Celtic Myths
Page 79
“We’ll try,” says Jack, “but if you keep my bride from me any longer, I’ll steal her away if she was minded by fiery dragons.”
When the squire and his wife were in bed, and the moon shining in through the window, he saw a head rising over the sill to have a peep, and then bobbing down again.
“That’s Jack,” says the squire; “I’ll astonish him a bit,” says the squire, pointing a gun at the lower pane.
“Oh Lord, my dear!” says the wife, “sure, you wouldn’t shoot the brave fellow?”
“Indeed, an’ I wouldn’t for a kingdom; there’s nothing but powder in it.”
Up went the head, bang went the gun, down dropped the body, and a great souse was heard on the gravel walk.
“Oh, Lord,” says the lady, “poor Jack is killed or disabled for life.”
“I hope not,” says the squire, and down the stairs he ran. He never minded to shut the door, but opened the gate and ran into the garden. His wife heard his voice at the room door, before he could be under the window and back, as she thought.
“Wife, wife,” says he from the door, “the sheet, the sheet! He is not killed, I hope, but he is bleeding like a pig. I must wipe it away as well as I can, and get some one to carry him in with me.” She pulled it off the bed, and threw it to him. Down he ran like lightning, and he had hardly time to be in the garden, when he was back, and this time he came back in his shirt, as he went out.
“High hanging to you, Jack,” says he, “for an arrant rogue!”
“Arrant rogue?” says she, “isn’t the poor fellow all cut and bruised?”
“I didn’t much care if he was. What do you think was bobbing up and down at the window, and sossed down so heavy on the walk? A man’s clothes stuffed with straw, and a couple of stones.”
“And what did you want with the sheet just now, to wipe his blood if he was only a man of straw?”
“Sheet, woman! I wanted no sheet.”
“Well, whether you wanted it or not, I threw it to you, and you standing outside o’ the door.”
“Oh, Jack, Jack, you terrible tinker!” says the squire, “there’s no use in striving with you. We must do without the sheet for one night. We’ll have the marriage tomorrow to get ourselves out of trouble.”
So married they were, and Jack turned out a real good husband. And the squire and his lady were never tired of praising their son-in-law, ‘Jack the Cunning Thief.’
Dream of Owen O’Mulready
There was a man long ago living near Ballaghadereen named Owen O’Mulready, who was a workman for the gentleman of the place, and was a prosperous, quiet, contented man. There was no one but himself and his wife Margaret, and they had a nice little house and enough potatoes in the year, in addition to their share of wages, from their master. There wasn’t a want or anxiety on Owen, except one desire, and that was to have a dream – for he had never had one.
One day when he was digging potatoes, his master – James Taafe – came out to his ridge, and they began talking, as was the custom with them. The talk fell on dreams, and said Owen that he would like better than anything if he could only have one.
“You’ll have one tonight,” says his master, “if you do as I tell you.”
“Musha, I’ll do it, and welcome,” says Owen.
“Now,” says his master, “when you go home tonight, draw the fire from the hearth, put it out, make your bed in its place and sleep there tonight, and you’ll get your enough of dreaming before the morning.”
Owen promised to do this. When, however, he began to draw the fire out, Margaret thought that he had lost his senses, so he explained everything James Taafe had said to him, had his own way, and they went to lie down together on the hearth.
Not long was Owen asleep when there came a knock at the door.
“Get up, Owen O’Mulready, and go with a letter from the master to America.”
Owen got up, and put his feet into his boots, saying to himself, “It’s late you come, messenger.”
He took the letter, and he went forward and never tarried till he came to the foot of Sliabh Charn, where he met a cow-boy, and he herding cows.
“The blessing of God be with you, Owen O’Mulready,” says the boy.
“The blessing of God and Mary be with you, my boy,” says Owen. “Every one knows me, and I don’t know any one at all.”
“Where are you going this time of night?” says the boy.
“I’m going to America, with a letter from the master; is this the right road?” says Owen.
“It is; keep straight to the west; but how are you going to get over the water?” says the boy.
“Time enough to think of that when I get to it,” replied Owen.
He went on the road again, till he came to the brink of the sea; there he saw a crane standing on one foot on the shore.
“The blessing of God be with you, Owen O’Mulready,” says the crane.
“The blessing of God and Mary be with you, Mrs. Crane,” says Owen. “Everybody knows me, and I don’t know any one.”
“What are you doing here?”
Owen told her his business, and that he didn’t know how he’d get over the water.
