At length he reached the inn, where he alighted, and asked for a room in which to change his travelling clothes. Having obtained a chamber, he proceeded with much care to open his suitcase and lay out carefully on the bed the articles for his toilet.
His first consideration was whether he should powder his hair white or yellow. Having decided it should be white, he seized his swans-down powder puff, and commenced the operation on the right side. But at the moment when he had finished that side he saw that an invisible hand had powdered the other side yellow, so that his head had the appearance of a half-peeled lemon. Michael, stupefied, stretched out his hand toward the reel on which the ribbon for his pigtail was wound. The reel escaped from his fingers and fell to the ground.
Michael went to pick it up, but it seemed to roll before him. Twenty times he was about to seize it, and twenty times his impatient hands missed it. One would have said he looked like a kitten playing with a reel. At length, seeing that time was going, he lost patience and resigned himself to wearing his old ribbon.
He now hastened to put on his morocco shoes. He buckled the right, then having finished the left, he stopped to admire them, but as he did so the right buckle fell to the ground. He replaced it, but no sooner had he done so than the left followed suit. Furious, he finished by putting on his travelling boots, and was about to put on his velvet breeches, when, immediately he approached the bed, the breeches began of their own accord to walk about the room.
Michael, petrified, stood mute, with his arm extended, contemplating with a frightened air this incongruous dance. But you may guess how he looked when he saw the vest, coat, and hat join the breeches and form a sort of counterfeit of himself, which commenced to walk about and copy his movements.
Pale with fear he drew back to the window, but at this moment the Michaelesque figure turned toward him, and he saw under the cocked hat the grimacing face of Drak, the fairy.
Michael uttered a cry. “It is you, you villain, is it? I’ll make you repent of your insolence if you don’t instantly give me back my clothes.”
So saying, he rushed to take them, but the fairy, turning sharply around, ran to the other side of the room. Michael was beside himself with anger and impatience, and rushed again towards the fairy, who this time passed between his legs and rushed out on to the staircase. Michael pursued him angrily up four flights of stairs till they arrived at the garret, where the fairy dodged round and round, and then skipped out of the window. Michael, exasperated, took the same route. The malicious fairy led him from roof to roof, dragging the velvet breeches, the vest, and coat in all the gutters, to Michael’s despair.
The young gallant sat down upon the roof with a cry of despairs, but rising immediately, said with resolution:
“Well, I’ll go to the ball in my travelling dress.”
“Hark!” interrupted the fairy.
The sound of a bell rang out from a neighbouring steeple. Midnight struck! Michael counted the twelve strokes, and could not restrain a cry. It was the hour designated by the parents when they would proclaim their daughter’s choice for a husband. He wrung his hands in despair.
“Unhappy man that I am!” he cried. “When I arrive all will be over, she and her parents will laugh at me.”
“And that would be justice, my big man,” replied Drak. “For you have said yourself, ‘For those who arrive late, there remains nothing but regret., This time will serve you, I hope, as a lesson and prevent you another time from laughing at the feeble, for from henceforth you will know that the smallest are big enough to avenge themselves.”
The Hillman and the Housewife
By Juliana Horatia Gatty Ewing
READING TIME: 3 MINUTES
In this story from Ireland, the fairy is called the hillman, because it was believed that fairies lived inside hills. Fairies in stories often reward humans who treat them fairly, but they can be quick to punish anyone who is greedy or tries to trick them. ‘Tinkers’ are Irish travellers who often earned money by travelling from village to village mending old pots and pans.
It is well known that the good people cannot stand mean ways. Now, there once lived a housewife who had a sharp eye to her own good in this world, and gave only of what she had no use, for the good of her soul.
One day a hillman knocked at her door.
“Can you lend us a saucepan, good mother?” said he. “There’s a wedding in the hill, and all the pots are in use.”
“Is he to have one?” asked the servant girl.
“Ay, to be sure,” said the housewife.
But when the maid was taking a saucepan from the shelf, she pinched her arm and whispered sharply, “Not that, stupid, get the old one out of the cupboard. It leaks, and the hillmen are so neat and such nimble workers that they are sure to mend it before they send it home. So one does a good turn to the good people and saves sixpence from the tinker.”
The maid fetched the saucepan, which had been laid by till the tinker’s next visit, and gave it to the hillman, who thanked her and went away.
The saucepan was soon returned neatly mended and ready for use. At supper time the maid filled the pan with milk and set it on the fire for the children’s supper, but in a few minutes the milk was so burnt and smoked that no one could touch it, and even the pigs would not drink the wash into which it was thrown.
“You good-for-nothing!” cried the housewife to the maid, as she this time filled the pan herself. “You would ruin the richest, with your careless ways, there’s a whole quart of good milk spoilt at once.”
“And that’s two pence,” cried a voice from the chimney, a queer whining voice like some old body who was always grumbling over something. The housewife had not left the saucepan for two minutes when the milk boiled over, and it was all burnt and smoked as before.
“The pan must be dirty,” cried the housewife in a rage, “and there are two full quarts of milk as good as thrown to the dogs.”
