by W. B. Yeats
At last she came to a nice wooden house just at sunset. There was a fine garden round it, full of the handsomest flowers, and a gate in the hedge. She went in, and saw a table laid out with twelve plates, and twelve knives and forks, and twelve spoons, and there were cakes, and cold wild fowl, and fruit along with the plates, and there was a good fire, and in another long room there were twelve beds. Well, while she was looking about her she heard the gate opening, and footsteps along the walk, and in came twelve young men, and there was great grief on all their faces when they laid eyes on her.
“Oh, what misfortune sent you here?” said the eldest. “For the sake of a girl we were obliged to leave our father’s court, and be in the shape of wild geese all day. That’s twelve years ago, and we took a solemn oath that we would kill the first young girl that came into our hands. It’s a pity to put such an innocent and handsome girl as you are out of the world, but we must keep our oath.”
“But,” said she, “I’m your only sister, that never knew anything about this till yesterday; and I stole away from our father’s and mother’s palace last night to find you out and relieve you if I can.”
Every one of them clasped his hands and looked down on the floor, and you could hear a pin fall till the eldest cried out, “A curse light on our oath! what shall we do?”
“I’ll tell you that,” said an old woman that appeared at the instant among them. “Break your wicked oath, which no one should keep. If you attempted to lay an uncivil finger on her I’d change you into twelve booliaun buis (stalks of ragweed), but I wish well to you as well as to her. She is appointed to be your deliverer in this way.
“She must spin and knit twelve shirts for you out of bog-down, to be gathered by her own hands on the moor just outside of the wood. It will take her five years to do it, and if she once speaks, or laughs, or cries the whole time, you will have to remain wild geese by day till you’re called out of the world. So take care of your sister; it is worth your while.”
The fairy then vanished, and it was only strife with the brothers to see who would be first to kiss and hug their sister.
So for three long years the poor young princess was occupied pulling bog-down, spinning it, and knitting it into shirts, and at the end of the three years she had eight made. During all that time, she never spoke a word, nor laughed, nor cried: the last was the hardest to refrain from.
One fine day she was sitting in the garden spinning, when in sprung a fine greyhound and bounded up to her, and laid his paws on her shoulder, and licked her forehead and her hair. The next minute a beautiful young prince rode up to the little garden gate, took off his hat, and asked for leave to come in. She gave him a little nod, and in he walked.
He made ever so many apologies for intruding, and asked her ever so many questions, but not a word could he get out of her. He loved her so much from the first moment that he could not leave her till he told her he was king of a country just bordering on the forest, and he begged her to come home with him, and be his wife.
She couldn’t help loving him as much as he did her, and though she shook her head very often, and was very sorry to leave her brothers, at last she nodded her head, and put her hand in his. She knew well enough that the good fairy and her brothers would be able to find her out. Before she went she brought out a basket holding all her bog-down, and another holding the eight shirts. The attendants took charge of these, and the prince placed her before him on his horse.
The only thing that disturbed him while riding along was the displeasure his stepmother would feel at what he had done. However, he was full master at home, and as soon as he arrived he sent for the bishop, got his bride nicely dressed and the marriage was celebrated, the bride answering by signs. He knew by her manners she was of high birth, and no two could be fonder of each other.
The wicked stepmother did all she could to make mischief, saying she was sure she was only a woodman’s daughter; but nothing could disturb the young king’s opinion of his wife.
In good time the young queen was delivered of a beautiful boy, and the king was so glad he hardly knew what to do for joy. All the grandeur of the christening and the happiness of the parents tormented the bad woman more than I can tell you, and she determined to put a stop to all their comfort.
She got a sleeping posset given to the young mother, and while she was thinking and thinking how she could best make away with the child, she saw a wicked-looking wolf in the garden, looking up at her, and licking his chops. She lost no time, but snatched the child from the arms of the sleeping woman, and pitched it out. The beast caught it in his mouth, and was over the garden fence in a minute.
The wicked woman then pricked her own fingers, and dabbed the blood round the mouth of the sleeping mother.
Well, the young king was just then coming into the big courtyard from hunting, and as soon as he entered the house, she beckoned to him, shed a few crocodile tears, began to cry and wring her hands, and hurried him along the passage to the bedchamber.
Oh, wasn’t the poor king frightened when he saw the queen’s mouth bloody, and missed his child? It would take two hours to tell you the devilment of the old queen, the confusion and fright, and grief of the young king and queen, the bad opinion he began to feel of his wife, and the struggle she had to keep down her bitter sorrow, and not give way to it by speaking or lamenting.
The young king would not allow anyone to be called, and ordered his stepmother to give out that the child fell from the mother’s arms at the window, and that a wild beast ran off with it. The wicked woman pretended to do so, but she told underhand to everybody she spoke to what the king and herself saw in the bedchamber.
The young queen was the most unhappy woman in the three kingdoms for a long time, between sorrow for her child and her husband’s bad opinion; still she neither spoke nor cried, and she gathered bog-down and went on with the shirts.
