English Folk-Lore
Once upon a time there were a woman, and she baked five pies. And when they come out of the oven, they was that overbaked the crust were too hard to eat. So she says to her darter:
“Maw’r,”1 says she, “put you them there pies on the shelf, an’ leave ’em there a little, an’ they’ll come again.”—She meant, you know, the crust would get soft.
But the gal, she says to herself: “Well, if they’ll come agin, I’ll ate ’em now.” And she set to work and ate ’em all, first and last.
Well, come supper-time, the woman she said: “Goo you, and git one o’ them there pies. I dare say they’ve come agin now.”
The gal she went an’ she looked, and there warn’t nothin’ but the dishes. So back she come and says she: “Noo, they ain’t come agin.”
“Not none on ’em?” says the mother.
“Not none on ’em,” says she.
“Well, come agin, or not come agin,” says the woman, “I’ll ha’ one for supper.”
“But you can’t, if they ain’t come,” says the gal.
“But I can,” says she. “Goo you and bring the best of em.”
“Best or worst,” says the gal, “I’ve ate ’em all, and you can’t ha’ one till that’s come agin.”
Well, the woman she were wholly bate,2 and she took her spinnin’ to the door to spin, and as she span she sang:
The king he were a-comin’ down the street, an’ he heard her sing, but what she sang he couldn’t hear, so he stopped and said:
“What were that you was a-singing of, maw’r?”
The woman she were ashamed to let him hear what her darter had been a-doin’, so she sang, ’stids3 o’ that:
“S’ars o’ mine!” said the king, “I never heerd tell of any one as could do that.”
Then he said: “Look you here, I want a wife, and I’ll marry your darter. But look you here,” says he, “ ’leven months out o’ the year she shall have all the vittles she likes to eat, and all the gowns she likes to get, and all the company she likes to have; but the last month o’ the year she’ll ha’ to spin five skeins every day, an’ if she doon’t, I shall kill her.”
“All right,” says the woman; for she thought what a grand marriage that was. And as for them five skeins, whan it came to the time, there’d be plenty o’ ways of getting out of it, and likeliest, he’d ha’ forgot about it.
Well, so they was married. An’ for ’leven months the gal had all the vittles she liked to ate, and all the gowns she liked to get, and all the company she liked to have.
But when the time was gettin’ oover, she began to think about them there skeins an’ to wonder if he had ’em in mind. But not one word did he say about ’em, an’ she wholly thought he’d forgot ’em.
But the last day o’ the last month he takes her to a room she’d never sets eyes on afore. There worn’t nothing in it but a spinnin’-wheel and a stool. An’ says he: “Now, my dear, here yow’ll be shut in to-morrow with some vittles and some flax, and if you hain’t spun five skeins by the night, your head will goo off.”
An’ awa’ he went about his business.
Well, she were that frightened, she’d allus been such a useless mawther, that she didn’t so much as know how to spin, an’ what were she to do to-morrow, with no one to come nigh her to help her. She sat down on a stool in the kitchen, and lawk! how she did cry!
However, all on a sudden she heard a sort of a knockin’ low down on the door. She upped and oped it, an’ what should she see but a small little black thing with a long tail. That looked up at her right curious, an’ that said:
“What are you a-cryin’ for?”
“Wha’s that to you?” says she.
“Never you mind,” that said, “but tell me what you’re a-cryin’ for.”
“That won’t do me no good if I do,” says she.
“You don’t know that,” that said, an’ twirled that’s tail round.
“Well,” says she, “that won’t do no harm, if that don’t do no good,” and she upped and told about the pies and the skeins, and everything.
“This is what I’ll do,” says the little black thing, “I’ll come to your window every morning and take the flax and bring it spun at night.”
“What’s your pay?” says she.
That looked out o’ the corner o’ that’s eyes, and that said: “I’ll give you three guesses every night to guess my name, an’ if you hain’t guessed it afore the month’s up, you shall be mine.”
Well, she thought she’d be sure to guess that’s name afore the month was up. “All right,” says she, “I agree.”
“All right,” that says, an’ lawk! how that twirled that’s tail.
Well, the next day, the king he took her into the room, an’ there was the flax an’ the day’s vittles.
