The Book of English Folk Tales

by Sybil Marshall

  Numbskull’s Errand

  The simpleton who cannot remember his errand unless he repeats it all the time, or repeats a message verbatim to the wrong person and so confuses a plain issue, is a favourite in many cultures. Almost every village has its own variation on the theme, as, for instance, the child who adds to the message a remark not intended to be passed on. ‘A penn’orth o’ skim please, but Mam says not the blue cow’s milk today’, or ‘A pound o’ belly pork for Mam, but she don’t want no hairs and no tiddies’, etc. (Blue cow’s milk is milk suspected of being watered down.)

  ‘Come you here, Jacky,’ says the neighbour. ‘I want you to go to the butcher’s, and get me a watch and chain.’

  ‘A watch and chain. From the butcher’s,’ says Jacky, who was a bit on the simple side.

  ‘He’ll know what I mean,’ says the neighbour. ‘I gets one every week. Sheep’s head and pluck, liver and lights an’ gall an’ all.’

  Off Jacky goes, but soon stops to watch a dog chasing a rabbit, and dawdles on till he forgets his errand.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ says the washerwoman, coming down the path with her wicker clothes basket.

  ‘I can’t remember what I’m going to fetch,’ says the boy.

  ‘You should ha’ brought your brother with you,’ says the washerwoman. ‘Two heads are better than one if they are only sheep’s heads.’

  ‘That’s it!’ says the boy. ‘That’s the very thing. Sheep’s head and pluck! Liver an’ lights an’ gall an’ all.’

  Then away he goes again, running, till he catches his foot against a tussock and tipples head over heels, scraping his knee against a stone. And the sight of his own blood sets him crying, so that when he’s wiped his eyes on his sleeve he can’t think what his errand is. But it comes back to him bit by bit, and he makes up his mind to go on saying it out loud to himself, all the way to the butcher’s.

  ‘Liver an’ lights an’ gall an’ all!

  Liver an’ lights an’ gall an’ all’

  he says, over and over again. Then he hears queer noises coming from behind the hedge, and hops up on to a gate to see what can be causing them, and there stands a chap, bent nearly double, retching so hard as nearly to throw his heart up.

  ‘Liver an’ lights an’ gall an’ all!

  Liver an’ lights an gal an’ all’

  says the boy, watching with interest.

  The sick man hears him, and between his spasms stands up and fetches him a clout round the ears.

  ‘You young varmint!’ he says. ‘If you must say something, say something sensible. Say, “God! Let nothing more come up!”’

  So the boy makes off as quick as he can, repeating his errand as he goes:

  ‘Dear God, let nothing more come up!

  Dear God, let nothing more come up’

  till he comes to a field where there’s a fellow sowing wheat broadcast from a basket hanging round his neck, and stops to watch.

  ‘What’s that you’re saying? You little ’umbug. I’ll teach you not to make fun o’ me,’ says the sower, thumping him on the back. ‘Here’s what you must say – “Please God, send plenty more here!”’

  The boy’s glad enough to get away, so on he trots, still repeating his message aloud so that he shan’t forget it:

  ‘Please God, send plenty more here!

  Please God, send plenty more here.’

  Then his way takes him through a churchyard, where parson and people are standing round an open grave. And he stops to gape, saying, ‘Please God, send plenty more here!’

  But the parson hears him, and says, ‘You young infidel, what do you mean? You must say, “Pray Lord, take the soul to heaven.”’

  Well, after that he has to go through a farmyard, where a touchy old farmer and his men are just getting ready to string a couple of dogs that have been worrying the sheep; and he stands still to watch, saying,

  ‘Pray Lord, take the soul to heaven!

  Pray Lord, take the soul to heaven.’

  Then the Farmer hears him, an’ breaks into a great guffaw, and says, ‘Numbskull, it’s only a dog and a bitch a-going to be hung! Now be off with you!’

  Off he goes again, still saying his errand so he shan’t forget it, and meets a wedding party just setting out for church in all their finery. And while he stands to view the grinning bridegroom and the simpering bride, he says

  ‘Only a dog an’ a bitch, going to be hung!

  Only a dog an’ a bitch, going to be hung.’

  But the bride’s father hears him, and shakes him till his teeth rattle. ‘Of all the himpudent young rascals!’ says the father. ‘You must mind what you’re a-saying! You must say, “I wish both of you joy.”’

  ‘Ah,’ says the simpleton. ‘That I will. I wish both of you joy.’

  Then they let him go, and before long he comes across a couple of men drunk in a ditch, trying to get out.

  ‘I wish both of you joy,’

  says the lad. ‘I wish both of you joy.’

  And one of the men hears him, and is so aggravated that he gives a mighty heave and gets himself out. Then he sets about young Jacky, and thumps him with his fist, till he’s right out of breath.

  ‘What you mean is, “One of ’em’s out and I wish the other was.” ’

  ‘One is out, an’ I wish the other was,’ says the boy, and takes to his heels as fast as he can, till he meets a tramp sitting by the roadside eating his snack from a red handkercher. And he stops to stare, because the tramp has only got one eye, and a black patch over the other. And he gazes at the tramp, saying loudly, so as not to forget his errand, ‘One is out, and I wish the other was.’

