Said he, ‘Madam Goose, and by your leave
I’ll carry you away without reprieve
And take you home to my den-O, den-O, den-O,
I’ll carry you away without reprieve
And take you home to my den-O.’
He seized the black duck by the neck
And slung her up all on his back
The black duck cried out, ‘Quack, quack, quack.’
With her legs hanging dangling down-O, down-O, down-O,
The black duck cried out, ‘Quack, quack, quack.’
With her legs hanging dangling down-O.
Old Mother Wigger-Wagger jumped out of bed,
Out of the window she popped her old head
She said, ‘John, John, the black duck’s gone
And the fox is off to his den-O, den-O, den-O,
John, John, the black duck’s gone
And the fox is off to his den-O.’
Then John went up on to the hill
And he blew a blast both loud and shrill
Said the Fox, ‘That’s pretty fine music, still
I’d rather be home in my den-O, den-O, den-O.’
Said the Fox, ‘That’s pretty fine music, still
I’d rather be home in my den-O.’
At last the fox came to his den
There sat the little ones 8, 9, 10
Said he, ‘You’re in luck, here’s a big fat duck
With her legs hanging dangling down-O, down-O, down-O.’
Said he, ‘You’re in luck, here’s a big fat duck
With her legs hanging dangling down-O.’
He then sat down with his hungry wife
And they did very well without a fork or a knife
And he never ate a better duck in all his life
And the little ones chewed on the bones-O, bones-O, bones-O,
He never ate a better duck in all his life
And the little ones chewed on the bones-O.
THE FOX AND THE PIXIES
This story was collected on Dartmoor in the 1860s. It’s a variation of a very well-known tale. The 1860 version didn’t really have an ending – it just stopped – so I made one based on a few suggestions given to me by a little pig …
One night, Mr Fox went out on the prowl but could find no prey. He went all around the fields and hedges which were his regular hunting grounds, but there was nothing, so he went further afield. He followed tracks and ditches and crossed fields and woods until he found himself in countryside which was new to him, and there he found a little cluster of houses in which the pixies lived.
Now Mr Fox loved eating rabbits and birds but even better were the farmer’s hens, and even better than hens were pixies! So Mr Fox went up to the first pixie house, which was made of wood, and knocked on the door. ‘Let me in, let me in!’ he called.
‘I won’t, and you can’t come in because the door is locked,’ squeaked the frightened pixie in the wooden house.
Mr Fox climbed up on to the roof of the house and jumped up and down and rocked about until the wooden walls collapsed and the roof fell in and he was able to eat up the pixie.
Then Mr Fox went over to the next house, which was made of stone. ‘Let me in, let me in!’ he called.
‘I won’t, and you can’t come in because the door is locked,’ squeaked the frightened pixie in the stone house.
Again Mr Fox climbed up on to the roof of the house and jumped up and down and rocked about until some of the stones at the bottom of the stone walls rolled away and the walls collapsed and the roof fell in and he was able to eat up the pixie.
Then he went to the third house, which was made of iron. ‘Let me in, let me in!’ he called.
‘I won’t, and you can’t come in because the door is locked,’ squeaked the frightened pixie in the iron house.
‘But I bring you good news,’ whispered Mr Fox.
‘I know what you want,’ replied the pixie, ‘and I know what you’ve done to my friends. You’re not coming in here.’
So once again Mr Fox climbed up on to the roof of the house and jumped up and down and rocked about and stamped his feet and did everything he could think of to bring the house down, but the iron house was too strong even for Mr Fox and, in the end, he had to go away.
But next evening he came back and tried every trick he knew to persuade the pixie to open the door and let him in, but the pixie wasn’t interested … until Mr Fox mentioned a field of turnips which he knew of, not too far away. The pixie liked turnips, so Mr Fox offered to take the pixie and show him where it was. They agreed to meet at four o’clock the next morning, just before it got light.
