‘Oh,’ said the old fellow, ‘once he misses her it won’t be long before he runs after his mother.’ But anyway, the old man got home and the foal never followed him. ‘I’ll need to go for the foal,’ said he to his wife.
‘Have you seen it?’ said she.
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t it strange that it didn’t follow its mother?’
‘No, it didn’t,’ said he. ‘I think it took a fancy to the white horse,’ said he: ‘it was playing with the white horse.’
‘Oh, that’s what it was,’ said she.
He set off to get the foal. But when he came to get the foal, he found himself no better off. The fellow planted himself on the road in front of him. ‘The foal is mine,’ said he. ‘The foal followed me a good way,’ said he. ‘It never followed you one step. The foal belongs to the white horse. It preferred the white horse,’ said he, ‘and now you’ve seen them with your own eyes.’
‘Oh, you poor fool,’ said the old man, ‘don’t you know that the foal is my mare’s?’
‘No,’ said he, ‘it’s the white horse’s.’
But anyway, with all that was going on, out came the man’s wife, and when she came out, ‘Oh,’ said she, ‘don’t fight, don’t fight. You’ve always been friends,’ said she, ‘living here as neighbours, as brotherly as could be. I’ve never seen you the way you are today, and if you’re going to be like that,’ said she, ‘the whole village will know of it. You’d be better to go to the magistrate and he’ll settle it for you.’
‘Oh, I’ll do that,’ said the owner of the white horse. But the magistrate heard about it [anyway]. The magistrate summoned them to appear the next day at the – in his field. There were two gates to the field, one to the north and one to the south.
‘You go to the north gate,’ said he to the owner of the mare, ‘and the other to the south gate.’
The old man went with the mare to the north gate. Though he did, the foal didn’t follow him. The fellow with the horse went to the south gate, and the foal followed the white horse. And the laird said, ‘You,’ said he, ‘are the owner of the foal: take him home.’
The fellow with the mare wasn’t at all happy. He went home miserable. He told the news to his wife. ‘What can I do now?’ said he. ‘I was looking forward to having this young animal: it would have been a great help to me. Now I’ve been cheated out of it.’
But what should happen but the laird went off next day to the other end of the parish about some business that he had to do there, and this old fellow heard that he’d left home, and he bestirred himself and set off for the laird’s house. And he was met by his young wife – the laird’s young wife. He greeted her, and she greeted him, and he sat down.
What was his news?
He told her exactly what the laird had done, how he’d given the other man the foal of his mare – that was the judgement he’d delivered about the animals.
‘And it was a poor judgement he delivered there,’ said she.
‘So what are you going to suggest to me?’ said the old man.
‘Oh, I won’t suggest anything to you,’ said she. ‘If I suggested something to you,’ said she, ‘you’d tell him about it,’ said she, ‘in a moment.’
‘I won’t,’ said he.
‘Oh yes, you will,’ said she.
He was prepared to take his oath that he wouldn’t tell. When she heard that, she said to him, ‘Tomorrow,’ said she, ‘the laird is going to fish the upper end of the loch you know well up above your house. You be sure and be by the loch before him, and wait for him there. And take a bag of salt with you on your shoulder, and don’t use any of it until you see him coming. And when you see him coming, start sowing the salt. And he will think at once,’ said she, ‘that this is a lunatic who’s moving his arms this way like a man sowing seed.’ . . .
[So the old man went to the loch and] the laird went over to him at once and asked him what he was doing there – what he was working at. And the old man told him that he was always short of salt, and he meant to sow salt there, and then he would have enough for the whole year.
The laird said to him, ‘Havers,’ said he. ‘Don’t you realise that salt will never grow there, but it will dissolve where you sow it?’
And the old man said to him, ‘Isn’t it as easy for the salt to grow here as for the foal to grow in the belly of the mother [sic: he means father] horse?’
The laird said to him at once: ‘Who taught you that and put it in your mouth?’
‘Nobody but myself.’
But he threatened the old fellow with fearful things: if he wouldn’t tell who had taught him those words, he wouldn’t go home alive. And in those days they could do anything at all, since they alone controlled everything, so that they could do whatever they pleased – might over right. But anyway the old man told him, when he put the fear of death in him, that it was his own wife who had told him.
‘That’s enough,’ said he. No rod was put out on the loch that day, but he made for home. When he got home, he ordered his wife out of the door, never to come back again, and he told her his reason. She realised then that the old fellow had told him what she had said.
‘I knew,’ said she, ‘that it would come to this, and I told you so,’ said she, ‘that the first time you got angry or upset, you’d turn me out of doors. But now,’ said she, ‘you’d better fulfil your promise to me.’
‘What promise is that?’ said the laird.
