Irish Fairy and Folk Tales

by Edited

  DONALD AND HIS NEIGHBORS

  FROM HIBERNIAN TALES*

  Hudden and Dudden and Donald O’Nery were near neighbors in the barony of Balinconlig, and ploughed with three bullocks; but the two former, envying the present prosperity of the latter, determined to kill his bullock, to prevent his farm from being properly cultivated and labored, that going back in the world he might be induced to sell his lands, which they meant to get possession of. Poor Donald, finding his bullock killed, immediately skinned it, and throwing the skin over his shoulder, with the fleshy side out, set off to the next town with it, to dispose of it to the best of his advantage. Going along the road a magpie flew on the top of the hide, and began picking it, chattering all the time. The bird had been taught to speak, and imitate the human voice, and Donald, thinking he understood some words it was saying, put round his hand and caught hold of it. Having got possession of it, he put it under his greatcoat, and so went on to town. Having sold the hide, he went into an inn to take a dram, and following the landlady into the cellar, he gave the bird a squeeze which made it chatter some broken accents that surprised her very much. “What is that I hear?” said she to Donald. “I think it is talk, and yet I do not understand.” “Indeed,” said Donald, “it is a bird I have that tells me everything, and I always carry it with me to know when there is any danger. Faith,” says he, “it says you have far better liquor than you are giving me.” “That is strange,” said she, going to another cask of better quality, and asking him if he would sell the bird. “I will,” said Donald, “if I get enough for it.” “I will fill your hat with silver if you leave it with me.” Donald was glad to hear the news, and taking the silver, set off, rejoicing at his good luck. He had not been long at home until he met with Hudden and Dudden. “Mr.,” said he, “you thought you had done me a bad turn, but you could not have done me a better; for look here, what I have got for the hide,” showing them a hatful of silver; “you never saw such a demand for hides in your life as there is at present.” Hudden and Dudden that very night killed their bullocks, and set out the next morning to sell their hides. On coming to the place they went through all the merchants, but could only get a trifle for them; at last they had to take what they could get, and came home in a great rage, and vowing revenge on poor Donald. He had a pretty good guess how matters would turn out, and he being under the kitchen window, he was afraid they would rob him, or perhaps kill him when asleep, and on that account when he was going to bed he left his old mother in his place, and lay down in her bed, which was in the other side of the house, and they taking the old woman for Donald, choked her in her bed, but he making some noise, they had to retreat, and leave the money behind them, which grieved them very much. However, by daybreak, Donald got his mother on his back, and carried her to town. Stopping at a well, he fixed his mother with her staff, as if she was stooping for a drink, and then went into a public house convenient and called for a dram. “I wish,” said he to a woman that stood near him, “you would tell my mother to come in; she is at yon well trying to get a drink, and she is hard of hearing; if she does not observe you, give her a little shake and tell her that I want her.” The woman called her several times, but she seemed to take no notice; at length she went to her and shook her by the arm, but when she let her go again, she tumbled on her head into the well, and, as the woman thought, was drowned. She, in her great surprise and fear at the accident, told Donald what had happened. “O mercy,” said he, “what is this?” He ran and pulled her out of the well, weeping and lamenting all the time, and acting in such a manner that you would imagine that he had lost his senses. The woman, on the other hand, was far worse than Donald, for his grief was only feigned, but she imagined herself to be the cause of the old woman’s death. The inhabitants of the town hearing what had happened, agreed to make Donald up a good sum of money for his loss, as the accident happened in their place, and Donald brought a greater sum home with him than he got for the magpie. They buried Donald’s mother, and as soon as he saw Hudden he showed them the last purse of money he had got. “You thought to kill me last night,” said he, “but it was good for me it happened on my mother, for I got all that purse for her to make gunpowder.”

