and had hidden the straw, and turned the bushel upside down so that it would not be seen.

The young wife was never heard of any more.

SMEREREE

The speckled hen and the little chicken were scratching under an apple tree in the garden, and an apple fell off the tree and it hit the little chicken on the head. And says he to the speckled hen:

'Let us go to Rome, for the world has fallen.'

'Who said that to you, little chicken?' said the speckled hen.

'It fell on my head, Smereree!'

Then the speckled hen and the little chicken went their ways until they met the cock.

'Where are you going, speckled hen?' said the cock.

'Going to Rome, for the world has fallen,' said the speckled hen.

'Who said that to you, speckled hen?'

'The little chicken said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, little chicken?'

'It fell on my head, Smereree!'

So they went their ways together until they met a gander.

'Where are you going, cock?' said the gander.

'Going to Rome, for the world has fallen.'

'Who said that to you, cock?' said the gander.

'The speckled hen said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, speckled hen?'

'The little chicken said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, little chicken?'

'It fell on my head, Smereree!'

So they went all together until they met a bull.

'Where are you going, gander?' said the bull.

'Going to Rome, for the world has fallen.'

'Who said that to you, gander?'

'The cock said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, cock?'

'The speckled hen said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, speckled hen?'

'The little chicken said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, little chicken?'

'It fell on my head, Smereree!'

So they went all together until they met a goat.

'Where are you going, bull?' said the goat.

'Going to Rome, for the world has fallen,' said the bull.

'Who said that to you, bull?' said the goat.

'The gander said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, gander?'

'The cock said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, cock?'

'The speckled hen said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, speckled hen?'

'The little chicken said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, little chicken?'

'It fell on my head, Smereree!'

So they all went together until they met a horse.

'Where are you going, goat?' said the horse.

'Going to Rome, for the world has fallen.'

'Who said that to you, goat?'

'The bull said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, bull?'

'The gander said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, gander?'

'The cock said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, cock?'

'The speckled hen said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, speckled hen?'

'The little chicken said it to me.'

'Who said that to you, little chicken?'

'It fell on my head, Smereree!'

So they all went travelling together until they came to the house of the giant; they went in the house and the giant was from home. So the horse went under the big table, and the bull went under the dresser, and the goat went on the stairs, and all the rest in the corners.

When the giant came home, they all went at him at once, and there was heavy war between them.

'Calk! Calk! If I come down to you,' said the cock.

He came down at last and picked the giant's eyes out, and they killed him, and they all lived in his house together.

And if they are not dead, they are living there yet.

KEBEG

There is a deep dub, or pool, on Ballacoan stream, which the children of Laxey call Nikkesen's. It is the home of Nyker, the Water Goblin. It has no bottom; and brambles and ferns are growing round it, and fir trees and hazels are hiding it from sight. No child, no grown-up person even, will go near it after dark.

A great many years ago a beautiful girl living at Ballaquine was sent to look for the calves, which had gone astray. She had got as far as Nikkesen's, when she took a notion that she heard the calves over the river in Johnny Baldoon's nuts. At once she began to call to them:

'Kebeg! Kebeg! Kebeg!' so loud that you could hear her at Chibber Pherick, Patrick's Well. The people could hear her calling quite plainly, but, behold, a great mist came and rolled down the valley, and shut it from sight. The people on one side of the valley could hear her voice yet calling through the mist:

'Kebeg! Kebeg! Kebeg!'

Then came a little sweet voice through the mist and the trees in answer:

'Kebeg's here! Kebeg's here!'

And she cried:

'I'm comin'! I'm comin'!'

And that was all.

The Fairies who live in Nikkesen's had pulled her in, and carried her to their own home.

She was never heard of again.

THE FAIRY CHILD OF CLOSE NY LHEIY

One time there was a woman named Colloo, in Close ny Lheiy, near Glen Meay, and she had a child that had fallen sick in a strange way. Nothing seemed wrong with him, yet crosser and crosser he grew, nying nyanging night and day. The woman was in great distress. Charms had failed, and she didn't know rightly what to do.

It seems that when about a fortnight old, the child, as fine a child for his age as you would see in a day's walk, was left asleep while the mother went to the well for water. Now Herself forgot to put the tongs on the cradle, and when she came back the child was crying pitifully, and there was no quieting for him. And from that very hour the flesh seemed to melt off his bones till he became as ugly and as wizened a child as you would see between the Point of Ayr and the Calf. He was that way, his whining howl filling the house, for four years, lying in his cradle without a motion on him to put his feet under him. Not a day's rest nor a night's sleep had the woman these four years with him. She was fairly scourged until there came a fine day in the spring, while Hom Beg Bridson, the tailor, was in the house sewing. Hom is dead now, but there's many alive that remember him yet. He was wise tremendous, for he was going from house to house sewing, and gathering wisdom as he was going.