“And that’s four pence,” said the voice in the chimney.
After a long scrubbing the saucepan was once more filled and set on the fire, but it was not the least use, the milk was burnt and smoked again, and the housewife burst into tears at the waste, crying out, “Never before did such a thing happen to me since I kept house! Three quarts of milk burnt for one meal!”
“And that’s six pence,” cried the voice from the chimney. “You didn’t save the tinker after all.” With which the hillman himself came tumbling down the chimney, and went off laughing through the door. But from that time the saucepan was as good as any other.
A Boy that Visited Fairyland
By William Elliot Griffis
READING TIME: 10 MINUTES
Many are the places in Wales where the ground is lumpy and humpy with burial mounds. Among these the sheep graze, the donkeys bray, and the cows chew the cud.
Here the ground is strewn with the ruins of Welsh strongholds, of old Roman camps, and of chapels and monasteries, showing that many different races of men have come and gone, while the birds still fly and the flowers bloom.
Centuries ago, the good monks of St David had a school where lads were taught Latin and good manners. One of their pupils was a boy named Elidyr. He was such a poor scholar and he so hated books and loved play, that in his case punishments were almost of daily occurrence. Still he made no improvement. One day, though he was only twelve years old, the boy started on a long run into the country. The further he got, the happier he felt– at least for one day.
At night, tired out, he crept into a cave. When he woke up in the morning, he thought it was glorious to be as free as the wild asses. So like them, he quenched his thirst at the brook. But when, towards noon, he could find nothing to eat, and his stomach seemed to enlarge with very emptiness, his hunger grew every minute. Then he thought that a bit of oat cake, a leek, or a bowl of oatmeal might suit a king.
He dared not go out far and pick berries, for by this time he saw that people were out searching for him. He did not feel ye
t like going back to books, rods and scoldings, but the day seemed as long as a week. He was glad when the sunset and darkness came. His bed was no softer in the cave. When daylight came, the question in his mind was still whether to stay and starve, or to go home and get two thrashings – one from his daddy, and another from the monks. Finally, he came to a stern resolve. He started out, ready to face two whippings, rather than one death by starvation.
But he did not have to go home yet, for at the cave’s mouth, he met two elves, who delivered a most welcome message. “Come with us to a land full of fun, play, and good things to eat.”
All at once, his hunger left him. All fear, or desire to go home, or to risk either schooling or a thrashing, passed away also.
Into a dark passage all three went, but they soon came out into a beautiful country, where birds sang and flowers bloomed! All around could be heard the shouts of little folks at play. Never did things look so lovely.
Soon, in front of the broad path along which they were travelling, there rose up before him a glorious palace. It had a splendid gateway, and the silver-topped towers seemed to touch the blue sky.
“What building is this?” asked the lad of his guides.
They made answer that it was the palace of the king of Fairyland. Then they led him into the throne room, where sat in golden splendour, a king of august figure and of majestic presence, who was clad in resplendent robes. He was surrounded by courtiers in rich apparel, and all about him was magnificence, such as this boy, Elidyr, had never even read about or dreamed.
Yet everything was so small that it looked like Toy Land, and he felt like a giant among them, even though many of the little men around him were old enough to have whiskers on their cheeks and beards on their chins.
The king spoke kindly to Elidyr, asking him who he was, and whence he had come.
While talking thus the prince, the king’s only son appeared. He was dressed in white velvet and gold, and had a long feather in his cap. In the pleasantest way, he took Elidyr’s hand and said:
“Glad to see you. Come and let us play together.”
That was just what Elidyr liked to hear. They played with golden balls, and rode little horses with silver saddles and bridles, but these pretty animals were no larger than small dogs, or greyhounds.
No meat was ever seen on the table, but plenty of milk. They never told a lie, nor used bad language. They often talked about mortal men, but usually to despise them. To the elves, human beings were never satisfied, or long happy, even when they got what they wanted.
Everything in this part of Fairyland was lovely, but it was always cloudy. No sun, star or moon was ever seen, yet the little men did not seem to mind it and enjoyed themselves every day. There was no end of play, and that suited Elidyr.
Yet by and by, he got tired even of games and play, and grew very homesick. He wanted to see his mother. So he asked the king to let him visit his old home. He promised solemnly to come back, after a few hours. His majesty gave his permission, but charged him not to take with him anything whatever from Fairyland, and to go with only the clothes on his back.
The same two elves who had brought him into Fairyland, were chosen to conduct him back. When they had led him again through the underground passage into the sunlight, they made him invisible until he arrived at his mother’s cottage. She was overjoyed to find that no wolf had torn him to pieces, or wild bull had pushed him over a precipice. She asked him many questions, and he told her all he had seen, felt, or known.
When he rose up to go, she begged him to stay longer, but he said he must keep his word. So he made his mother agree not to tell – not even to his father – as to where he was, or what he was doing. Then he made off and reported again to his playmates in Fairyland.