  That very night Hudden and Dudden killed their mothers, and the next morning set off with them to town. On coming to the town with their burthen on their backs, they went up and down crying, “Who will buy old wives for gunpowder?” so that everyone laughed at them, and the boys at last clotted them out of the place. They then saw the cheat, and vowed revenge on Donald, buried the old women, and set off in pursuit of him. Coming to his house, they found him sitting at his breakfast, and seizing him, put him in a sack, and went to drown him in a river at some distance. As they were going along the highway they raised a hare, which they saw had but three feet, and throwing off the sack, ran after her, thinking by her appearance she would be easily taken. In their absence there came a drover that way, and hearing Donald singing in the sack, wondered greatly what could be the matter. “What is the reason,” said he, “that you are singing, and you confined?” “Oh, I am going to heaven,” said Donald, “and in a short time I expect to be free from trouble.” “O dear,” said the drover, “what will I give you if you let me to your place?” “Indeed, I do not know,” said he, “it would take a good sum.” “I have not much money,” said the drover, “but I have twenty head of fine cattle, which I will give you to exchange places with me.” “Well,” says Donald, “I do not care if I should loose the sack, and I will come out.” In a moment the drover liberated him, and went into the sack himself, and Donald drove home the fine heifers, and left them in his pasture.

  Hudden and Dudden having caught the hare, returned, and getting the sack on one of their backs, carried Donald, as they thought, to the river and threw him in, where he immediately sank. They then marched home, intending to take immediate possession of Donald’s property, but how great was their surprise when they found him safe at home before them, with such a fine herd of cattle, whereas they knew he had none before. “Donald,” said they, “what is all this? We thought you were drowned, and yet you are here before us.” “Ah!” said he, “if I had but help along with me when you threw me in, it would have been the best job ever I met with, for of all the sight of cattle and gold that ever was seen is there, and no one to own them, but I was not able to manage more than what you see, and I could show you the spot where you might get hundreds.” They both swore they would be his friend, and Donald accordingly led them to a very deep part of the river, and lifted up a stone. “Now,” said he, “watch this,” throwing it into the stream; “there is the very place, and go in, one of you first, and if you want help, you have nothing to do but call.” Hudden jumping in, and sinking to the bottom, rose up again, and making a bubbling noise, as those do that are drowning, attempted to speak, but could not. “What is that he is saying now?” says Dudden. “Faith,” says Donald, “he is calling for help; don’t you hear him? Stand about,” said he, running back, “till I leap in. I know how to do it better than any of you.” Dudden, to have the advantage of him, jumped in off the bank, and was drowned along with Hudden, and this was the end of Hudden and Dudden.

  THE JACKDAW

  Tom Moor was a linen draper in Sackville Street. His father, when he died, left him an affluent fortune, and a shop of excellent trade.

  As he was standing at his door one day a countryman came up to him with a nest of jackdaws, and accosting him, says, “Master, will you buy a nest of daws?” “No, I don’t want any.” “Master,” replied the man, “I will sell them all cheap; you shall have the whole nest for ninepence.” “I don’t want them,” answered Tom Moor, “so go about your business.”

  As the man was walking away one of the daws popped out his head, and cried “Mawk, mawk.” “Damn it,” says Tom Moor, “that bird knows my name; halloo, countryman, what will you take for the bird?” “Why, you shall have him for threepence.” Tom Moor bought him, had a cage made, and hung him up in the shop
.

  The journeymen took much notice of the bird, and would frequently tap at the bottom of the cage, and say, “Who are you? Who are you? Tom Moor of Sackville Street.”

  In a short time the jackdaw learned these words, and if he wanted victuals or water, would strike his bill against the cage, turn up the white of his eyes, cock his head, and cry, “Who are you? who are you? Tom Moor of Sackville Street.”

  Tom Moor was fond of gaming, and often lost large sums of money; finding his business neglected in his absence, he had a small hazard table set up in one corner of his dining-room, and invited a party of his friends to play at it.

