Scottish Traditional Tales

by A. J. Bruford

  ‘Good evenin, miller.’

  ‘Good evenin, ma noble keeng,’ he said.

  ‘Did you answer my questions?’

  ‘Oh well,’ he says, ‘so far as I think,’ he says, ‘A hiv.’

  He says, ‘What weight is the moon?’

  He says, ‘The moon’ll be a hundredweight. There’s four quaarters in the moon,’ he says, ‘an there four quarters in a hundredweight.’

  He says, ‘That’s very good! Can ye tell me hoo mony stars,’ he says, ‘as shines in the heavens?’

  ‘Oh, there’ll be aboot seven million, five hundred an fifty-five, an if ye dinnae believe me ye can coont them yirsel.’

  ‘A cannae – I cannae coont them,’ . . . says the keeng. He says, ‘Ye cannae tell me,’ he says, ‘what . . . A’m thinkin on. This one’ll . . . puzzle ye,’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘A can. You think,’ he says, ‘ye’re speakin tae the auld miller, but ye’ll fin’ it’s his son-in-laa ye’re talkin to!’

  So the young fella got the auld man saved an married the girl. So that’s the end o ma story.

  30c Donald John MacKinnon

  DONALD AND THE SKULL

  THIS OLD MAN, he was walking through the wood – Red-haired Donald he was called. And what did he come across in the wood but a skull (a man’s head, you know – bone, a skull as they called it.) He kicked it with his shoe like that. ‘What,’ said he, ‘sent you here?’ and the head answered him, ‘Speaking sent me here,’ it said. The old man got a fright, but he said to himself, ‘I’ll tell it to the king, that this skull spoke to me.’ He went to the king. ‘Did I not come across this skull in the wood and it spoke . . .’

  ‘It spoke?’ said the king. ‘What did it say to you?’

  ‘I asked it, “What sent you here?” “Speaking sent me here.” ’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said the king, ‘but I’ll send two of the guards whom I have at the gate with you, to see if that head will speak to you. Now if it doesn’t speak to you,’ said he, ‘I’ll take your head off, if you’re telling me lies.’

  ‘Oh, it spoke right enough,’ said Donald, ‘so it did,’ and he went off with those riders. They went to the wood, Donald, and the men that the king sent with him. They found the head and Donald said, pointing to it with the toe of his shoe, ‘What sent you here?’ The skull said nothing. ‘What sent you here?’ Not a word. ‘Well,’ said they – they grabbed him – ‘You’ll have to go with us. We’ll have to chop your head off for telling lies.’ They brought him before the king, you know. The poor man was trembling, and ‘Why were you telling lies?’ said the king.

  ‘Oh it wasn’t lies . . .’

  ‘It was lies and we’ll have to chop your head off for telling lies. But I’ll give you another chance,’ said he. ‘I’ll put three questions to you and if you answer me you’ll get off. I’ll give you three days,’ said he, ‘to answer them. You’ll come – today’s Tuesday and you’ll come here on Friday, and I’ll give you the questions and if you don’t answer me, the noose will go over your head.’

  Donald went away trembling and he didn’t know what on earth to do. Who should be scything further up the way but Gilleasbuig Aotrom. He went up to him and said, ‘For God’s sake, Gilleasbuig, won’t you help me, in my great need, when I’ve got to answer these questions for the king on Friday and [if] I don’t know, my head is going to . . .’

  ‘Huh!’ said Gilleasbuig, ‘you let me go there,’ said he, ‘and give me your cap, your jacket, your trousers and your shoes, and all your clothes.’ Friday came, and, ‘You will come with me and hide outside there.’

  Gilleasbuig went inside, wearing Donald’s clothes, and the king – he didn’t recognise him – said, ‘Well, you’ve come. Are you ready to answer my questions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, if you don’t answer them,’ said he, ‘it’s off with your head. Right, the first question,’ said he, ‘is, how long will I take to go round the world?’

  ‘The sun takes twenty-four hours,’ he said, ‘and you couldn’t do it that fast.’