Well, before that day the tailor was seeing lots of wickedness in the child. When the woman would be out feeding the cows and pigs, he would be hoisting his head up out of the cradle and making faces at the tailor, winking and slicking, and shaking his head, and saying 'What a lad I am!'

That day the woman wanted to go to the shop to sell some eggs that she had, and says she to the tailor: 'Hom, man, keep your eye on the chile that the bogh won't fall out of the criddle an' hurt himself, while I slip down to the shop.'

When she was gone the tailor began to whistle, low and slow, to himself, as he stitched, the tune of a little hymn.

'Drop that, Hom Beg,' said a little harsh voice.

The tailor, scandalised, looked round to see if it was the child that had spoken, and it was.

'Whush, whush, now; lie quate,' said the tailor, rocking the cradle with his foot, and as he rocked he whistled the hymn tune louder.

'Drop that, Hom Beg, I tell ye, an' give us something light an' handy,' said the little fella back to him, middling sharp.

'Aw, anything at all to plaze thee,' said the tailor, whistling a jig.

'Hom,' said my lad, 'can thou dance anything to that?'

'I can,' said the tailor. 'Can thou?'

'I can that,' said my lad. 'Would thou like to see me dance?'

'I would,' said the tailor.

'Take that oul' fiddle down, then, Hom, man,' he said; 'an' put "The tune of the Big Wheel" on it.'

'Aw, I'll do that for thee, an' welcome,' said the tailor.

The fiddle quits its hook on the wall, and the tailor tunes up.

'Hom,' said the little fella, 'before thou begin to play, clear the kitchen for me--cheers an' stools, everything away--make a place for me to step out to the music, man.'

'Aw, I'll do that for thee, too,' said the tailor. He cleared the kitchen floor, and then he struck up 'Tune y wheeyl vooar.'

In a crack the little fella bounced from his cradle on to the floor with a 'Chu!' and began flying round the kitchen.

'Go it, Hom--face your partner--heel an' toe does it. Well done, Hom--more power to your elba, man.'

Hom plays faster and faster, till my lad was jumping as high as the table. With a 'Chu!' up goes his foot on top of the dresser, and 'Chu!' then on top of the chimney piece, and 'Chu!' bang against the partition; then he was half flying, half footing it round the kitchen, turning and going that quick that it put a reel in Hom's head to be looking at him. Then he was whirling everything round for a clear space, even Hom himself, who by degrees gets up on the table in the corner, and plays wilder and faster, as the whirling jig grows madder and swifter.

'M'Yee!' said the tailor, throwing down the fiddle. 'I mus' run, thou're not the chile that was in the criddle! Are thou?'

'Houl' man! thou're right enough,' said the little fella. 'Strike up for me--make has'e, make has'e, man--keep joggin' your elba.'

'Whush!' said the tailor, 'here's Herself comin'.'

The dance suddenly ceased. The child gave a hop, skip, and jump into the cradle.

'Go on with thy sewing, Hom; don't say a word,' said the little fella, covering himself up in the clothes till nothing was left of him to be seen except his eyes, which keeked out like a ferret's.

When Herself came in the house, the tailor, all of a tremble, was sitting cross-legged on the round table and his spec's on his nose and letting on that he was busy sewing; the child in the cradle was grinning and crying as usual.

'What in all the earthly worl' ----! But it's the quare stitching, altogether, there's been goin' on here, an' me out. An' how thou can see the needle in that dark corner, Hom Bridson, let alone sew, it bates me,' said she, siding the place. 'Well, well--then, well, well--on the boghee millish. What is it at all, at all, that's doin' on the veen? Did he think Mammy had gone an' left him then, the chree? Mammy is goin' to feed him, though.'

The tailor had been thinking mighty with himself what he ought to do, so he said:

'Look here, woman, give him nothing at all, but go out an' get a creelful of good turf an' a whisp of feern.'

She brought the turf, and throws a bundle of fern on it.

The tailor gave a leap off the table down to the floor, and it wasn't long till he had the fine fire.

'Thou'll have the house put on fire for me, Hom,' said Herself.

'No fear, but I'll fire some of them,' said the tailor. The child, with his two eyes going out of his head watching to see what the tailor was going to do, was slowly turning his whining howl into a kind of call--to his own sort to come and fetch him, it's like.