The king was so pleased at the lad’s promptness in returning, and keeping his word, and telling the truth, that he allowed him to go see his mother as often as he wanted to do so. He even gave orders releasing the two little men from constantly guarding him and told them to let the lad go alone, and whenever he liked, for he always kept his word.
Many times did Elidyr visit his mother. By one road or another, he made his way, keeping himself invisible all the time, until he got inside her cottage. One day, in telling his mother of the fun he had in Fairyland, he spoke of the heavy yellow balls, with which he and the king’s sons played, and how these rolled around.
Before leaving home, this boy had never seen gold, and did not know what it was, but his mother guessed that the yellow balls were made of the precious metal. So she begged him to bring one of them back to her.
This, Elidyr thought, would not be right, but after much argument, his parents being poor, and she telling him that out of hundreds in the king’s palace, one single ball would not be missed, he decided to please her.
One day, when he supposed no one was looking, Elidyr picked up one of the yellow balls and started off through the passageway homeward.
But no sooner was he back on the earth, and in the sunlight again, than he heard footsteps behind him. Then he knew that he had been discovered.
He glanced over his shoulder and there were the two little men, who had formerly been his guards. They scowled at him as if they were mad enough to bite off the heads of nails. Then they rushed after him, and there began a race to the cottage.
But the boy had legs twice as long as the little men, and got to the cottage door first. He now thought himself safe, but pushing open the door, he stumbled over the copper threshold, and the ball rolled out of his hand, across the floor of hardened clay, even to the nearly white-washed border, which ran about the edges of the room. It stopped at the feet of his mother, whose eyes opened wide at the sight of the ball of shining gold.
As he lay sprawling on the floor, and before he could pick himself up, one of the little men leaped over him, rushed into the room, and, from under his mother’s petticoats, picked up the ball.
They spat at the boy and shouted, ‘traitor,‘ ‘rascal,‘ ‘thief,‘ ‘false mortal,‘ ‘fox,‘ ‘rat,‘ ‘wolf,‘ and other bad names. Then they turned and sped away.
Now Elidyr, though he had been a mischievous boy, often wilful, lazy, and never liking his books, had always loved the truth. He was very sad because he had broken his word of honour. So, almost mad with grief and shame, and from an accusing conscience, he went back to find the cave in which he had slept. He would return to the king of the fairies, and ask his pardon, even if his majesty never allowed him to visit Fairyland again.
But though he often searched, and spent whole days in trying to find the opening in the hills, he could never discover it.
So, fully penitent, and resolving to live right, and become what his father wanted him to be, he went back to the monastery. There he plied his tasks so diligently that he excelled in all learning. In time, he became one of the most famous scholars in Welsh history. When he died, he asked to be buried, not in the monk’s cemetery, but with his father and mother, in the churchyard. He made request that no name, record, or epitaph, be chiselled on his tomb, but only these words:
WE CAN DO NOTHING AGAINST THE TRUTH, BUT ONLY FOR THE TRUTH.
Murdoch’s Rath
By Juliana Horatia Gatty Ewing
READING TIME: 12 MINUTES
A rath is an ancient hillfort, which looks like a grassy mound on top of a high bank. They are scattered all over Ireland and fairies are believed to live inside them.
There was not a nicer boy in all Ireland than Pat, and clever at his trade too, if only he’d had one.
But from his cradle he learnt nothing (small blame to him with no one to teach him!), so when he grew old enough to make his own decisions, he earned his living by running errands for his neighbours. Pat could always be trusted to make the best of a bad bargain, and bring back all the change, for he was the soul of honesty and good nature.
It’s no wonder then that he was beloved by everyone, and got as much work as he could do, and if the pay had but fitted the work, h
e’d have been mighty comfortable. But as it was, what he got wouldn’t have kept him in shoe leather, if it wasn’t for the fact that he made ends meet by wearing his shoes in his pocket, except when he was in the town and obliged to look genteel for the credit of the place he came from.
Well, all was going on as peacefully as could be, till one market day, when business (or it may have been pleasure) detained him till the end of the evening, and by nightfall, when he began to make the journey home, he never bethought him to leave off his shoes, but tramped on just as if shoe leather were made to be knocked to bits on the king’s highway.
And this was what he was saying:
“A dozen hanks of grey yarn for Mistress Murphy. Three gross of bright buttons for the tailor. Half an ounce of throat drops for Father Andrew, and an ounce of snuff for his housekeeper,” and so on. For these were what he went to the town to fetch, and he was afraid one of the lot might have slipped his memory.
Now everybody knows there are two ways home from the town– the highway, and the way by Murdoch’s Rath.
Murdoch’s Rath was a pleasant enough spot in the daytime, but not many cared to go by it when the sun was down. And in all the years Pat was going backwards and forwards, he never once came home except by the high road till this unlucky evening, when, just at the place where the two roads part, he got, as one may say, into a sort of confusion. How far he walked he never could tell, before all of a sudden the moon shone out as bright as day, and Pat found himself in Murdoch’s Rath. And this was the smallest part of the wonder, for the Rath was full of fairies.
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