“What’s going on here, master?” says Tom. “Aren’t you feared you’ll maul your belly out?”
“I’m shaping to get this cow on the roof,” says the man, “so as it can eat that grass that’s growing in the thatch.”
“Would you not do better,” says Tom, “to fetch your ladder and go up on the roof yourself, and cut the grass and chuck it down?”
“I wish you’d come this way sooner,” says the man. “You’d have saved me many a cow I’ve throttled, if you’d come this way before.”
“That’s the three,” says Tom; and he cut a third notch in his stick. “Time I was gone home.”
And he turned, and he went back home to Matilda. Tom wore the shoes to his wedding, for they were still new, and scarce broken in, even. Then, sure enough, Matilda and Tom had a child; but, before it could walk, Tom, he’d taught it to swim. He had that!
A Fat Hen
A fat hen.
Two ducks And a fat hen.
Three plump partridge Two ducks And a fat hen.
Four hairy herrings, Three plump partridge, Two ducks And a fat hen.
Five white weasels, Four hairy herrings, Three plump partridge,
Six screeching wild geese, Five white weasels, Four hairy herrings, Three plump partridge, Two ducks and a fat hen.
Seven bottles of mountain ash, Six screeching wild geese, Five white weasels,
Four hairy herrings, Three plump partridge, Two ducks And a fat hen.
Eight dozen Limerick oysters, Seven bottles of mountain ash, Six screeching wild geese, Five white weasels,
Four hairy herrings, Three plump partridge, Two ducks And a fat hen.
Nine peevish parsons in a purple pulpit preaching, Eight dozen Limerick oysters,
Seven bottles of mountain ash,
Six screeching wild geese,
Five white weasels,
Four hairy herrings,
Three plump partridge,
Two ducks And a fat hen.
Ten crooked crows in a crooked crab tree croaking, Nine peevish parsons in a purple pulpit preaching, Eight dozen Limerick oysters,
Seven bottles of mountain ash,
Six screeching wild geese,
Five white weasels,
Four hairy herrings,
Three plump partridge,
Two ducks And a fat hen.
Eleven piggy-rigs in a rye field rooting,
Ten crooked crows in a crooked crab tree croaking, Nine peevish parsons in a purple pulpit preaching, Eight dozen Limerick oysters,
Seven bottles of mountain ash,
Six screeching wild geese,
Five white weasels,
Four hairy herrings,
Three plump partridge,
Two ducks And a fat hen.
Twelve piebald pipers playing ball against a piebald wall,
Eleven piggy-rigs in a rye field rooting,
Ten crooked crows in a crooked crab tree croaking, Nine peevish parsons in a purple pulpit preaching, Eight dozen Limerick oysters,
Seven bottles of mountain ash,
Six screeching wild geese,
Five white weasels,
Four hairy herrings,
Three plump partridge,
Two ducks And a fat hen.
Jack and the Beekeeper
If you don’t like, don’t listen; but there were once three brothers; two were clever, and one was Jack. Anyway; they went to a wood, and they wanted to eat their dinners there; so they filled a pot with porridge oats and water; and then what must they do for a fire?
Well, not far off, they saw a beekeeper’s house, and, “I know what,” says the oldest brother. “You two fetch sticks, and I’ll go get us some fire from the beekeeper yonder.”
So he went to the beekeeper, and he says, “Now then, Dad,” he says, “let’s be having a bit of fire to make porridge with, me and my two brothers.” “Right-ho,” says the beekeeper. “But sing us a song first.”
“Song?” says the oldest brother. “I don’t know any songs.”
“Well, dance for us, then,” says the beekeeper.
“I don’t know any dances, neither,” says the oldest brother.
“No song and no dances,” says the beekeeper. “Well, you’re a right one! Get away with your bother! You’ll have no fire from me!”
And he sent him packing.
“What?” says the next brother, when the oldest got back. “No light? We’ll soon see about that!” And off he went to the beekeeper’s house.