  The jackdaw had by this time become familiar; his cage was left open, and he hopped into every part of the house; sometimes he got into the dining-room, where the gentlemen were at play, and one of them being a constant winner, the others would say: “Damn it, how he nicks them.” The bird learned these words also, and adding them to the former, would call, “Who are you? who are you? Tom Moor of Sackville Street. Damn it, how he nicks them.”

  Tom Moor, from repeated losses and neglect of business, failed in trade, and became a prisoner in the Fleet; he took his bird with him, and lived on the master’s side, supported by friends, in a decent manner. They would sometimes ask, “What brought you here?” when he used to lift up his hands and answer, “Bad company, by G—.” The bird learned this likewise, and at the end of the former words, would say, “What brought you here? Bad company, by G—.”

  Some of Tom Moor’s friends died, others went abroad, and by degrees he was totally deserted, and removed to the common side of the prison, where the jail distemper soon attacked him; and in the last stage of life, lying on a straw bed; the poor bird had been for two days without food or water, came to his feet, and striking his bill on the floor, calls out, “Who are you? Tom Moor of Sackville Street; damn it, how he nicks them, damn it, how he nicks them. What brought you here? Bad company, by G—, bad company, by G—

  Tom Moor, who had attended to the bird, was struck with his words, and reflecting on himself, cried out: “Good God, to what a situation am I reduced! my father, when he died, left me a good fortune and an established trade. I have spent my fortune, ruined my business, and am now dying in a loath-some jail; and to complete all, keeping that poor thing confined without support. I will endeavor to do one piece of justice before I die, by setting him at liberty.”

  He made a struggle to crawl from his straw bed, opened the casement, and out flew the bird. A flight of jackdaws from the Temple were going over the jail, and Tom Moor’s bird mixed among them. The gardener was then laying the plats of the Temple gardens, and as often as he placed them in the day the jackdaws pulled them up by night. They got a gun and attempted to shoot some of them; but being cunning birds, they always placed one as a watch in the stump of a hollow tree; who, as soon as the gun was leveled cried “Mawk,” and away they flew.

  The gardeners were advised to get a net, and the first night it was spread they caught fifteen; Tom Moor’s bird was amongst them. One of the men took the net into a garret of an uninhabited house, fastens the doors and windows, and turns the birds loose. “Now,” said he, “you black rascals, I will be revenged of you.” Taking hold of the first at hand, he twists her neck, and throwing him down, cries, “There goes one.” Tom Moor’s bird, who had hopped up to a beam at one corner of the room unobserved, as the man lays hold of the second, calls out, “Damn it, how he nicks them.” The man alarmed, cries, “Sure I heard a voice, but the house is uninhabited, and the door is fast; it could only be imagination.” On laying hold of the third, and twisting his neck, Tom’s bird again says, “Damn it, how he’nicks them.” The man dropped the bird in his hand, and turning to where the voice came from, seeing the other with his mouth open, cries out, “Who are you?” to which the bird answered, “Tom Moor of Sackville Street, Tom Moor of Sackville Street.” “The devil you are; and what brought you here?” Tom Moor’s bird, lifting up his pinions, answered, “Bad company, by G—, bad company, by G—.” The fellow, frightened almost out of his wits, opened the door, ran down stairs, and out of the house, followed by all the birds, who by this means regained their liberty.