Often the twelve wild geese would be seen lighting on the trees in the park or on the smooth sod, and looking in at her windows. So she worked on to get the shirts finished, but another year was at an end, and she had the twelfth shirt finished except one arm, when she was obliged to take to her bed, and a beautiful girl was born.
Now the king was on his guard, and he would not let the mother and child be left alone for a minute; but the wicked woman bribed some of the attendants, set others asleep, gave the sleepy posset to the queen, and had a person watching to snatch the child away, and kill it.
But what should she see but the same wolf in the garden looking up, and licking his chops again? Out went the child, and away with it flew the wolf, and she smeared the sleeping mother’s mouth and face with blood, and then roared, and bawled, and cried out to the king and to everybody she met, and the room was filled, and everyone was sure the young queen had just devoured her own babe.
The poor mother thought now her life would leave her. She was in such a state she could neither think nor pray, but she sat like a stone, and worked away at the arm of the twelfth shirt.
The king was for taking her to the house in the wood where he found her but the stepmother, and the lords of the court, and the judges would not hear of it, and she was condemned to be burned in the big courtyard at three o’clock the same day. When the hour drew near, the king went to the farthest part of his palace, and there was no more unhappy man in his kingdom at that hour.
When the executioners came and led her off, she took the pile of shirts in her arms. There was still a few stitches wanted, and while they were tying her to the stake she still worked on. At the last stitch she seemed overcome and dropped a tear on her work, but the moment after she sprang up, and shouted out, “I am innocent; call my husband!”
The executioners stayed their hands, except one wicked-disposed creature, who set fire to the faggot next him, and while all were struck in amaze, there was a rushing of wings, and in a moment the twelve wild geese were standing around the pile. Before you could count twelve, she flung a shirt over each bird, and there
in the twinkling of an eye were twelve of the finest young men that could be collected out of a thousand. While some were untying their sister, the eldest, taking a strong stake in his hand, struck the busy executioner such a blow that he never needed another.
While they were comforting the young queen, and the king was hurrying to the spot, a fine-looking woman appeared among them holding the babe on one arm and the little prince by the hand.
There was nothing but crying for joy, and laughing for joy, and hugging and kissing, and when any one had time to thank the good fairy, who in the shape of a wolf, carried the child away, she was not to be found. Never was such happiness enjoyed in any palace that ever was built, and if the wicked queen and her helpers were not torn by wild horses, they richly deserved it.
There was once a poor widow woman, who had a daughter that was as handsome as the day, and as lazy as a pig, saving your presence. The poor mother was the most industrious person in the townland, and was a particularly good hand at the spinning-wheel. It was the wish of her heart that her daughter should be as handy as herself; but she’d get up late, eat her breakfast before she’d finished her prayers, and then go about dawdling, and anything she handled seemed to be burning her fingers. She drawled her words as if it was a great trouble to her to speak, or as if her tongue was as lazy as her body. Many a heart-scald her poor mother got with her, and still she was only improving like dead fowl in August.
Well, one morning that things were as bad as they could be, and the poor woman was giving tongue at the rate of a mill-clapper, who should be riding by but the king’s son.
“Oh dear, oh dear, good woman!” said he, “you must have a very bad child to make you scold so terribly. Sure it can’t be this handsome girl that vexed you!”
“Oh, please your Majesty, not at all,” says the old dissembler. “I was only checking her for working herself too much. Would your Majesty believe it? She spins three pounds of flax in a day, weaves it into linen the next, and makes it all into shirts the day after.”
“My gracious,” says the prince, “she’s the very lady that will just fill my mother’s eye, and herself’s the greatest spinner in the kingdom. Will you put on your daughter’s bonnet and cloak, if you please, ma’am, and set her behind me? Why, my mother will be so delighted with her, that perhaps she’ll make her her daughter-in-law in a week, that is, if the young woman herself is agreeable.”
Well, between the confusion, and the joy, and the fear of being found out, the women didn’t know what to do; and before they could make up their minds, young Anty (Anastasia) was set behind the prince, and away he and his attendants went, and a good heavy purse was left behind with the mother. She pullillued a long time after all was gone, in dread of something bad happening to the poor girl.
The prince couldn’t judge of the girl’s breeding or wit from the few answers he pulled out of her. The queen was struck in a heap when she saw a young country girl sitting behind her son, but when she saw her handsome face, and heard all she could do, she didn’t think she could make too much of her. The prince took an opportunity of whispering to her that if she didn’t object to be his wife she must strive to please his mother.
Well, the evening went by, and the prince and Anty were getting fonder and fonder of one another, but the thought of the spinning used to send the cold to her heart every moment. When bedtime came, the old queen went along with her to a beautiful bedroom, and when she was bidding her good night, she pointed to a heap of fine flax, and said:
“You may begin as soon as you like tomorrow morning, and I’ll expect to see these three pounds in nice thread the morning after.”
Little did the poor girl sleep that night. She kept crying and lamenting that she didn’t mind her mother’s advice better. When she was left alone next morning, she began with a heavy heart; and though she had a nice mahogany wheel and the finest flax you ever saw, the thread was breaking every moment. One while it was as fine as a cobweb, and the next as coarse as a little boy’s whipcord. At last she pushed her chair back, let her hands fall in her lap, and burst out a-crying.