  Then the tramp gives a roar like a mad bull, and grabs hold of him, threatening him with his jack-knife.

  ‘You imp of the devil!’ he says. ‘What you mean is, “One side gives good light. I only wish the other did.”’

  Jacky says it after him, till the tramp lets him go and soon he comes to the village. There he finds the butcher’s shop afire, and the butcher and all his neighbours rushing about like a lot of old hens when a fox has got into the henhouse. All the time he keeps on saying,

  ‘One side gives good light. I only wish the other did.’

  When they hear him say this, they reckon as how it must have been him that set the place afire, so they ties him up and takes him off to the justice of the peace, and goodness only knows what happens to him after that. Some say that he ends up in prison, and some that he gets hung in the course of time, ’cos nobody is able to make top or bottom of what he says. Anyway, the neighbour never got her watch and chain from the butcher’s and all on account of the boy not being able to call to mind what it was he had to ask for.

  Moral Tales

  Moral Tales

  The Middle Ages produced a wealth of fables and other tales whose whole purpose was to act as precepts, examples, or dire warnings for the young and/or inexperienced. The great bulk of these stories were, however, of courtly origin and not typically English, belonging more generally to ‘Christendom’ and often written down, in the first instance, in French. They have not been included in this selection.

  However, the four stories following can only be grouped together because each in its way contains some philosophical or moral point with regard to human behaviour.

  Belling the Cat

  This is a political fable that has been in existence in the English language for at least six hundred years. It is to be found in ‘Piers the Plowman’ by William Langland. This part probably relates to the spring of 1377, while ‘the cat’ (Edward III) still lived, and ‘the kitten’ (Richard II) was still very young.

  As given below it is a free translation of Langland, though the text is strictly adhered to. It has been left in the rhythmical line pattern (though it can be read as prose) as an example of the way rhythm and rhyme aided memory in recounting tales.

  There appeared at that time an assembly of rat-folk

  with small mice amongst them, m
ore than a thousand –

  all come to take counsel for their common good.

  For a cat from the yard came, whenever it pleased him,

  and pounced out upon them, and teased them at will,

  or played with them cruelly, and tossed them about.

  ‘For fear of his antics, we dare hardly look out!

  If we grudge him his sport, he’ll just harry us further

  scratch us and claw us, and in his clutch hold us,

  which scares us to death – or then just let us go.

  Could we but find some way to cut down his power,

  we could all live like lords, and be at our ease.’

  Then one rat of renown, with a glib, nimble tongue said

  that in sheer self-defence, he had had an idea.

  ‘I have seen worthy men, in the city of London

  wearing bright chains of office (costly collars, some of them)

  hung round their necks; let loose, they go hunting

  through warren and wasteland, wherever it please them,

  though at times they are elsewhere, as I have just told you.

  If their chains bore a bell – by Jesu, I reckon

  game would know where they were, and keep out of their way.’

  ‘By that token,’ said Rat, ‘my reason now tells me,

  that if we bought a bell of brass or of silver –

  all for our own good – fixed the bell to a collar,

  hung that round the cat’s neck, then we should have

  warning where the cat prowls or dozes, or scampers at play.

  If he just wants some fun, then perhaps we dare venture,

  to come out in his presence – just as long as he’s playing;

  but when he’s in earnest, keep out of his way.’

  Well, the whole rat assemblage agreed this proposal.

  But though bell was purchased, and hung on to a gold chain

  they could not find a hero, no, not one in the country

  that dared try hang the collar round the old cat’s neck –

  no, not for all England would one rat bell the cat!

  Then all felt like cowards, held their own reason foolish,

  bemoaned their lost labour, and all counsel vain.

  But a mouse with some good sense (or so I bethought me)

  stood boldly before them, and spoke up with courage,

  before that rat-gathering rehearsing these words:

  ‘If we got rid of this cat, there’d soon be another

  to chase us and our sort, creep we wherever we might;

  my advice to you people is——just let that cat be!

  As I heard my old dad say, quite seven long years since,

  “Where the cat is a kitten, the yard’s a sad place”.’

  Simmer Water

  A warning against pride and self-satisfaction. The modern spelling is Semmerwater, and the story has been told by William Watson in a popular poem entitled ‘The Ballad of Semmerwater’.

  Over the hills the old man came, weary from much walking, and relieved at last to come to the green welcome of beautiful Wensleydale. So long ago was it that the town of Hawes had not begun to exist, but on the hillside close by Simmer Water stood a noble, proud city, the very name of which has now been lost for ever. The walls of the city were tall and strong, but above them showed the turrets and towers of castellated mansions where those who had grown rich on the fertile lands below now lived at ease, surrounded by their wealth. Outside the gates the shepherds still toiled, counting in their masters’ flocks at the end of the day with their age-old Celtic-based tally – ‘yain, tain, eddero, peddero pitts, tayter, later, overro, coverro disc’.

