50 Fairy Stories

by Belinda Gallagher

  Now it happened, just as Mrs Rooney had helped his reverence to the first cut of the pig’s head which was placed before her, beautifully bolstered up with white savoys, that the bride gave a sneeze, which made everyone at table start, but not a soul said ‘God bless us’. All thinking that the priest would have done so, as he ought if he had done his duty, no one wished to take the word out of his mouth, which, unfortunately, was preoccupied with pig’s head and greens. And after a moment’s pause the fun and merriment of the bridal feast went on without the blessing.

  “Ha!” exclaimed the little man, throwing one leg from under him with a joyous flourish, and his eye twinkled with a strange light, whilst his eyebrows became elevated into the curvature of gothic arches. “Ha!” said he, leering down at the bride, and then up at Billy, “I have half of her now, surely. Let her sneeze but twice more, and she is mine, in spite of priest, mass-book, and Darby Riley.”

  Again the fair Bridget sneezed, but it was so gently, and she blushed so much that few except the little man took, or seemed to take, any notice, and no one thought of saying ‘God bless us’.

  Billy all this time could not help thinking what a terrible thing it was for a nice young girl of nineteen, with large blue eyes, transparent skin, and dimpled checks, suffused with health and joy, to be obliged to marry an ugly little bit of a man, who was a thousand years old, barring a day.

  At this critical moment the bride gave a third sneeze, and Billy roared out with all his might, “God bless you!”

  No sooner was it uttered than the little man, his face glowing with rage and disappointment, sprung from the beam on which he had perched himself, and shrieking out in the shrill voice of a cracked bagpipe, “I discharge you from my service, Billy Mac Daniel – take that for your wages,” and gave poor Billy a most furious kick in the back, which sent his unfortunate servant sprawling upon his face and hands right in the middle of the dinner table.

  If Billy was astonished, how much more so was every one of the company into which he was thrown with so little ceremony. But when they heard his story, Father Cooney laid down his knife and fork, and married the young couple out of hand with all speed, and Billy Mac Daniel danced the Rinka at their wedding.

  A French Puck

  By Paul Sébillot

  READING TIME: 4 MINUTES

  Among the mountain pastures and valleys that lie in the centre of France there dwelt a mischievous kind of spirit (whom we will call Puck), whose delight it was to play tricks on everybody, and particularly on the shepherds. They never knew when they were safe from him, as he could change himself into a man, woman or child, a stick, a goat or a ploughshare. Indeed, there was only one thing whose shape he could not take, and that was a needle. At least, he could transform himself into a needle, but he never was able to imitate the hole, so every woman would have found him out at once, and this he knew.

  Puck was careful not always to play his tricks in the same place, but visited one village after another, so that everyone trembled lest he should be the next victim.

  One day he was told of a young couple who were going to the nearest town to buy all that they needed for setting up house. Quite certain that they would forget something which they could not do without, Puck waited patiently till they were jogging along in their cart on their return journey, and changed himself into a fly in order to overhear their conversation. For a long time it was very dull – all about their wedding day next month, and who were to be invited. This led the bride to her dress, and she gave a scream.

  “Oh how could I be so stupid! I have forgotten to buy the coloured reels of cotton to match my clothes! ”

  “Dear, dear!” exclaimed the young man. “That is unlucky, and didn’t you tell me that the dressmaker was coming in tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I did,” and then she gave another little scream, which had quite a different sound from the first. “Look!”

  The bridegroom looked, and on one side of the road he saw a large ball of thread of all colours – of all the colours, that is, of the dresses that were tied on to the back of the cart.

  “Well, that is a wonderful piece of good fortune,” cried he, as he sprang out to get it. “One would think a fairy had put it there on purpose.”

  “Perhaps she has,” laughed the girl, and as she spoke she seemed to hear an echo of her laughter coming from the horse, but of course that was nonsense.

  The dressmaker was delighted with the thread that was given her. It matched the clothes so perfectly, and never tied itself in knots, or broke perpetually, as most thread did. She finished her work much quicker than she expected and the bride said she was to be sure to come to the church and see her in her wedding dress.