‘Three armfuls out of your house.’
‘You can take away three armfuls, and though there were three armfuls in every one you took away you could go – only go, and don’t come back.’
‘Oh,’ said she, ‘I’ll do that.’ And she went in. And the first thing she took out was the heir, the baby in the cradle. When she brought the baby out she set him down outside the door. She came back in promptly and went to the best room, and she took out the charter book, the most valuable single thing in the house, and went out with it and set it beside the cradle, and came back in. She said, ‘Are you sitting comfortably there?’
‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I’m comfortable enough.’
‘Hold tight,’ said she. She put her arms on either side of the chair he was sitting in and lifted him out of the door with a rush, and set him out beyond the cradle.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘you stay there.’
Then she picked up the cradle and put the cradle back indoors. The next thing she put in was the charter book. Then she locked the door on him.
‘Now,’ said she, ‘away you go and don’t come in here.’
‘Come on,’ said he, ‘let me in and I’ll never cross you as long as I live. You can say anything you like as far as I’m concerned if you’ll let me in.’ She let him in when he promised that.
33 Jeannie Robertson
SILLY JACK AND THE FACTOR
YE SEE, THERE WAS an old wumman, and she had a little wee craftie placie, and she’d one son, and they called him Jack – but he was really right off . . . but she idolized him jist the same, it was the company that she had, an of course he did aa the work aboot the place. But they were very very poor, very very poor; it jist took them to keep theirsels.
But the one day she was gaein awa fae hame, and she said, ‘Now, Jack,’ she says, ‘A’m gaein awa fae hame the day, but A’ll maybe be back in time before the factor gings awa – he’ll be in by here, maybe, in the efternoon some time. And hae on a big peat fire, so that the factor’ll get a good heat while he’s sittin waitin upon me, because he’ll maybe be here before I come back. And ye’ll mind and pit on a good fire.’
An he says, ‘Aye, mither, A’ll pit on a good peat fire,’ he says, ‘and A’ll hae the fire ready for the factor comin in past.’
‘Ah well,’ she says, ‘laddie, that’s whit to dae, an I winnae be awfu lang.’ But awa his mither gings onywey.
And . . . of course, she’d been awa an ’oor or twa, when in by comes the factor, lookin for his six-monthly rent, ye see? And the factor
says, ‘Your mither in, Jack?’
‘Na, na,’ he says, ‘ma mither’s awa the day. But she tellt me to tell ye, sit doon and take a rest, and ye’ll get a heat, an she maybe winnae be awfu lang. She disnae want ye tae gang awa,’ he says, ‘until she comes back, and ye’ll get yir money.’
‘Oh well,’ he says, ‘Jack, A’ll sit doon an A’ll tak a rest.’ So of course, the factor sut doon upon the chair in front o this big peat fire it wis, as it was a very cauld day, and he made he’s sel as comfortable as he possibly could. But wi the heat o this fire, the factor faas asleep.
So poor Jack, he was sittin at the ither side o the fire, tryin to mak he’s sel as comfortable as he could, till his mither would come in. And of course he’s sitting watchin the factor, an the factor fell sound asleep, wi the heat o the fire; an Jack’s sittin lookin intil his face.
So suddenly there was a great big flee lichtit on the factor’s broo, you see, his baldy broo, and Jack got fascinatit at this flee, traivellin back and forrit ootowre the factor’s baldy heid, ye see, an upon his broo. So he watched it for a good while, but bein nae very richt, God help us, he couldnae help hissel, and he says: ‘Come aff the laird’s bree, man!’ But, of course, the flee didnae come aff.
He waits for a wee whilie, he sees this flee still gan roon aboot the tap o he’s baldy heid an his baldy broo so he says: ‘Come aff the laird’s bree, mun!’
But this flee’s still sittin on his broo, and he sits for a whilie langer, and he watches it, an he’s beginnin to get a wee bittie agitated noo at this flee, so he says:
‘Come aff the laird’s bree, mun! – Oh God, ye bugger,’ he says, ‘ye winnae come aff, will ye?’ So up gets poor Jack, an he lifts the aix ’at he was the wey o hackin up aa the sticks wi, and he hits the flee, fir tae knock it aff the laird’s bree, but of course, he hut the flee richt enough, but he killed the factor! Ye see?
’Course, when his poor mither came hame, she gets the factor lyin wi his heid hammert in two wi the aix. Now she realised what her poor silly son had done, and she knew that this wis one thing ’at he wouldnae get aff wi – that it’d be the means o takin her son awa fae her, and pittin him intae some place. Well, naturally, him bein aa that she had, she was gan tae put up a fight fir to save her son.
So they had a big goat, a big billy goat, and they cried hit ‘The Factor’. That was its name.