“Leave your two feet on my two wings, and sit on my back, and I’ll take you to the other side,” says the crane.
“What would I do if tiredness should come on you before we got over?” says Owen.
“Don’t be afraid, I won’t be tired or wearied till I fly over.”
Then Owen went on the back of the crane, and she arose over the sea and went forward, but she hadn’t flown more than half-way, when she cried out:
“Owen O’Mulready get off me; I’m tired.”
“That you may be seven times worse this day twelvemonths, you rogue of a crane,” says Owen; “I can’t get off you now, so don’t ask me.”
“I don’t care,” replied the crane, “if you’ll rise off me a while till I’ll take a rest.”
With that they saw threshers over their heads, and Owen shouted:
“Och! thresher, thresher, leave down your flail at me, that I may give the crane a rest!”
The thresher left down the flail, but when Owen took a hold with his two hands, the crane went from him laughing and mocking.
“My share of misfortunes go with you!” said Owen, “It’s you’ve left me in a fix hanging between the heavens and the water in the middle of the great sea.”
It wasn’t long till the thresher shouted to him to leave go the flail.
“I won’t let it go,” said Owen; “shan’t I be drowned?”
“If you don’t let it go, I’ll cut the whang.”
“I don’t care,” says Owen; “I have the flail”; and with that he looked away from him, and what should he see but a boat a long way off.
“O sailor dear, sailor, come, come; perhaps you’ll take my lot of bones,” said Owen.
“Are we under you now?” says the sailor.
“Not yet, not yet,” says Owen.
“Fling down one of your shoes, till we see the way it falls,” says the captain.
Owen shook one foot, and down fell the shoe.
“Uill, uill, puil, uil liu – who is killing me?” came a scream from Margaret in the bed. “Where are you, Owen?”
“I didn’t know whether ’twas you were in it, Margaret.”
“Indeed, then it is,” says she, “who else would it be?”
She got up and lit the candle. She found Owen half-way up the chimney, climbing by the hands on the crook, and he black with soot! He had one shoe on, but the point of the other struck Margaret, and ’twas that which awoke her.
Owen came down off the crook and washed himself, and from that out there was no envy on him ever to have a dream again.
Biographies
Joseph Jacobs
Joseph Jacobs (1854–1916) was born in Australia and settled in New York. He is most famous for his collections of English folklore and fairytales including ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ and ‘The Three Little Pigs’. He also published Celtic, Jewish and Indian fairytales during his career. Jacobs was an editor for books and journals centered on folklore and a member of The Folklore Society in England.
W.B. Yeats
William Butler Yeats (1865–1939) was an Irish poet and is considered one of the greatest writers from the twentieth century. He played an important role in the Celtic Twilight, a revival of Irish literature focused on Gaelic heritage and Irish nationalism. Yeats was fascinated by Irish legends, including many Irish heroes in his works and focusing his poetry on Irish folklore. Alongside his poetry he is famous for writing short stories and plays. Yeats set up the Abbey Theatre in 1899 which held Irish and Celtic performances. In recognition of Yeats’ important work he received a Nobel Prize in 1923.
Jake Jackson
Foreword
Jake Jackson has written, edited and contributed to over 20 books including Myths and Legend (Metro Books and Flame Tree Publishing), North American Myths and Celtic Myths. Related works include studies of Babylonian creation myths, the philosophy of time and William Blake’s use of mythology in his visionary literature.
Text Sources
Many of the tales in this book are reproduced from Joseph Jacobs’ collections entitled Celtic Fairy Tales (David Nutt, London, 1891) and More Celtic Fairy Tales (David Nutt, London, 1894), in which he gathered, edited and adapted to varying degrees Celtic folk tales from many sources. The Mabinogion is an adaptation of the tales from Lady Charlotte Guest’s translation published by Longman, Brown, Green, and Longmans, in London, 1849). The two Yeats tales (‘The Wisdom of the King’ and ‘The Curse of the Fires and Shadows’) are from his 1897 collection of short stories, The Secret Rose, published by Lawrence & Bullen, London.
Remaining contributors, authors, editors and sources for this series include: Loren Auerbach, Norman Bancroft-Hunt, E.M. Berens, Samuel Butler, Laura Bulbeck, Jeremiah Curtin, O.B. Duane, Dr Ray Dunning, W.W. Gibbings, H.A. Guerber, Jake Jackson, Judith John, Katharine Berry Judson, Charles Kingsley, Andrew Lang, J.W. Mackail, Chris McNab, Professor James Riordan, Rachel Storm, K.E. Sullivan.
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