“Now there’s the flax,” says he, “an’ if that ain’t spun up this night, off goes your head.” An’ then he went out an’ locked the door.
He’d hardly gone when there was a knockin’ on the window.
She upped and she oped it, and there sure enough was the little old thing a-settin’ on the ledge.
“Where’s the flax?” says he.
“Here it be,” says she. And she gonned4 it to him.
Well, in the evening a knockin’ came again to the window. She upped and she oped it, and there were the little old thing with five skeins of flax on his arm.
“Here te be,” says he, and he gonned it to her.
“Now, what’s my name?” says he.
“What, is that Bill?” says she.
“Noo, that ain’t,” says he, an’ he twirled his tail.
“Is that Ned?” says she.
“Noo, that ain’t,” says he, an’ he twirled his tail.
“Well, is that Mark?” says she.
“Noo, that ain’t,” says he, an’ he twirled his tail harder an’ away he flew.
Well, when her husband he come in, there was the five skeins ready for him. “I see I shan’t have for to kill you to-night, my dear,” says he; “you’ll have your vittles and your flax in the mornin’,” says he, an’ away he goes.
Well, every day the flax an’ the vittles they was brought, an’ every day that there little black impet used for to come mornings and evenings. An’ all the day the mawther she set a-trying for to think of names to say to it when it come at night. But she never hit on the right one. An’ as it got towards the end o’ the month, the impet that began for to look so maliceful, an’ that twirled that’s tail faster an’ faster each time she gave a guess.
At last it came to the last day but one. The impet, that came at night along o’ the five skeins, and that said:
“What, ain’t you got my name yet?”
“Is that Nicodemus?” says she.
“Noo, t’ain’t,” that says.
“Is that Sammle?” says she.
“Noo, t’ain’t,” that says.
“A-well, is that Methusalem?” says she.
“Noo, t’ain’t that neither,” that says.
Then that looks at her with that’s eyes like a coal o’ fire, an’ that says: “Woman, there’s only to-morrow night, an’ then you’ll be mine!” An’ away it flew.
Well, she felt that horrid. Howsomeover, she heard the king a-comin’ along the passage. In he came, an’ when he see the five skeins, he says, says he:
“Well, my dear,” says he, “I don’t see but what you’ll have your skeins ready to-morrow night as well, an’ as I reckon I sha’n’t have to kill you, I’ll have supper in here to-night.” So they brought supper an’ another stool for him, and down the two they sat.
Well, he hadn’t eat but a mouthful or so, when he stops an’ begins to laugh.
“What is it?” says she.
“A-why,” says he, “I was out a huntin’ to-day, an’ I got away to a place in the wood I’d never seen afore. An’ there was an old chalk-pit. An’ I heard a sort of a hummin’, kind o’. So I got off my hobby,5 an’ I went right quiet to the pit, an’ I looked down. Well, what should there be but the funniest little black thing you ever set eyes on. An’ what was that a-doing on, but that had a little spinnin’-wheel, an’ that were a-spinnin’ wonderful fast, an’ a-twirlin’ that’s tail. An’ as that span, that sang:
Well, when the mawther heard this, she fared as if she could ha’ jumped out of her skin for joy, but she didn’t say a word.
Next day that there little thing looked so maliceful when he came for the flax. And when night came, she heard that a-knockin’ on the window panes. She oped the window, an’ that come right in on the ledge. That were grinnin’ from ear to ear an’ Oo! that’s tail were twirlin’ round so fast.
“What’s my name?” that says, as that gonned her the skeins.
“Is that Solomon?” she says, pretendin’ to be afeard.
“Noo, t’ain’t,” that says, and that come further into the room.
“Well, is that Zebedee?” says she again.
“Noo, t’ain’t,” says the impet. An’ then that laughed an’ twirled that’s tail till you couldn’t hardly see it.
“Take time, woman,” that says; “next guess, and you’re mine.” An’ that stretched out that’s black hands at her.
Well, she backed a step or two, an’ she looked at it, and then she laughed out, and says she, a-pointing of her finger at it:
Well, when that heard her, that shrieked awful and away that flew into the dark, and she never saw it no more.
From “Fairy Gold,” edited by Ernest Rhys.
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