“Now then, Dad,” says he, “Let’s be having a bit of fire to make porridge with, me and my two brothers.”
“Right-ho,” says the beekeeper. “But give us a song first.”
“What?” says he. “Me sing? I’ve no songs!”
“You can tell us a tale, then,” says the beekeeper.
“I’ve no tales, neither.”
“No song and no tale,” says the beekeeper. “Then you’ve no fire! Get away with your bother!” And he sent him packing.
So that one, he went back. And there the brothers were, the pair of them, staring like stuck pigs, and no fire.
“Well,” says Jack, “you’ve not got much light between you, have you? Let’s see what the little un can do.”
And off he goes to the beekeeper’s house.
“Now then, Dad,” says Jack, “can you let us have a bit of fire to cook porridge with, me and my two
Jack and the Beekeeper
brothers?”
“Right-ho,” says the beekeeper. “But shall you dance first?”
“Oh dear,” says Jack. “I can’t dance, me.”
“Well, what can you do?” says the beekeeper.
“I can tell a tale,” says Jack. “That I can. And if I cause you to stop me, Dad,” he says, “before I’ve done my telling, I’ll take your fire for my porridge. Do you get my meaning?”
“Oh, I do,” says the beekeeper.
“Not a word,” says Jack.
“Not a word,” says the beekeeper; and he sat with his bald patch to the sun.
“Right,” says Jack. “Now you listen.”
“I’m listening, youth,” says the beekeeper. “I’m listening, my light.”
“Time was,” says Jack, “I had a piebald horse. And I used to take this horse into the wood to go logging. And one morning, I set off, with me riding on the horse’s back, and my axe stuck in my belt. Well, the horse began to trot: trot, trot, trot it went. And there’s me on top, going same as bump, bump, bump, up and down; and my axe in my belt, going thump, thump, thump. And what with bumping and thumping, thumping and bumping, that axe bumped and thumped the horse’s rump right off him, it did. It thumped it clean off. Are you listening, Dad?”
And Jack slapped the beekeeper on his bald patch with his glove.
“I’m listening, youth,” says the beekeeper. “I’m listening, my light.”
“Well,” says Jack, “I rode that piebald horse on its front legs for three years. Then what should I come on but the horse’s rump, bold as ninepence, standing in the meadow and nibbling grass. So I catched it, and stitched it back on to the front of the horse. And I rode it for another three years. Are you listening, Dad?”
And Jack slapped the beekeeper on his bald patch with his glove.
“I’m listening, youth,” says the beekeeper. “I’m listening, my light.”
“I rode and I rode,” says Jack, “and I come to a great oak tree. And I climbed that oak tree right up to the sky. And when I got to the sky, I found that, up there, cows were coming cheap, and flies were very dear. So I went back down to the ground, and I catched two sacks of flies, put them on my shoulders, and climbed up again. And, for every one of those flies, I got a cow and a calf from the farmers up there. Are you listening, Dad?”
And Jack slapped the beekeeper on his bald patch with his glove.
“I’m listening, youth,” says the beekeeper. “I’m listening, my light.”
“Well,” says Jack, “there I was, with
this herd of 'cows in the sky. And I went to drive them back
home. But when I got to the oak tree, blow me if some beggar hadn’t been and chopped it down! So I took all my cows, and I killed them, and I got all their hides, and I made them into one big long strap; and I let it down from the sky. Then I set off, sliding down this strap. And I slid and I slid, till I slid right off the end almost; but I was short a piece, about as long as from here to my brothers. Are you listening, Dad?”
And Jack slapped the beekeeper on his bald patch with his glove.
“I’m listening, youth,” says the beekeeper. “I’m listening, my light.”