  ‘Yes, very good,’ said he. ‘That’s the first one. The second question,’ said he, ‘what am I worth?’ said the king.

  ‘O,’ he said, ‘they sold our Saviour for thirty [pieces] and I’m mighty sure you’re not worth that,’ said he.

  ‘Very good,’ said he, ‘but I’ll catch you here,’ he said. ‘What am I thinking about right now?’ said the king.

  ‘You’re thinking that this is Red-haired Donald, but you’re very far wrong; it’s Gilleasbuig Aotrom,’ said he.

  He got off in this way, and he and the old man, Donald, were going home and the self-same skull was in the wood in front of them, and the old man kicked it. ‘What sent you here, getting me into trouble?’

  ‘Speaking sent me here,’ said the skull.

  That’s how I heard it.

  31 Colin Morrison

  THE ONE-EYED MILLER AND THE DUMB ENGLISHMAN

  A SCOTSMAN AND AN Englishman once met in an inn in Edinburgh. They had a drink or two, and very likely three or four.

  Said the Englishman, ‘I’ll lay you a wager that there is a dumb man in our place who can put questions that no-one in your country is able to answer.’

  ‘We’ll make it one hundred pounds,’ said the Scotsman. ‘There is a schoolmaster in our place who can answer every question that a dumb man or anyone belonging to your place can ask.’

  ‘All right. We shall meet here a week today.’

  The Scotsman went home and went to see the schoolmaster and he told him all that had been said.

  ‘O,’ said the schoolmaster, ‘I will not go at all. I will not go at all, at all, at all. If the dumb man,’ said he, ‘was able to speak, perhaps I would try him, but I will have no idea what he is saying anyway.’

  That was that. The Scotsman was going to lose his wager in any case. But he called in on the miller. The miller was half blind: he had only one eye. He told him what had happened to him.

  ‘Och,’ said he, ‘I’ll go. There’s no point in you losing your hundred pounds without having a try at least.’

  Off they went then and the dumb man and the miller were put into a room by themselves. They sat there facing each other.

  The dumb man put up one finger and the miller looked at him. The miller put up two. The dumb man put up three. The miller closed his fist. The dumb man took an apple out of his pocket. If he did, the miller took a piece of oat bread out of his own pocket. At that the dumb man got up and left.

  ‘How did you get on?’ the Englishman asked him.

  ‘O I lost,’ said he.

  ‘How did you lose?’

  ‘This is how I lost,’ said he. ‘I put up one finger to say that there was only one God. He put up two to say that there were Father and Son. I put up three to say that there were Father and Son and the Holy Spirit. He closed his fist to say that these Three were as one. I took an apple out of my pocket,’ said he, ‘to show him that this was how sin came into the world. If I did, he took a piece of oat bread out of his own pocket to tell me that this was the bread of life. At that,’ said he, ‘I got up and left.’

  When the one-eyed miller came out to where the Scotsman was, the Scotsman asked him how he had got on.

  ‘He got up and left anyway,’ said he. ‘I think I won.’

  ‘How?’ said he.

  ‘He put up one finger,’ said he, ‘to say that I had only one eye. If he did, I put up two, to say that he had two. He put up three to say that we had three between us. I closed my fist,’ said he, ‘to give it to him for making a fool of me. He took an apple out of his pocket to tell me,’ said he, ‘what grew in their country. If he did,’ said he, ‘I took a piece of oat bread out of my own pocket to show what we lived on. At that,’ said he, ‘he got up and left and it was as well for him that he did.’

  32 Peter Stewart

  THE POOR MAN’S CLEVER DAUGHTER

  THERE WAS ONCE a crofter somewhere in the Hi
ghlands who had a large family. It happened that he was short of meat and he set off for the hills, determined that his children should have some meat that night at any rate, and he killed a deer – it was a young deer. As always happens, there was a black sheep in the fold: there was a man living at the far end of the village who had a grudge against him, and he had seen him kill the deer, and he saw him take out the entrails and bury them in a hole. The poor man took home the deer, and the children had meat with their meal that night.