'I'll send thee home,' said the tailor, drawing near the cradle, and he stretches out his two hands to take the child and put him on the big, red turf fire.

Before he was able to lay a hand on him, the little fella leaped out of the cradle and took for the door.

'The back of me han' an' the sole of me fut to you!' said he, 'if I would only a-had another night I could have showed thee a trick or two more than that yet.'

Then the door flew open with a bang, as though some one had thrown it open, and he took off with himself like a shot. A hullabaloo of laughing and making fun was heard outside, and the noise of many running little feet. Out of the door of the house goes Herself, and Hom after her; they see no one, but they caught sight of a flock of low-lying clouds shaped like gulls chasing each other away up Glen Rushen, and then came to their ears, as if afar off from the clouds, sharp whistles and wicked little laughs as if making mock of them. Then as they were turning round to come back, she suddenly sees right before her, her own sweet, rosy, smiling child, with thumb in mouth, lying on a mossy bank. And she took all the joy in the world of the child that he was back again safe and sound.

THE LITTLE FOOTPRINTS

Close to the Niarbyl, the great tail of rock that stretches into the sea at Dalby, is a little house on the strand. It is sheltered behind by the high rock which rises above its thatched roof. Before it lies Bay Mooar, the great bay, held by a chain of mountains purple with ling. Standing before its door and looking to the west, you may see the sun set behind the distant Mourne Mountains. At dawn you may see him rise over Cronk-yn-Irree-Laa, the Hill of the Rising Day. Here lived Juan, the fisherman.

He knew, as well as any person, that the Little People were all around. When he was a boy he had many a time looked out of the door on moonlight nights to try if he could put sight on them dancing on the lonely shore. He had not seen them--they make themselves invisible when they know that mortal eyes are on them. But he had seen the tiny riding lights of their herring fleet in the bay, and had helped his father to draw in the nets full of good fish, which were sure to be caught the night after. Many a time he had wakened from his sleep in the dark, and, in the pauses of the wind and the lull of the great breakers, he had heard the sound of hammering. He knew it was the Little People hammering at their herring barrels in Ooig-ny-Seyir, the Coopers' Cave, under the hills, and that as the chips flew out on to the waves they became ships.

He had heard the story of the fisherman, a friend of his father's, who was fishing one night at Lag-ny-Keilley, when a dense grey mist rolled in. He thought he had best make for home while the footpath above the rocks was visible. When he was getting his things together he heard what sounded like a lot of children coming out of school. He lifted his head, and, behold, there was a fleet of fairy boats each side of the rock, their riding lights shining like little stars on a frosty night. The crews seemed busy preparing to come on shore, and he heard one little fellow shout:

'Hraaghyn boght as earish broigh, skeddan dy liooar ec yn mooinjer seihll shoh, cha nel veg ain!'

Poor times and dirty weather, herring enough at the people of this world, nothing at us!

'Then,' said the fisherman, 'they dropped off and went agate o' the flitters.'

When Juan was a big boy he himself saw a thing which he never forgot. One day he left a boat over at the farther side of Bay Mooar, and at night he had to go over to fetch it. It was a moonlight night and the bay was as smooth as glass as he rowed across. There was no sound but the lapping of the little waves on the shore, and now and again the cry of a gannet. Juan found his boat on the strand where he had left her and was setting to work to launch her, when he thought he saw a glimmering light, which was not the light of the moon, in one of the caves near him. He stood where he was, and listened, and he heard the sound of faint music. Then he went as silently as he was able to the cave, and looked in. No light was there but the dim light of the moon. The shadows in the corners of the cave were as black as pitch.

Juan was trembling all over, and at first he was blinking his eyes and could see nothing. But after some minutes he saw a great stone in the midst of the cave and the floor of fine white sand. And on the sand around that stone there were little footprints--marks of tiny clogs they were, no bigger than his thumb!

THE TALL MAN OF BALLACURRY

Tom Craine was going home at midnight from Bradda mine to his home at Colby. The road was lonely and he met no person, but the full moon was shining and it was as light as day. As he began to pass under the trees that grow round the house at Ballacurry, a little dog appeared suddenly from the black shadow at the roadside and followed at his heels. He whistled to it, but as he turned his head to look at it, it ran on in front of him, and for a minute he did not see it. When he came in sight of it again, he was terrified to see that it had grown larger--as big as a goat--and it grew bigger and bigger till it was the size of a donkey! It galloped before him and disappeared round the bend of the road where the gate of Ballacurry is. When Tom came to the gate he saw a very tall, thin man leaning on it, with his arms folded on the top of it. The beast was not there. As Tom reached the gate the tall thin man turned and walked up the long path that leads to the house. When he got to the door he turned again and walked back down the path towards Tom. By the bright moonlight Tom saw the lace ruffle round his neck, the satin of his knee breeches, the silk of his stockings, and the shining buckles on his shoes--the dress of bygone days. His face was white and dreadful. As Tom looked he was all at once taken with terror, and ran off as hard as he could go down the road to Colby.