“Well,” says Jack, “I durstn’t jump. But just then, a chap in the fields below started winnowing his grain; and the husks, they flew up, and I catched them, and I began at plaiting a rope of them. And I tied this rope on the end of the strap, and I was making to climb down, when a wind came along and blew me, first this road, and then that, back and to, back and to, like a dog at a fair, till the rope had to break, and down I plopped into a boggy patch of marsh, and I sank in this marsh up to my neck. What should happen but a duck come and built its nest in my hair, and if it didn’t lay two eggs in it! So there I was: nest on my head, me in the marsh; when up came a fox, sees the eggs, and thinks he’ll have them. But no sooner did he reach me than I grabbed his tail, and set up such a commotion, tantivy! tantivy! screaming and yelling, that that fox thought the hounds were at him, and off he goes, and pulls me right out of the marsh. Are you listening, Dad?”
And Jack slapped the beekeeper on his bald patch with his glove.
“I’m listening, youth,” says the beekeeper. “I’m listening, my light.”
“No matter of that,” says Jack, “but who should come next but my grandad, riding piggyback on your grandad.”
“No, he never! Oh no, he did not!” says the beekeeper. “It was my grandad riding piggy on yours!”
At that, Jack laughed, and he upped and took the fire and ran off with it, still laughing.
So Jack and his two brothers put the pot on the fire. And when the porridge is cooked, we’ll go on with the tale. But just for now, we’ll let it simmer.
The Salmon Cariad
There was a Welsh youth went fishing on a river one moonlight night. He sat in his coracle, as they call it, and he had his paddle tucked under his arm, and he was holding on to his rod and the knocker for killing the fish, all at the same time, when a great salmon jumped up and took the fly.
The coracle waltzed round, bobbing and spinning, and what with trying to paddle and trying to play the line, it was lob’s chance whether the youth would catch the salmon or the salmon would catch him.
Anyway; at the finish, he got it over the side and into the coracle. It was a big salmon; it was that. It lay there, flapping its tail, and gasping; and he picked up the knocker to hit it on the head with. But all of a sudden it twisted and reared up against his leg, and it said, “Be my cariad.”
Well, you can imagine. There he was, in the middle
of the river, with the knocker lifted in his hand, and the salmon said, “Be my cariad.” Cariad is what you call a body in Wales when you’re sweet on them; and there was the fish, talking to him, and giving him cariad!
But, “No,” says the youth. “I’m going to knock you on the head.” (You see he kept his wits about him.)
And the salmon says back at him, “Be my cariad; and I shall be your cariad.”
“No,” says he. “I’m going to knock you on the head.” And he pulled back his arm to biff the salmon a good un - when that salmon gave another twist of its tail and bumped against him and fetched him down, and he landed in a heap on top of the salmon and skrawked his face on its scales. But it wasn’t rightly scales any more. No. It was skin. Cold wet skin. And he found himself held tight; and he looked; and he saw there was no salmon, but a woman, with her arms fast around him and her face close against his.
“Be my cariad,” she says.
“No, I will not!” says the youth. “I’ll knock you on the head!”
“Then I’ll drown you,” she says. And she held on to him, and she hutched and thrutched, and tipped the both of them in the water.
She took him deep under, what’s more, and then she brought him up for air.
“Be my cariad,” she says.
“No, I’ll not!” he says.
“Down you go,” she says. And down he went!
Up again she fetched him, and he was in a poor way by now.
“Be my cariad,” she says.
“No,” he says.
Down they went again, into the weeds and such. Up they come.
“Be my cariad,” she says, and this time he thinks he might as good wed a fish as be going up and down in the river all night; so he says, “All right,” he says. “I’ll be your cariad.”
“Good lad,” she says; and she held him up out of the water and swum him to the bank.
He grabbed and pulled himself up on the grass; but the coracle and all his gear, they were taken by the water and washed away. And he was left with this woman; well, a girl, more like, nearer his age, white as a salmon, and not a stitch on her.