A small, old woman with surprising big feet appeared before her at the same moment, and said, “What ails you, you handsome colleen?”
“An’ haven’t I all that flax to spin before tomorrow morning, and I’ll never be able to have even five yards of fine thread of it put together.”
“An’ would you think bad to ask poor Colliagh Cushmōr (Old woman Big-foot) to your wedding with the young prince? If you promise me that, all your three pounds will be made into the finest of thread while you’re taking your sleep tonight.”
“Indeed, you must be there and welcome, and I’ll honour you all the days of your life.”
“Very well; stay in your room till tea-time, and tell the queen she may come in for her thread as early as she likes tomorrow morning.”
It was all as she said; and the thread was finer and evener than the gut you see with fly-fishers.
“My brave girl you were!” says the queen. “I’ll get my own mahogany loom brought into you, but you needn’t do anything more today. Work and rest, work and rest, is my motto. Tomorrow you’ll weave all this thread, and who knows what may happen?”
The poor girl was more frightened this time than the last, and she was so afraid to lose the prince. She didn’t even know how to put the warp in the gears, nor how to use the shuttle, and she was sitting in the greatest grief, when a little woman, who was mighty well-shouldered about the hips, all at once appeared to her, told her her name was Colliach Cromanmōr, and made the same bargain with her as Colliach Cushmōr.
Great was the queen’s pleasure when she found early in the morning a web as fine and white as the finest paper you ever saw.
“The darling you were!” says she. “Take your ease with the ladies and gentlemen today, and if you have all this made into nice shirts tomorrow you may present one of them to my son, and be married to him out of hand.”
Oh, wouldn’t you pity poor Anty the next day, she was now so near the prince, and, maybe, would be soon so far from him. But she waited as patiently as she could with scissors, needle, and thread in hand, till a minute after noon. Then she was rejoiced to see the third woman appear. She had a big red nose, and informed Anty that people called her Shron Mor Rua on that account. She was up to her as good as the others, for a dozen fine shirts were lying on the table when the queen paid her an early visit.
Now there was nothing talked of but the wedding, and I needn’t tell you it was grand. The poor mother was there along with the rest, and at the dinner the old queen could talk of nothing but the lovely shirts, and how happy herself and the bride would be after the honeymoon, spinning, and weaving, and sewing shirts and shirts without end. The bridegroom didn’t like the discourse, and the bride liked it less, and he was going to say something, when the footman came up to the head of the table and said to the bride:
“Your ladyship’s aunt, Colliach Cuchmōr, bade me ask might she come in.” The bride blushed and wished she was seven miles under the floor, but well became the prince.
“Tell Mrs Cushmōr,” said he, “that any relation of my bride’s will be always heartily welcome wherever she and I are.”
In came the woman with the big foot, and got a seat near the prince. The old queen didn’t like it much, and after a few words she asked rather spitefully:
“Dear ma’am, what’s the reason your foot is so big?”
“Musha, faith, your Majesty, I was standing almost all my life at the spinning-wheel, and that’s the reason.”
“I declare to you, my darling,” said the prince, “I’ll never allow you to spend one hour at the same spinning-wheel.”
The same footman said again, “Your ladyship’s aunt, Colliach Cromanmōr, wishes to come in, if the genteels and yourself have no objection.” Very sharoose (displeased) was Princess Anty, but the prince sent her welcome, and she took her seat, and drank healths apiece to the company.
“May I ask,
ma’am?” says the old queen, “why you’re so wide half-way between the head and the feet?”
“That, your Majesty, is owing to sitting all my life at the loom.”
“By my sceptre,” says the prince, “my wife shall never sit there an hour.”
The footman again came up. “Your ladyship’s aunt, Colliach Shron Mor Rua, is asking leave to come into the banquet.” More blushing on the bride’s face, but the bridegroom spoke out cordially.
“Tell Mrs Shron Mor Rua she’s doing us an honour.”
In came the old woman, and great respect she got near the top of the table, but the people down low put up their tumblers and glasses to their noses to hide the grins.
“Ma’am,” says the old queen, “will you tell us, if you please, why your nose is so big and red?”
“Throth, your Majesty, my head was bent down over the stitching all my life, and all the blood in my body ran into my nose.”
“My darling,” said the prince to Anty, “if ever I see a needle in your hand, I’ll run a hundred miles from you.”
“And in troth, girls and boys, though it’s a diverting story, I don’t think the moral is good; and if any of you thuckeens go about imitating Anty in her laziness, you’ll find it won’t thrive with you as it did with her. She was beautiful beyond compare, which none of you are, and she had three powerful fairies to help her besides. There’s no fairies now, and no prince or lord to ride by, and catch you idling or working; and maybe, after all, the prince and herself were not so very happy when the cares of the world or old age came on them.”
Thus was the tale ended by poor old Shebale (Sybilla), Father Murphy’s housekeeper, in Coolbawn, Barony of Bantry, about half a century since.