  There was a great crowd assembled to witness the ceremony, for the young people were immense favourites in the neighbourhood, and their parents were very rich. The doors were open, and the bride could be seen from afar, walking under the chestnut avenue.

  “What a beautiful girl!” exclaimed the men. “What a lovely dress!” whispered the women. But just as she entered the church and took the hand of the bridegroom, who was waiting for her, a loud noise was heard.

  Crick! Crack! Crick! Crack! And the wedding garments fell to the ground, to the great confusion of the wearer.

  Not that the ceremony was put off for a little thing like that! Cloaks were instantly offered to the young bride, but she was so upset that she could hardly keep from tears. One of the guests, more curious than the rest, stayed behind to examine the dress, to find out the cause of the disaster.

  “The thread must have been rotten,” she said to herself. “I will see if I can break it.” But search as she would she could find none. The thread had vanished!

  The Fairy Fluffikins

  By Michael Fairless

  READING TIME: 4 MINUTES

  The Fairy Fluffikins lived in a warm woolly nest in a hole down an old oak tree. She was the sweetest, funniest little fairy you ever saw. She wore a little, soft dress, and on her head a little woolly cap. Fairy Fluffikins had red hair and the brightest, naughtiest, sharpest brown eyes imaginable.

  What a life she led the animals! Fairy Fluffikins was a sad tease. She would creep into the nests where the fat baby dormice were asleep in bed while mamma dormouse nodded over her knitting and papa smoked his little acorn pipe, and she would tickle the babies till they screamed with laughter.

  One night she had fine fun. She found a little dead mouse in a field, and an idea struck her. She hunted about till she found a piece of long, strong grass, and then she took the little mouse, tied the piece of grass round its tail, and ran away with it to the big tree where the ancient owl lived. There was a little hole at the bottom of the tree and into it Fairy Fluffikins crept, leaving the mouse outside in the moonlight. Presently she heard a gruff voice in the tree saying:

  “I smell mouse, I smell mouse.” Then there was a swoop of wings, and Fairy Fluffikins promptly drew the mouse into the little hole and stuffed its tail into her mouth so that she might not be heard laughing, and the gruff voice said angrily:

  “Where’s that mouse gone? I smelt mouse, I know I smelt mouse!”

  She grew tired of this game after a few times, so she left the mouse in the hole and crept away to a new one. She really was a naughty fairy. She blew on the buttercups so that they thought the morning breeze had come to wake them up, and opened their cups in a great hurry. She buzzed outside the clover and made it talk in its sleep, so that it said in a cross, sleepy voice:

  “Go away, you stupid busy bee, and don’t wake me up in the middle of the night.”

  She pulled the tail of the nightingale who was singing to his lady love in the hawthorn bush, and he lost his place in his song.

  Next she took to tormenting the squirrels. She used to find their stores of nuts and carry them away and fill the holes with pebbles, and this, when you are a hardworking squirrel with a large family to support, is very trying to the temper. Then she would tie acorns to their tails, and she
would clap her hands to frighten them, and pull the baby-squirrels, ears, till at last they offered a reward to anyone who could catch Fairy Fluffikins and bring her to be punished.

  No one caught Fairy Fluffikins – but she caught herself, as you shall hear.

  She was poking about round a haystack one night, trying to find something naughty to do, when she came upon a sweet little house with pretty wire walls and a wooden door standing invitingly open. In hopped Fluffikins, thinking she was going to have some new kind of fun. There was a little white thing dangling from the roof, and she laid hold of it. Immediately there was a bang, the wooden door slammed, and Fluffikins was caught.

  How she cried and stamped and pushed at the door, and promised to be a good fairy and a great many other things! But all to no purpose, the door was tight shut, and Fluffikins was not like some fortunate fairies who can get out of anywhere.

  There she remained, and in the morning one of the labourers found her, and, thinking she was some kind of dormouse, he carried her home to his little girl, and if you call on Mary Ann Smith you will see Fairy Fluffikins there still in a little cage. There is no one to tease and no mischief to get into, so if there is a miserable little fairy anywhere it is Fairy Fluffikins, and I'm not sure it doesn’t serve her quite right.