She wasn’t feeling too good herself, now, for she’d been hooked as a fish, and that hook was still in her, through her lip; and the rod was in the coracle yonder and being carried off by the river; so she wasn’t very comfortable. She was trying to get the hook out, but
not having much success.
“Here,” says the youth, for he couldn’t help but pity her, “give over wriggling. I’ll get the hook out.” So he did his best; but the hook was fast in.
“It’s no use,” he says. “It’ll have to be my little knife. I must cut you.”
“Ay,” she says. “Cut me.”
So he took his knife, and he cut the hook out; and she never budged. But as soon as that hook was free, she lifted her face to his, and she kissed him hard, right on the mouth, so that he couldn’t help getting her blood on him, and tasting it, too.
The Salmon Cariad
“And now you’ve taken my blood on you,” she says, “you must love me for ever.”
And would you credit it, but he did love her! From that moment, he was full of love; and she loved him; and he took her home and lived with her a long and lucky life, and they had a heap of children.
Now there’s not a great lot more to tell. There was one thing about them, though, that was a bit queer. Every single child that they had was born with a little white scar, or what seemed like one, on the top lip, a bit to the left. I knew one of their lads. He used to come out of Wales driving cattle to market, and it was him who told me the tale; and I’ve seen his scar.
Wicked Sparrow
There was a wicked sparrow and he went for a walk. After he’d hiked up and down the hills a bit, he trod on a thorn, and it stuck in his foot and made him shout.
“What’s to do with you?” said a baker who heard him yelling.
“I’ve got a thorn in my foot,” said the wicked sparrow, “and it’s giving me gyp!”
“Hold still,” said the baker, “and I’ll take it out.” The baker took the thorn out of the wicked sparrow’s foot and threw the thorn into his oven. And the wicked sparrow went on with his walk.
After a while, he came back to the baker, and he said, “Have you finished with my thorn yet?”
“I’ve not got your thorn,” said the baker. “I burnt it in the oven.”
“Who said you could burn my thorn?” said the wicked sparrow. “Give me back my thorn! I want
my thorn!” And he played heck with the baker. It was language children should not hear and grown men never use. The baker didn’t know where to put himself. In the end, “Here,” he said, “you take this fresh loaf, and hush up.”
So the wicked sparrow took the loaf, and he went on with his walk.
He came to a flock of sheep, and the shepherds were just going to have their breakfast. They were throwing sand and soil and all sorts into the
ir milk.
“What are you doing that for,” said the wicked sparrow, “chucking muck in the milk?”
“Because we’ve no bread to make pobs,” said the shepherds.
“I’ve got some bread,” said the wicked sparrow.
“You can have this loaf, if you want.”
“Thank you very much,” said the shepherds; and they broke the loaf into the milk and had their pobs. And the wicked sparrow, he went on with his walk.
After a bit, he came that way again, and he said to the shepherds, “Have you done with my bread yet?” “Done?” said the shepherds. “We’ve done, right enough! We’ve supped it!”
“What?” said the wicked sparrow. “Who said you could? Give me my bread! I want my bread!” And he played heck with those shepherds. It was language children should not hear and grown men never use. The shepherds didn’t know what to do. “Here,” said one, “you take this lamb, and let’s have less of your racket.”
So the wicked sparrow took the lamb, and he went on with his walk.
What should he come upon next but a wedding; and the cook was trying to catch hold of a big dog he’d got in the yard.
“What’s up with you?” said the wicked sparrow. “Why are you after the big dog?”
“The butcher’s out of meat,” said the cook, “and we’re desperate for the wedding.”
“I’ve got a lamb,” said the wicked sparrow. “You can have this lamb, if you want it.”
“Thank you very much,” said the cook; and he set
about roasting the lamb. And the wicked sparrow, he went on with his walk.
But he was soon back. And the wedding breakfast was still going strong.
“Have you finished with my lamb yet?” said the wicked sparrow.
Alan Garner Page 3