More English Fairy Tales Part 12

"Drat thee!" yelled the witch-bodies, "thou 'st spoiled our spells this year agone!"

"And us thou sent'st to brood in the corners!" howled the Bogles.

And all the Things joined in with a great "Ho, ho!" till the very tussocks shook and the water gurgled. And they began again.

"We'll poison her--poison her!" shrieked the witches.

And "Ho, ho!" howled the Things again.

"We'll smother her--smother her!" whispered the Crawling Horrors, and twined themselves round her knees.

And "Ho, ho!" mocked the rest of them.

And again they all shouted with spite and ill-will. And the poor Moon crouched down, and wished she was dead and done with.

And they fought and squabbled what they should do with her, till a pale grey light began to come in the sky; and it drew nigh the dawning. And when they saw that, they were feared lest they shouldn't have time to work their will; and they caught hold of her, with horrid bony fingers, and laid her deep in the water at the foot of the snag. And the Bogles fetched a strange big stone and rolled it on top of her, to keep her from rising. And they told two of the Will-o-the-wykes to take turns in watching on the black snag, to see that she lay safe and still, and couldn't get out to spoil their sport.

And there lay the poor Moon, dead and buried in the bog, till some one would set her loose; and who'd know where to look for her.

Well, the days pa.s.sed, and 't was the time for the new moon's coming, and the folk put pennies in their pockets and straws in their caps so as to be ready for her, and looked about, for the Moon was a good friend to the marsh folk, and they were main glad when the dark time was gone, and the paths were safe again, and the Evil Things were driven back by the blessed Light into the darkness and the waterholes.

But days and days pa.s.sed, and the new Moon never came, and the nights were aye dark, and the Evil Things were worse than ever. And still the days went on, and the new Moon never came. Naturally the poor folk were strangely feared and mazed, and a lot of them went to the Wise Woman who dwelt in the old mill, and asked if so be she could find out where the Moon was gone.

"Well," said she, after looking in the brewpot, and in the mirror, and in the Book, "it be main queer, but I can't rightly tell ye what's happened to her. If ye hear of aught, come and tell me."

So they went their ways; and as days went by, and never a Moon came, naturally they talked--my word! I reckon they _did_ talk! their tongues wagged at home, and at the inn, and in the garth. But so came one day, as they sat on the great settle in the Inn, a man from the far end of the bog lands was smoking and listening, when all at once he sat up and slapped his knee. "My faicks!" says he, "I'd clean forgot, but I reckon I kens where the Moon be!" and he told them of how he was lost in the bogs, and how, when he was nigh dead with fright, the light shone out, and he found the path and got home safe.

So off they all went to the Wise Woman, and told her about it, and she looked long in the pot and the Book again, and then she nodded her head.

"It's dark still, childer, dark!" says she, "and I can't rightly see, but do as I tell ye, and ye 'll find out for yourselves. Go all of ye, just afore the night gathers, put a stone in your mouth, and take a hazel-twig in your hands, and say never a word till you're safe home again. Then walk on and fear not, far into the midst of the marsh, till ye find a coffin, a candle, and a cross. Then ye'll not be far from your Moon; look, and m'appen ye 'll find her."

So came the next night in the darklings, out they went all together, every man with a stone in his mouth, and a hazel-twig in his hand, and feeling, thou may'st reckon, main feared and creepy. And they stumbled and stottered along the paths into the midst of the bogs; they saw nought, though they heard sighings and flutterings in their ears, and felt cold wet fingers touching them; but all at once, looking around for the coffin, the candle, and the cross, while they came nigh to the pool beside the great snag, where the Moon lay buried. And all at once they stopped, quaking and mazed and skeery, for there was the great stone, half in, half out of the water, for all the world like a strange big coffin; and at the head was the black snag, stretching out its two arms in a dark gruesome cross, and on it a tiddy light flickered, like a dying candle. And they all knelt down in the mud, and said, "Our Lord, first forward, because of the cross, and then backward, to keep off the Bogles; but without speaking out, for they knew that the Evil Things would catch them, if they didn't do as the Wise Woman told them."