He had not gone far when he met two of his friends, Ben Mylechreest and Bill Teare. He told them what he had seen, and they made fun of him and would not believe that he had seen any such thing. They said they would go back with him to the gate, so they all three turned back. When they got to the gate they saw the big man, as tall as two men, walking up the path with his back towards them. As before, when he reached the door, he turned--what they saw they never told any man!

They took to their heels, all three, and ran till they could run no longer. They were trembling from head to foot and the sweat pouring from them. They were too terrified to go home, so they turned in with Tom and they slept, all three, in one bed.

NED QUAYLE'S STORY OF THE FAIRY PIG

When I was a little boy, we lived over by Sloc. One day, when I was six years old, my mother and my grandmother went up the mountain to make hay and I was left by myself. It was getting rather late, and they had not come back, so I was frightened, and started off up the mountain to try and find them. I had not gone far when I saw running before me a little snow-white pig. At first I thought it was some neighbour's pig and I tried to catch it, but it ran from me and I ran after it. As it went I saw that it was not like an ordinary pig--its tail was feathery and spread out like a fan, and it had long lapping ears that swept the ling. Now and again it turned its head and looked at me, and its eyes were burning like fire. We went higher and higher up the mountain, and all of a sudden I found myself at the edge of a steep brow and was all but over. I turned just in time, and ran as hard as I could go down the mountain and the pig after me. When I looked back over my shoulder, I saw that it was jumping over the big stones and rocks on the mountain side as if they had been butts of ling. I thought it would catch me; it was close behind me when I ran in at our garden gate, but I was just in time, and I slammed the door upon it.

I told my mother and my grandmother what had happened, and my grandmother said it was a Fairy Pig. I was not like myself that night; I could not eat any supper, and I went soon to my bed; I could not sleep, but lay tossing about; and was burning hot. After a time my mother opened the door to see if I was asleep, and when she looked at me, HER EYES WERE LIKE THE PIG'S EYES. I felt a sharp pain go through my right leg like a stab. After that the pain never left me; it was so bad that I could not bear to be touched, and I could eat nothing. I grew worse and worse, and after some days my father said he would take me to a Charmer at Castletown. They lifted me in the sheet, four men taking the four corners, and carried me to a cart. Never will I forget the shaking and jolting I had in that cart. When we got to Castletown I was more dead than alive.

The Charmer lived in Arbory Street and they took me to his house. When he saw me he said that they must all go away and leave me alone with him, so my father and my mother went to wait for me at The George. The Charmer carried me to a room upstairs and sent his wife away, and laid me on the floor and locked the door. Then he took down a big book and placed it on the floor beside me. He opened it at the picture of a little plant--I can see the plant to this day--and he pointed with his left hand to the picture, and with his right hand he made the sign of the cross on my leg, where the stab went through me, and said:

'Ta mee skeaylley yn guin shoh ayns ennym yn Ayr, as y Vac, as y Spyrryd Noo, Ned Quayle. My she guin, ayns ennym y Chiarn, ta mee skealley eh ass yn eill, ass ny fehyn, as ass ny craueyn,' which means in English--I spread this fairy shot in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Ned Quayle. If it is a fairy shot, in the name of the Lord, I spread it out of the flesh, out of the sinews, and out of the bones. That minute the pain left me. I felt very hungry, and the Charmer's wife set me at a table and gave me dinner. The Charmer went to fetch my father and my mother, and when they came in I was eating like two.

The Charmer told my mother I must not go on the mountain alone between the lights again. The pain never came back. I have been sound from that day to this, but I have the mark on my leg where the stab went through as clear as glass to the bone.

SCENE: A VILLAGE

Blackbird sings to Innkeeper's pretty daughter.

Kione jiarg, kione jiarg,
Apyrn doo, Apyrn doo,
Vel oo cheet? Vel oo cheet?
Skee fieau, skee fieau,
Lhondoo, Lhondoo.

Red head, red head,
Black apron, black apron,
Are you coming? Are you coming?
Tired waiting, tired waiting,
Blackbird, Blackbird.