  Iktomi and the Ducks

  By Zitkala-sa

  READING TIME: 5 MINUTES

  Iktomi is a spider fairy. He wears brown deerskin leggings with long soft fringes on either side, and tiny beaded moccasins on his feet. His long black hair is parted in the middle and wrapped with red, red bands. He even paints his funny face with red and yellow, and draws big black rings around his eyes. He wears a deerskin jacket, with bright coloured beads sewed tightly on it. Iktomi dresses like a real Dakota brave.

  Iktomi is a wily fellow. He prefers to spread a snare rather than to earn the smallest thing with honest hunting. Why, he laughs outright with wide open mouth when some simple folk are caught in a trap, sure and fast.

  Thus Iktomi lives alone in a cone-shaped wigwam upon the plain. One day he sat hungry within his teepee. Suddenly he rushed out, dragging after him his blanket. Quickly spreading it on the ground, he tore up dry tall grass with both his hands and tossed it fast into the blanket.

  Tying all the four corners together in a knot, he threw the light bundle of grass over his shoulder.

  Snatching up a slender willow stick with his free left hand, he started off with a leap. Soon he came to the edge of the great level land. On the hilltop he paused for breath. With a thin palm shading his eyes from the western sun, he peered far away into the lowlands.

  “Ah ha!” grunted he, satisfied with what he saw.

  A group of wild ducks were dancing and feasting in the marshes. With wings outspread, tip to tip, they moved up and down in a large circle. Within the ring, around a small drum, sat the chosen singers, nodding their heads and blinking their eyes.

  They sang in unison a merry dance-song, and beat a lively tattoo on the drum.

  Following a winding footpath soon came a bent figure of a Dakota brave. He bore on his back a very large bundle. With a willow cane he propped himself up as he staggered along beneath his burden.

  “Ho! Who is there?” called out a curious old duck, still bobbing up and down in the circular dance.

  “Ho, Iktomi! Old fellow, pray tell us what you carry in your blanket. Do not hurry off ! Stop! Halt!” urged one of the singers.

  “My friends, I must not spoil your dance. Oh, you would not care to see if you only knew what is in my blanket. Sing on! Dance on! I must not show you what I carry on my back,” answered Iktomi. Now all the ducks crowded about Iktomi.

  “We must see what you carry! We must know what is in your blanket!” they shouted in both his ears. Some even brushed their wings against the mysterious bundle.

  Nudging himself again, wily Iktomi said, “My friends, it is only a pack of songs I carry in my blanket.”

  “Oh, then let us hear your songs!” cried the curious ducks.

  At length Iktomi consented to sing his songs, and with great delight all the ducks flapped their wings and cried together, “Hoye! Hoye!”

  Iktomi, with great care, laid down his bundle on the ground.

  “I will build first a round straw house, for I never sing my songs in the open air,” said he.

  Quickly he bent green willow sticks, planting both ends of each pole into the earth. These he covered thick with reeds and grasses. Soon the straw hut was ready. One by one the fat ducks waddled in through a small opening, which was the only entrance way.

  In a strange low voice Iktomi began his queer old tunes. All the ducks sat round-eyed in a circle about the mysterious singer. It was dim in that straw hut, for Iktomi had not forgotten to cover up the small entrance way. All of a sudden his song burst into full voice. These were the words he sang:

  “Istokmus wacipo, tuwayatunwanpi kinhan ista nisasapi kta.”

  This means: ‘With eyes closed you must dance. He who dares to open his eyes, forever red eyes shall have.’

  Up rose the circle of seated ducks and holding their wings close against their sides began to dance to the rhythm of Iktomi’s song and drum.

  With eyes closed they did dance! Iktomi ceased to beat his drum. He began to sing louder and faster. He seemed to be moving about in the center of the ring. No duck dared blink a wink. Each one shut his eyes very tight and danced even harder.

  At length one of the dancers could close his eyes no longer! It was a Skiska who peeped the least tiny blink at Iktomi within the center of the circle.