Then they went nigher, and took hold of the big stone, and shoved it up, and afterwards they said that for one tiddy minute they saw a strange and beautiful face looking up at them glad-like out of the black water; but the Light came so quick and so white and s.h.i.+ning, that they stept back mazed with it, and the very next minute, when they could see again, there was the full Moon in the sky, bright and beautiful and kind as ever, s.h.i.+ning and smiling down at them, and making the bogs and the paths as clear as day, and stealing into the very corners, as though she'd have driven the darkness and the Bogles clean away if she could.

A Son of Adam

A man was one day working. It was very hot, and he was digging.

By-and-by he stopped to rest and wipe his face; and he was very angry to think he had to work so hard only because of Adam's sin. So he complained bitterly, and said some very hard words about Adam.

It happened that his master heard him, and he asked, "Why do you blame Adam? You'd ha' done just like Adam, if you'd a-been in his place."

"No, I shouldn't," said the man; "I should ha' know'd better."

"Well, I'll try you," says his master; "come to me at dinner-time."

So come dinner-time, the man came, and his master took him into a room where the table was a-set with good things of all sorts. And he said: "Now, you can eat as much as ever you like from any of the dishes on the table; but don't touch the covered dish in the middle till I come back."

And with that the master went out of the room and left the man there all by himself.

So the man sat down and helped himself, and ate some o' this dish and some o' that, and enjoyed himself finely. But after awhile, as his master didn't come back, he began to look at the covered dish, and to wonder whatever was in it. And he wondered more and more, and he says to himself, "It must be something very nice. Why shouldn't I just look at it? I won't touch it. There can't be any harm in just peeping." So at last he could hold back no longer, and he lifted up the cover a tiny bit; but he couldn't see anything. Then he lifted it up a bit more, and out popped a mouse. The man tried to catch it; but it ran away and jumped off the table and he ran after it. It ran first into one corner, and then, just as he thought he'd got it, into another, and under the table, and all about the room. And the man made such a clatter, jumping and banging and running round after the mouse, a-trying to catch it, that at last his master came in.

"Ah!" he said; "never you blame Adam again, my man!"

The Children in the Wood

Now ponder well, you parents dear, These words which I shall write; A doleful story you shall hear, In time brought forth to light.

A gentleman of good account, In Norfolk dwelt of late, Who did in honour far surmount Most men of his estate.

Sore sick he was and like to die, No help his life could save; His wife by him as sick did lie, And both possest one grave.

No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kind; In love they lived, in love they died, And left two babes behind.

The one a fine and pretty boy Not pa.s.sing three years old, The other a girl more young than he, And framed in beauty's mould.

The father left his little son, As plainly did appear, When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred pounds a year;

And to his little daughter Jane Five hundred pounds in gold, To be paid down on marriage-day, Which might not be controlled.

But if the children chanced to die Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possess their wealth; For so the will did run.

"Now, brother," said the dying man, "Look to my children dear; Be good unto my boy and girl, No friends else have they here; To G.o.d and you I recommend My children dear this day; But little while be sure we have Within this world to stay.

"You must be father and mother both, And uncle, all in one; G.o.d knows what will become of them When I am dead and gone."

With that bespake their mother dear: "O brother kind," quoth she, "You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or misery.

"And if you keep them carefully, Then G.o.d will you reward; But if you otherwise should deal, G.o.d will your deeds regard."

With lips as cold as any stone, They kissed their children small: "G.o.d bless you both, my children dear!"

With that the tears did fall.

These speeches then their brother spake To this sick couple there: "The keeping of your little ones, Sweet sister, do not fear; G.o.d never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children dear When you are laid in grave!"

The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes, And brings them straight unto his house Where much of them he makes.

He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a day, But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both away.

He bargained with two ruffians strong, Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young, And slay them in a wood.

He told his wife an artful tale He would the children send To be brought up in London town With one that was his friend.

Away then went those pretty babes, Rejoicing at that tide, Rejoicing with a merry mind They should on c.o.c.k-horse ride.

They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they ride on the way, To those that should their butchers be And work their lives' decay:

So that the pretty speech they had Made Murder's heart relent; And they that undertook the deed Full sore now did repent.

Yet one of them, more hard of heart, Did vow to do his charge, Because the wretch that hired him Had paid him very large.

The other won't agree thereto, So there they fall to strife; With one another they did fight About the children's life; And he that was of mildest mood Did slay the other there, Within an unfrequented wood; The babes did quake for fear!