  But that other man set off and went to the laird’s house, and it so happened that this laird was a magistrate – the only magistrate in the district. He told him precisely what the poor man had done, how he had killed a deer belonging to him – he’d seen it with his own eyes, and he could lead him to the place where he’d buried the entrails. And the laird got into a rage, and sent word immediately to the poor man to come and see him at his own house: and the poor man came to see him the next day, as soon as he could. He spoke very roughly to the man when he got there, and told him that for certain his house would be pulled down about his ears, and he and his children would be out on the street. The poor old man was not very happy to hear that.

  He [the laird] told him how he had done him wrong, shooting and killing one of his animals and taking it home on his back and eating it. ‘But I’ll give you this chance,’ said he. ‘If you can answer me three questions – I’ll give you three days to work them out – I’ll let you off,’ said he, ‘so long as you never do it again as long as you live.’

  ‘And what are the questions?’ said the man.

  He told him that – the questions. ‘You must tell me,’ said he, ‘when the three days are up, what’s the only thing,’ said he, ‘that will never miss what you take out of it – it will never notice the loss. Though you were working at it for years, it would never miss it. Next,’ said he, ‘what is the most worthless thing on earth – something totally useless? And the next thing,’ said he, ‘tell me what it is that goes on four feet, on two and on three?’

  The man almost went out of his wits – at least, he could hardly find his way home with the turmoil his mind was in. He got home and he would not raise his eyes from the ground. His wife asked him what was wrong, and he wasn’t able to answer her. She told him to come to the table for his supper, but he paid no attention to her. Then she went ben to the room and told everything to her young daughter who was there, with her hair cut short above the ears and her face covered with freckles – the state her father was in, that she thought he was half out of his mind.

  ‘You go to him,’ said she, ‘and see if you can get him to come to the table and have something to eat.’

  The girl went through to him. ‘Father,’ said she, ‘what’s the matter with you tonight? You didn’t use to be like this.’

  Oh, he wouldn’t answer her.

  ‘Well,’ said she, ‘I saw you this morning, and I was talking to you. It’s a good while,’ said she, ‘since I’ve seen you in such good spirits as you were today. What’s gone wrong? You’re not ill anyway.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve good reason,’ said her father. ‘Am I not, my darling,’ said he, ‘to be turned out of doors and the house set on fire?’

  ‘Why is that?’ said his daughter.

  ‘There’s a man in the village,’ said he, ‘who had a grudge against me, and he went and reported,’ said he, ‘what I did there three days ago, when I killed a deer. He saw that, sure enough,’ said he, ‘and he told the laird.’ . . .

  ‘I see,’ said she. ‘You had better come through for your meal,’ said she, ‘and,’ said she, ‘I’ll settle this business for you.’

  ‘Will you, darling?’ said he.

  ‘I will,’ said she. ‘It’s easy enough to work out these things.’

  ‘Oh well, darling,’ said he, ‘it’s not easy for me anyway.’

  But he went with the girl through to the table, and she sat down facing him, on the other side of the table. And –

  ‘Well, the first question he set for you, father,’ said she, ‘was what never noticed any decrease. That is the mighty ocean: the ocean never feels a loss. When the tide goes out,’ said she, ‘it’s bound to come in again as it always has. The ocean never misses anything.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say you’re wrong,’ said the old man.

  ‘And the next one,’ said she: ‘however valuable the thing you put in the fire, even if you put in millions of pounds’ worth,’ said she, ‘set a light to it, and when it goes up in flames you’re left with nothing but ashes – it’s no use any more.’

  ‘Nor it is!’

  ‘And the next one,’ said she, ‘that’s something you have experienced yourself. I haven’t seen you, but you have seen me,’ said she, ‘going on all fours, when I couldn’t walk. But when I once got up,’ said she, ‘when I got up on my own two feet,’ said she, ‘it wasn’t easy to get me to sit down – I never wanted to sit. But,’ said she, ‘when you or I get old, when one of our legs is beginning to fail, we try to help it – we get a stick.’

  So now there’s how the man set off and repeated it word for word to the . . . magistrate the next day.

  ‘Who put all that into your head?’ said he.

  ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘nobody put that into my head,’ said he, ‘but I thought that that was the right thing to say.’

  ‘Don’t you tell me that,’ said the magistrate. ‘Somebody put that . . . that never came into your head by itself.’ He put the fear of death into the old man.

  ‘Well,’ said the old man, ‘it was my own daughter who told me – who said over those words to me.’

  ‘Your own daughter?’ said he.

  ‘That’s right,’ said he. ‘It was my own daughter who told me that.’

  ‘Will you take me to her,’ said he, ‘so that I can see her?’

  ‘Yes,’ said he.

  The two of them set off together.

  ‘Is this your father?’ said he to the girl.

  ‘That’s what my mother said,’ said she, ‘and she should know best.’

  ‘I expect you’re right,’ said he. ‘Then what induced you to teach your father answers I wanted him to work out for himself, but it was you who answered for him? I never spoke to you at all.’

  ‘And what induced an intelligent man like you,’ said she, ‘with an education . . .? My father never got any education, but you did, and my father couldn’t answer. And unless you got an answer, the house would have been in flames about our ears, and I’d have been out on the street with my father. So I did my best to help my father, just as any daughter or son would have done.’

  ‘Well,’ said he at last, ‘if you were just a laird’s daughter, I’d marry you.’

  ‘But,’ said she, ‘I’m not a laird’s daughter, I’m a poor man’s daughter.’

  ‘Since I can’t do anything better for you,’ said he, ‘I’ll give you a little present.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘I’ve got a little estate,’ said he, ‘not as big as this one, and you shall have it.’

  ‘Well,’ said she, ‘thank you very much, but I won’t accept it: I can’t make good use of it. But I’d be much obliged to you if you would give what you were offering me – if you gave it to my father.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said he, ‘your father can have it, in your name.’

  She was delighted with this. ‘Can I have that in writing?’ said she.

  ‘Oh, you can have that too,’ said he, ‘and welcome.’ He had the gift recorded in writing.

  She put it in her bosom: ‘Now,’ said she, ‘I’m a laird’s daughter now.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said he, ‘you are that.’

  ‘Will you marry me now?’

  ‘By all means,’ said he. ‘You’re a laird’s daughter now.’

  ‘Ah, but,’ said she, ‘even if I marry you, the first thing that comes to your notice, you’re so short-tempered that you’ll turn me out of doors.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that,’ said he.
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  ‘Oh, you would,’ said she. ‘I wouldn’t depend on it – I think you would. You’re hasty-tempered and impatient: you might do that to me, and I would end up worse off than I started. But,’ said she, ‘if it turns out that you throw me out because we’ve quarrelled, will you grant me my request?’

  ‘What’s your request?’ said he.

  ‘To take three armfuls out of the castle,’ said she.

  ‘You can have that,’ said he, ‘even if you take away three armfuls in each one.’

  They got married, and amongst other things they got the very thing they wanted, an heir – for this magistrate’s title went back for maybe five or six generations, and now the last of the line was going to have an heir. There he was anyway: he was born there and he would be the heir. But anyway, he was quite delighted with his heir.

  But what should happen but – as might happen anywhere in those days – two of the neighbours there used to club together, and their horses were harnessed together for ploughing. One of them had a mare, and she was in foal. And the other man had a white horse, and they were ploughing together. When the ploughing was over they were turned out on the hill. They weren’t needed again till it was time to bring in the corn. But now when the hay and the barley and oats and the rye had been cut, they went to look for the horses. When they found the horses, there wasn’t one [sic] of them, but three. There was the white horse, and a foal with him, playing together; but the mother was over there with her head down, grazing, and oh, this old fellow was overjoyed when he caught sight of the foal and saw what had happened.

  ‘That’s a fine foal all right,’ said the owner of the white horse.

  ‘Oh it is, indeed,’ said the old fellow, ‘and I badly need it: the mare’s just about done anyway; many’s the day she’s worked for me.’

  He put a halter on her, and when he went off with her the other man put a halter on the white horse. But when he led it away the foal followed it. There was no sign of the foal coming to follow its mother.