Mr Fox thought he was pretty clever coming up with this plan, but unfortunately for him the pixie was even cleverer. He’d got enough clues from Mr Fox to be able to work out where the turnip field was and by the time Mr Fox arrived at his house at four o’clock he’d been to the turnip field, collected all the turnips he wanted, and was locked safely back in his iron house.
Mr Fox was stumped, he couldn’t think of another plan to catch the pixie for a long time, until he remembered that there was going to be a fair in the neighbouring town. It was a famous fair to which everyone went, so he suggested to the pixie that they should go together. The pixie didn’t trust Mr Fox and I don’t blame him, but Mr Fox apologised and said he was truly sorry for trying to eat him before, and he wouldn’t ever do it again, and he regretted eating the pixie’s neighbours, and now they should all start again and be friends, and what better way was there to mark this than the pixie allowing Mr Fox to take him to the fair and to treat him to a really good day out?
In the end the pixie agreed, and they arranged to set off early the next morning. But again, the pixie was too clever for Mr Fox. He’d been to the fair and was on his way home again with his fairings when Mr Fox approached his house. He’d bought a crock, a clock and a frying pan. When he saw Mr Fox, the pixie climbed into the crock and rolled down the hill and was safely home before Mr Fox realised what was happening.
The next day Mr Fox arrived at the iron house again. By now he was so angry at being made a fool of by the pixie that he was not thinking straight. He was desperate to catch the pixie and was willing to try anything to do so. As he stood outside the front door he heard a new sound, a regular sort of beating, ticking sound which he didn’t recognise.
‘I know what it is,’ he thought to himself, ‘it’s his heartbeat. Now where is it coming from?’ Mr Fox listened hard and turned his head this way and that. He walked round and round the house, listening as he did so, and decided that the noise was coming from up on the roof. ‘He’s up there,’ he thought, ‘I’ve got him. He’s trapped.’
Mr Fox scrambled up on to the roof and near the chimney he saw a face. As he reached out for it there was a sudden, deafening ringing of bells and the face leapt in the air and wobbled from side to side. Mr Fox was so alarmed that he slipped and fell down the chimney, straight into a frying pan full of hot oil which was waiting below.
And Mr Fox never bothered that pixie, or anyone else, again.
SCRAPEFOOT
Once upon a time there were three bears who lived in a big house in the middle of a forest. One was a huge bear, one was a middling sort of bear, and the other was a very small bear. In the same forest lived a wily little fox called Scrapefoot. Scrapefoot was clever, but he was also nosy and inquisitive and sometimes that got him into trouble!
Scrapefoot was afraid of the three bears but, in a strange way, he was also fascinated by them and wanted to find out more about them. He spent a lot of his time watching them and listening to them – but always from a safe hiding place. He would have loved to be able to sneak into their house and have a look around but he didn’t think he’d ever get the chance … or be brave enough if he did.
And then, one day, he happened to be near the bears’ house when he caught a glimpse of their three backsides disappearing into the trees. At least he thought it was their three backsides. He w
as pretty sure there was a huge backside and probably a middling sort of backside, but he wasn’t so sure about a very small backside, although there might have been.
So Scrapefoot tiptoed up to the door of the grand house and carefully tried the handle. It turned and the door opened. Scrapefoot quietly peered in and listened very carefully. The house had that unmistakeable sound of a place that’s empty – a sound which is more than silence. He must have seen all three bears going out, the small one must have been there too. He put one paw in, and listened. Then he put another paw in, and listened again. And then he crept into the house and started to look around.
He went across the hall and opened the first door. It was a sitting room and there were three chairs – a huge chair, a middling sort of chair and a very small chair. Scrapefoot jumped up on to the huge chair and looked around, but the chair was so huge and high that it made his back hurt and he felt dizzy, so he jumped down and climbed on to the middling sort of chair. It was better, but however much he turned himself around and shuffled about he couldn’t get really comfortable. So Scrapefoot got off the middling sort of chair and sat down on the very small chair. It was a perfect fit but, as he relaxed into it, it suddenly broke to pieces under him.