KITTERLAND

It was more than eight hundred years ago, in the days of Olaf Goddardson, that Baron Kitter, the Norwegian, lived in Mann. He had his castle on the top of Barrule, and he spent all his time in hunting the bisons and elks that were on the island then, until he had killed them all. Then the people began to be afraid that he would chase their cattle and the purrs of the mountains, and leave them no beasts at all, so they went to the wisest witches of the island, to see what they could do.

One day Baron Kitter had gone over to the Calf to hunt the red deer there, leaving his cook, Eaoch of the Loud Voice, in the castle to cook his dinner. Eaoch set the pot on the fire and then fell asleep over his work. While he was sleeping the witch-wife Ada put a spell on the pot, and the fat boiled over into the fire. Soon the house was in flames. Eaoch woke and shouted for help at the top of his voice, and his cries were so loud that they reached the ears of Kitter and his fellow-huntsmen, ten miles away on the Calf.

When Kitter heard the cries and saw the flames on the top of Barrule, he made for the beach as hard as he could, and put out in a small currach for the island, with most of his friends. When they were in the strong current about half way across the channel, the boat struck on a rock and they were all drowned, and the rock has ever since been called Kitterland. The rest of Kitter's friends, who had stayed on the Calf and so saved their lives, believed that Eaoch, the cook, had made a plot with the witches of the island to do away with all the Norwegians in Mann, so they brought him before King Olaf to be judged, and he was condemned to death. But according to the custom of Norway, he was allowed to choose how he would die.

Then he said:

'I wish my head to be laid across one of your Majesty's legs, and there cut off by your Majesty's sword Macabuin, which was made by Loan Maclibuin, the Dark Smith of Drontheim!'

It was known to every person there that the king's sword could cut the hardest granite, only by touching it with its edge, and they all begged Olaf not to do as crafty Eaoch asked. But the king would not break his word and gave orders that all should be done as the cook had said.

But the witch Ada was there and she told them to take toads' skins, twigs of the cuirn tree, and adders' eggs, nine times nine of each, and put them between the king's leg and the cook's head. They did this, and then the great sword Macabuin, made by Loan Maclibuin, was lifted with the greatest care by one of the king's faithful servants and laid gently on the cook's neck, but before it could be stopped Eaoch's head was cut from his body and the adders' eggs and the cuirn twigs were also cut through--only the toads' skins saved the king's leg.

When the Dark Smith heard how the power of the great sword Macabuin had been stayed by witchcraft, he was very angry, and called for his Hammer-man, Hiallus-nan-urd, who had lost one leg when he was helping to make the sword. He sent him off at once to Peel Castle to challenge King Olaf, or any of his men, to a walking race from Peel to Drontheim. King Olaf himself took up the challenge, and off they set. Over mountains and through gills they walked, as fast as they could go, and the one-legged man as fast as the king. When they had crossed the island they each put out to sea in a sailing boat, and each came in sight of Drontheim at the same moment. When they drew near to the smithy, the Hammer-man, who was ahead, called out to Loan to open the door, and Olaf called to him to shut it, and then, pushing past Hiallus, got into the smithy first.

To show that he was not at all weary after his walk Olaf took up the great hammer of the forge and struck the anvil such a mighty blow that he split it through, and the block beneath it, too. When Emergaid, the daughter of Loan, saw the strength and power of Olaf, she loved him; and while her father was putting back the block and anvil, she whispered to the king:

'My Father is doing that, so that he may finish the sword he is making. It has been foretold that the first blood it shall shed shall be royal blood, and he has sworn that that blood shall be yours.'

'But is not your father the seventh son of Old Windy Cap, King of Norway?' cried Olaf.

'He is,' said Emergaid.

'Then the prophecy shall be fulfilled,' said Olaf, and he thrust the sword into the heart of Loan, and afterwards slew with it the Hammer-man also.

He made Emergaid his queen and they ruled together, and from them came a long line of Kings of Mann.

TEEVAL, PRINCESS OF THE OCEAN

In the old days Culain, the smith of the gods, was living in the Isle of Mann. It was the time when Conchubar was at the court of the King of Ulster, and had nothing but the sword in his hand. He was a fine handsome young man, and he had made up his mind to make himself a king. So he went one day to the Druid of Clogher to ask him what he had best do.

'Go thy way,' said the Druid, 'to the Isle of Mann. There thou wilt find the great smith Culain. Get him to make thee a sword and a spear and a shield, and with these thou shalt win the kingdom of Ulster.'