  “Oh! Oh!” squawked he in awful terror! “Run! Fly! Iktomi is twisting your heads and breaking your necks! Run out and fly! Fly!” he cried.

  Hereupon the ducks opened their eyes. There beside Iktomi’s bundle of songs lay half of their crowd – flat on their backs.

  Out they flew through the opening Skiska had made as he rushed forth with his alarm.

  But as they soared high into the blue sky they cried to one another, “Oh! Your eyes are red-red!”

  “And yours are red-red!” For the warning words had proven true.

  “Ah ha!” laughed Iktomi, untying the four corners of his blanket, “I shall sit no more hungry within my dwelling.” Homeward he trudged along with nice fat ducks in his blanket. He left the little straw hut for the rains and winds to pull down.

  Iktomi and the Muskrat

  By Zitkala-sa

  READING TIME: 5 MINUTES

  Beside a white lake, beneath a large grown willow tree, sat Iktomi the fairy on the bare ground. With ankles crossed together around a pot of soup, Iktomi bent over some delicious boiled fish.

  Fast he dipped his black horn spoon into the soup, for he was ravenous. Iktomi had no regular meal times. Often when he was hungry he went without food.

  “How, how, my friend!” said a voice out of the wild rice.

  Iktomi started. He almost choked with his soup. He peered through the long reeds from where he sat with his long horn spoon in mid-air.

  “How, my friend!” said the voice again, this time close at his side. Iktomi turned and there stood a dripping muskrat who had just come out of the lake.

  “Oh, it is my friend who startled me. I wondered if among the wild rice some spirit voice was talking. How, how, my friend!” said Iktomi. The muskrat stood smiling. On his lips hung a ready ‘Yes, my friend,, for when Iktomi would ask, ‘My friend, will you sit down beside me and share my food?'

  That was the custom of the plains people. Yet Iktomi sat silent. He hummed an old song and beat gently on the pot with his buffalo-horn spoon. The muskrat began to feel awkward before such lack of hospitality and wished himself under water.

  After many heart throbs Iktomi stopped drumming with his spoon, and looking upward into the muskrat’s face, he said, “My friend, let us run a race to see who shall win this pot of fish. If I win, I shall not need to share it with you. If you win, you shall have half of it.” Springing to his feet, Iktomi b
egan at once to tighten the belt about his waist.

  “My friend Iktomi, I cannot run a race with you! I am not a swift runner, and you are nimble as a deer,” answered the hungry muskrat.

  For a moment Iktomi stood with a hand on his long protruding chin. The muskrat looked out of the corners of his eyes without moving his head. He watched the wily Iktomi concocting a plot.

  “I shall carry a large stone on my back. That will slacken my usual speed, and the race will be a fair one.”

  Saying this he laid a firm hand upon the muskrat’s shoulder and started off along the edge of the lake. When they reached the opposite side Iktomi pried about in search of a heavy stone.

  He found one half buried in the shallow water. Pulling it out upon dry land, he wrapped it in his blanket.

  “Now, my friend, you shall run on the left side of the lake, I on the other. The race is for the boiled fish in yonder kettle!” said Iktomi.

  The muskrat helped to lift the heavy stone upon Iktomi’s back. Then they parted. Each took a narrow path through the tall reeds fringing the shore. Iktomi found his load a heavy one. Perspiration hung like beads on his brow. His chest heaved hard and fast.

  He looked across the lake to see how far the muskrat had gone, but nowhere did he see any sign of him. “Well, he is running low under the wild rice!” said he. Yet as he scanned the tall grasses on the lake shore, he saw not one stir as if to make way for the runner.

  “Ah, has he gone so fast ahead that the disturbed grasses in his trail have quieted again?” exclaimed Iktomi. With that thought he quickly dropped the heavy stone. “No more of this!” said he, patting his chest with both hands.

  Off with a springing bound, he ran swiftly towards the goal. Tufts of reeds and grass fell flat under his feet. Hardly had they raised their heads when Iktomi was many paces gone.