Scrapefoot was shocked but otherwise unhurt so he climbed up off the floor. Then he stood still and listened. Had the noise of his fall summoned anyone to see what was happening? No, all was quiet, so he started to look round the room a bit more. On the table were three cups. He jumped up to have a look and see if there was anything to drink in them. They were all full of milk. Scrapefoot tasted the milk in the huge cup, but it was sour so he only had a sip and then moved on to the middling sort of cup. The milk in that was better but he still didn’t really like it, so he tried the milk in the very small cup and it was so delicious that he drank it all up.
Now Scrapefoot thought he’d go and look around the rest of the house. He tiptoed up the stairs and found a bedroom in which were three beds – a huge bed, a middling sort of bed and a very small bed. Scrapefoot jumped up on to the huge bed and laid down, but the bed was hard and lumpy and he wouldn’t have wanted to sleep there, so he jumped down and climbed on to the middling sort of bed. It was too soft and the pillows were so deep that he couldn’t see anything, or even breathe very well. Scrapefoot got off the middling sort of bed and lay down on the very small bed. It was a perfect fit and so comfortable that he fell straight to sleep.
I don’t know how long Scrapefoot slept but he was woken by noises downstairs. A huge voice said, ‘Who’s been sitting in my chair?’ and straight away it was answered by a middling sort of voice, which asked, ‘Who’s been sitting in my chair?’ And then there was a wail and a very small voice sobbed, ‘Who’s been sitting in my chair … and has broken it to pieces?’
And then a huge voice said, ‘Who’s been drinking my milk?’ and straight away it was answered by a middling sort of voice, which asked, ‘Who’s been drinking my milk?’ And then there was another wail and a very small voice sobbed, ‘Who’s been drinking my milk … and hasn’t left any for me?’
And then Scrapefoot heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. It was too late to escape and he was too terrified to run away, so he lay still in the very small bed. The three bears came into the bedroom and a huge voice said, ‘Who’s been sleeping in my bed?’ and straight away it was answered by a middling sort of voice, which asked, ‘Who’s been sleeping in my bed?’ And then there was a wail and a very small voice sobbed, ‘Who’s been sleeping in my bed … and he’s still there!’
The three bears came and stood around the bed and looked at Scrapefoot. ‘What shall we do with him?’ they wondered.
‘Let’s hang him,’ said the huge bear.
‘Let’s drown him,’ said the middling-sized bear.
‘Let’s throw him out of the window,’ said the very small bear.
And the three bears picked up Scrapefoot and they swung him backwards and forwards and backwards and forwards and threw him out of the window. As he flew through the air Scrapefoot thought he was certain to be killed, but luckily he landed in a nice, soft bush and wasn’t hurt so very badly at all. He picked himself up and stretched each leg in turn – they weren’t broken – and he wagged his tail – that was OK, just a bit bent – and then he ran off home as fast as he could go.
When he arrived safely at home Scrapefoot vowed that he wouldn’t go near the bears’ house again. And he didn’t. If he saw the bears while he was out and about on his business he would quickly and silently creep away and find somewhere safe to hide until they had gone away.
Everybody knows the famous story of ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’, as told by the poet, Southey, either from books or films or TV retellings. There is an earlier version, in which the young Goldilocks is an old, silver-haired woman, and Joseph Jacobs himself suggested that Scrapefoot was the original from which Southey drew his inspiration.
4
A GAME OF CAT AND MOUSE
ALIEN BIG CATS
At this point I would love to tell you a tale about an alien big cat (an ABC, as fans of the paranormal call them) or even of a real, solid, big cat living in the British countryside, but I can’t. Because there aren’t any really (stories I mean, not cats, although perhaps I mean that as well). There are little snippets, little anecdotes, tall tales men will tell in the pub or on a website – there are hundreds of websites devoted to them. There are beliefs.