  THE STORY OF CONN-EDA; OR THE GOLDEN APPLES OF LOUGH ERNE*

  Translated from the original Irish of the Story-teller,

  ABRAHAM MCCOY, BY NICHOLAS O’KEARNEY

  It was long before the time the western districts of Innis Fodhla† had any settled name, but were indiscriminately called after the person who took possession of them, and whose name they retained only as long as his sway lasted, that a powerful king reigned over this part of the sacred island. He was a puissant warrior, and no individual was found able to compete with him either on land or sea, or question his right to his conquest. The great king of the west held uncontrolled sway from the island of Rathlin to the mouth of the Shannon by sea, and as far as the glittering length by land. The ancient king of the west, whose name was Conn, was good as well as great, and passionately loved by his people. His queen was a Breaton (British) princess, and was equally beloved and esteemed, because she was the great counterpart of the king in every respect; for whatever good qualification was wanting in the one, the other was certain to indemnify the omission. It was plainly manifest that heaven approved of the career in life of the virtuous couple; for during their reign the earth produced exuberant crops, the trees fruit ninefold commensurate with their usual bearing, the rivers, lakes, and surrounding sea teemed with abundance of choice fish, while herds and flocks were unusually prolific, and kine and sheep yielded such abundance of rich milk that they shed it in torrents upon the pastures; and furrows and cavities were always filled with the pure lacteal produce of the dairy. All these were blessings heaped by heaven upon the western districts of Innis Fodhla, over which the begnignant and just Conn swayed his scepter, in approbation of the course of government he had marked out for his own guidance. It is needless to state that the people who owned the authority of the great and good sovereign were the happiest on the face of the wide expanse of earth. It was during his reign, and that of his son and successor, that Ireland acquired the title of the “happy isle of the west” among foreign nations.

  Conn Mor and his good Queen Eda reigned in great glory during many years; they were blessed with an only son, whom they named Conn-eda, after both his parents, because the Druids foretold at his birth that he would inherit the good qualities of both. According as the young prince grew in years, his amiable and benignant qualities of mind, as well as his great strength of body and manly bearing, became more manifest. He was the idol of his parents, and the boast of his people; he was beloved and respected to that degree that neither prince, lord nor phebeian swore an oath by the sun, moon, stars, or elements, except by the head of Conn-eda. This career of glory, however, was doomed to meet a powerful but temporary impediment, for the good Queen Eda took a sudden and severe illness, of which she died in a few days, thus plunging her spouse, her son, and all her people into a depth of grief and sorrow from which it was found difficult to relieve them.

  The good king and his subjects mourned the loss of Queen Eda for a year and a day, and at the expiration of that time Conn Mór reluctantly yielded to the advice of his Druids and counsellors, and took to wife the daughter of his Arch-Druid. The new queen appeared to walk in the footsteps of the good Eda for several years and gave great satisfaction to her subjects. But, in course of time, having had several children, and perceiving that Conn-eda was the favorite son of the king and the darling of the people, she clearly foresaw that he would become successor to the throne after the demise of his father, and that her son would certainly be excluded. This excited the hatred and inflamed the jealousy of the Druid’s daughter against her stepson to such an extent, that she resolved in her own mind to leave nothing in her power undone to secure his death, or even exile from the kingdom. She began by circulating evil reports of the prince; but, as he was above suspicion, the king only laughed at the weakness of the q
ueen; and the great princes and chieftains, supported by the people in general, gave an unqualified contradiction; while the prince himself bore all his trials with the utmost patience, and always repaid her bad and malicious acts toward him with good and benevolent ones. The enmity of the queen toward Conn-eda knew no bounds when she saw that the false reports she circulated could not injure him. As a last resource, to carry out her wicked projects, she determined to consult her Cailleach-chearc (hen-wife), who was a reputed enchantress.

  Pursuant to her resolution, by the early dawn of morning she hied to the cabin of the Cailleach-chearc, and divulged to her the cause of her trouble. “I cannot render you any help,” said the Cailleach, “until you name the duais” (reward). “What duais do you require?” asked the queen, impatiently. “My duais,” replied the enchantress, “is to fill the cavity of my arm with wool, and the hole I shall bore with my distaff with red wheat.” “Your duais is granted, and shall be immediately given you,” said the queen. The enchantress thereupon stood in the door of her hut, and bending her arm into a circle with her side, directed the royal attendants to thrust the wool into her house through her arm, and she never permitted them to cease until all the available space within was filled with wool. She then got on the roof of her brother’s house, and, having made a hole through it with her distaff, caused red wheat to be spilled through it, until that was filled up to the roof with red wheat, so that there was no room for another grain within. “Now,” said the queen, “since you have received your duais, tell me how I can accomplish my purpose.”