  At the end of the day they crept into their tiny stone cottages out on the hills or just within the city gates, to eat only the plainest and poorest of fare, and barely enough of that to keep body and soul together. But up in the city, their wool-rich masters gorged themselves on the fat of the land, and drank to their hearts’ content of the finest wines. There was food to spare there for everyone, so much that even the dogs beneath the rich men’s tables were satiated and would rouse themselves no more to fetch the bones thrown to them.

  The aged, weary traveller stood awhile looking at the beauty of the walled city, and wishing that he had already come there, that he might rest and bathe and eat and drink, for he was famished with hunger and thirst. Never doubting his welcome, or the proverbial hospitality of Yorkshire, he pressed on till he came within the gates, and made his way to the grandest house of all.

  Without ceremony, he was turned away from its doors, and bidden to ask elsewhere. He did, only to be ordered off to the next house, where he was likewise spurned. All through the hot afternoon the beggar stumbled from palace to mansion, from mansion to hall, nearly fainting with hunger and thirst. No one had anything to spare for him, not so much as a crust at the back door; the idle servants themselves mocked him, and threatened to set the dogs on him if he did not take himself out of their town. The merchants and shopkeepers, the spinners and the weavers, all were too comfortable, too secure, too proud and too greedy to spare anything for one who was not a citizen of their own self-satisfied city.

  As dusk began to fall, the beggar stumbled back towards the gates, and knocked at the door of a tiny cottage built up against the wall. The poor shepherd who lived there had just come in from the hills, and was sitting by the hearth eating his meagre supper. The beggar reeled as the goodwife opened the door to him. ‘I faint with hunger and weariness,’ he gasped. ‘I beg for food and shelter, in the holy name of God.’

  They caught him as he fell, and brought him in; they gave him water to wash, and the best seat in their humble home. They set before him the only food they had, home-baked bread and mutton broth, washed down with fresh milk, and when he had eaten, they bade him rest there for the night. All this he gratefully accepted, and in the morning, rose refreshed and strong again. Then when the sun came up, the shepherd prepared to go out to his work on the hillsides, as soon as the gates of the city should be opened. Thanking the good wife courteously for her hospitality, the strange beggar accompanied his host out of the gates till their way parted on the lower slopes of the hills. Then up went the traveller sturdily, till he paused where he could see the whole of the proud city nestling above the lake of Simmer Water, as it lay below him peacefully reflecting the glory of the morning sky.

  The traveller raised his hand, and calling loudly in a ringing voice towards the lake he said:

  Simmer Water rise. Simmer Water sink.

  Swallow all the lot

  Save that little cot

  Where they gave me meat and drink!

  Even as he spoke the wind began to blow from the mountains, rising in strength till it became a gale, and with it came torrents of rain. Then the storm raged until the little waves on Simmer Water became huge breakers, and the floods rose, till they lapped the gates of the city. Threshing relentlessly, driven by the huge winds, the waves slapped and sucked, pounded and sucked, crashed and sucked, hammered and sucked against the great walls till at last they were breached. At that, the floods rushed in to the very steps of the houses where only yesterday the beggar had been spurned by the meanest of scullions at his lord’s behest. Then the waters continued their pounding till one by one the turrets and towers cracked and crumbled, and stone by stone the houses fell apart and rolled piecemeal down the hillside and into the lake. Lords and ladies, princes and prelates, mayor and aldermen, merchants and traders, watchmen and weavers, manservants and maidservants, old folk and children, all were swept away to perish as their rich dwellings disintegrated and slid for ever to the obscurity of the bottom of the lake.

  When daylight came once more, there was nothing left to show where the once-proud city had stood except one tiny stone cottage standing all by itself on the hillside. As the storm subsided and the sun came out to dry up the floods, it was as if the city and its proud inhospitable citizens had simply never been.

 
; Yet still, they say, on summer evenings when the wind is calm and the lake gleams in the mellow sunset, you can see the towers and minarets, the turrets and the pinnacles of the beautiful former city shimmering below the surface of the lake; and if you stand very still and quiet, you can even hear amid the plaintive callings of the lambs on the hillside the deep, slow tolling of a bell mourning the city’s doom.

  Wild Darrell

  This tale could have been equally at home in the ‘Notable Characters’ section, but there is no doubt but that this ‘wild’ gentleman does point a moral, as well as adorn a tale.

  The Darrells had lived at Littlecote for centuries, and a wild lot they were, by all accounts. In the days of Bluff King Hal and Good Queen Bess, they lived in a new house, built in the latest style; but the head of the family in Elizabethan times was one who lived up to his nickname of ‘Wild Darrell’, and to save his skin he had to part with his ancestral home. Not that the sacrifice saved him in the long run, because his evil doings finally caught up with him. It happened like this.

  In the village of Shefford, a few miles away from Littlecote Manor, lived a wise woman who had a good reputation in the district for her considerable skill as a midwife. She was in bed and asleep one night when thunderous knocks sounded on her cottage door, and lighting a candle she went down to see who it was that needed her help. The guttering flame showed her a sight that made her catch her breath and turn cold with fear. Instead of the well-known neighbour she had expected to find on her doorstep, there stood two neatly dressed men, both masked and armed. All she could see of their faces was their beards and their glittering eyes.