Thousands, possibly millions, of people believe that there are wild cats living in Britain. Some people think they are leopards or pumas, even lions or tigers. Some think they are a native wild cat, so far unknown to science. Pawmarks have been photographed, as have dead animals, there are a few grainy bits of film or video, some of which are definitely fakes and others just film of ordinary moggies, and the rest can’t be proved or disproved. Every now and again there is a hue and cry and packs of hunters and dogs and film crews set out to catch, say, the ‘Beast of Bodmin’, but so far no one has! In a way, these cats seem to have taken over from the Loch Ness monster.
Strangely, there were no reports of large, wild cats before the middle of the twentieth century … except for one.
In the 1770s the famous radical writer William Cobbett described a hollow tree at Waverly, near Farnham, where:
I, when a very little boy, once saw a cat go, that was as big as a middle sized spaniel dog … [Many years later] in New Brunswick I saw the great wild grey cat which is there called a Lucifee; and it seemed to me just such a cat as I had seen at Waverley.
A ‘Lucifee’ is a lynx, so did the young Cobbett see a wild lynx in Surrey? We’ll never know. If he did, it was probably an escapee from a collection, like the Bengal tigers mentioned elsewhere. But we must not forget the ‘ferocious wild cats which they called British tigers’ which were mentioned in ‘The Derbyshire Werewolf’ story. I wonder what they were …
Place names can sometimes give us clues. There are many places in Britain with ‘cat’ as part of the name, but most of those are derived from Old English or Scandinavian personal names like Catta or Kati. Others derive from the Celtic/British word cadeir, which literally means ‘a chair’ and was used of high places (like Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh). But there are some which seem to mean a place frequented by cats: there is Catfield in Norfolk (open land frequented by cats); Catford, London, and Carforth, Lancashire (a ford frequented by wild cats); Catmore, Berkshire (a pool or mere frequented by wild cats); Catmose, Rutland (a marsh frequented by wild cats) and so on, including Catsfield, Catshill, Cattal, Cattawade, Cattishall, Catton …
Surely these wouldn’t have been just feral moggies? To warrant having a place named after them they must have been impressive and perhaps even dangerous.
The Scottish wild cat used to be found all over Britain and that is very fierce when cornered, although they try to avoid people if they can. There are tales of them ‘hanging from tree branches by a hook at the end of their tail, [and] dropping on to passing crofter
s and tearing out their throats’. That sounds fierce enough to name a place after! And recent archaeological finds have proved that lynxes were still in Britain at the time of the Anglo-Saxon settlement, so either of those might have suggested place names.
But are any of them still living here? Make up your own mind and, meanwhile, we’ll have some stories about the more everyday sort of cat …
THE KING O’ THE CATS
If dogs are ‘man’s best friend’, I’m sure cats must run them a pretty close second. There are probably more cats around than dogs because they can, and often do, survive by themselves. I expect you’ve noticed that they have a very well-defined hierarchy and every cat knows its place. This very well-known and well-loved story is from Joseph Jacobs’ More British Folk Tales, and it is so well told that I have done very little to it.
One winter’s evening the sexton’s wife was sitting by the fireside with her big black cat, Old Tom, on the other side of the fire, both half asleep and waiting for the master to come home. They waited and they waited, but still he didn’t come, till at last he came rushing in, calling out, ‘Who’s Tommy Tildrum?’ in such a wild way that both his wife and the cat stared at him to know what was the matter.
‘Why, what’s the matter?’ said his wife. ‘And why do you want to know who Tommy Tildrum is?’
‘Oh, I’ve had such an adventure. I was digging away at old Mr Fordyce’s grave when I suppose I must have dropped asleep, and only woke up when I heard a cat’s meow.’
‘Meow!’ said Old Tom in answer.
‘Yes, just like that! So I looked over the edge of the grave, and what do you think I saw?’
‘Now, how can I tell?’ asked the sexton’s wife.
‘Why, nine black cats all like our friend Tom here, all with a white spot on their chests. And what do you think they were carrying? Why, a small coffin covered with a black velvet pall, and on the pall was a small coronet all of gold, and at every third step they took they cried all together, “Meow”.’
Where Dragons Soar: And Other Animal Folk Tales of the British Isles Page 6