So now, . . . he wisnae very wise, but he wisnae sae silly as she made him oot to be. So she thocht things ootowre, so as there was only one wey she could save her son, mak him look worse than what he wis, an really mak things look as if . . . he was aa muddlet richt.
So they took the factor, and they buriet him, him and her. See? But she kent that he would tell the police when they comed roon aboot questioning aboot the factor, ye see, she kent ’at he would tell the police. So she killed the billy goat, and she put hit . . . she took the factor oot of the grave that him and her buriet him intil, and she put the billy goat into the same grave – ye see? An she went awa farther, and she . . . made a new grave, an buriet the factor hersel in the new grave – ye see? – withoot Jack’s help.
So she went up the lum, and she tellt him to look up the lum, but afore she went up the lum, she made a pot o porritch an milk – ye see? So she tellt him ‘look up the lum’, and when he lookit up the lum, she teem’t doon the pot o cauld porritch and milk. An as hit was comin doon the lum, the poor fool was gobblin it up – ye see? So she tellt him it was rainin porritch and milk; and he thought it, when it was comin doon the lum.
So, whitever, anyway or another, a whilie passes, onywey, and the police was gan roon every one o the hooses, makin enquiries . . . tae everybody, did they see the factor, when they had seen him last, an what time, what ’oor.
So of course they come to Jack an his mither. So they askit her, so she tellt them whit time she saa him at. (And of course, remember, she hidit the bag wi the money!)
So whatever, anyway or another, the police question’t them upside doon and backside foremost onywey or another, but poor silly Jack says: ‘God, aye, man,’ he says, ‘I killed the factor!’ (His mither kent ’at . . . he would say that, ye see, ’at he would tell the truth).
‘Oh, you killed the factor,’ the police says. ‘An whar did ye pit him?’
‘Oh God, min,’ he says, ‘me an ma mither buriet him up here. Come on,’ he says, ‘and A’ll let ye see,’ he says, ‘whaar I buriet the factor.’ So of course the police went up wi him, for tae see whar he had buriet the factor. An his mither come up with him.
‘Ma God,’ she says, ‘would you mind that poor silly laddie,’ she says, ‘he disnae ken what he’s speakin aboot.’ She says, ‘It’s nae right,’ she says, ‘you shouldnae be questionin him, an he’ll say “aye” tae aathing,’ an she says, ‘but of course,’ she says, ‘yeze can dig up,’ she says, ‘the grave. But,’ she says, ‘yez’ll get a surprise.’
‘Noo, haud your tongue, noo, mither,’ he says. ‘I killed the factor,’ he says, ‘an me an you buriet him in here.’
‘Well, well,’ she says, ‘it’s aa richt. What nicht,’ she says, ‘wis’t – when did you kill the factor?’
‘God, mither,’ he says, ‘A mind fine,’ he says,‘it was yon day,’ he says, ‘it was rainin porritch an milk.’
‘O God bliss me,’ the policeman says, ‘this man,’ he says, ‘is far,’ he says, ‘fae bein richt,’ he says (when they heard him sayin it was rainin porritch and milk). ‘But,’ he says, ‘nevertheless, we’ll hae to dig up this grave,’ he says. ‘He insists,’ he says, ‘that he killed the factor, an we’ll hae tae dig up the grave.’
So they saw it was a new . . . dug-up grave. So of course they aa started to dig, an they dug up the grave. So they did take oot the thing that wis buriet in the grave. So when they pullt it oot, this was the billy goat, an it had horns, ye see?
So as they were pullin it oot, the poor fool lookit doon on tap o the thing that they were pullin oot of the grave – he was expectin to see the deid man, but when he saw the billy goat comin oot – he still thocht it wis the man, because he said: ‘Good God Almighty,’ he said, ‘mither, he’s growt horns an whiskers since we buriet him here last.’
So therefore the police said, ‘Oh God bliss me,’ he says. He says, ‘The poor laddie,’ he says, ‘ye hannae tae mind him.’
So therefore the case wis droppit, an the factor wis never seen or heard tell o. An the whole thing wis, that the authorities thought that the factor had skedaddlet awa wi aa the money, and . . . wisnae tae be gotten. And therefore it left poor Jack an his mither wi aa the money, an him free o the murder, an aye left tae bide wi his poor aald mither.
34 Willie McPhee
THE WANDERING PIPER
THIS IS A STORY about a wanderin piper. He jist played here an there and drunk whatever he got. He was a kind o ramblesome old soul, an he done wee jobs forbye – any kin o a wee job he could get to earn a livin wi, he wad dae it; cairried some tools wi him, did odd jobs.
An wan day he was wanderin away along the road and snow began to come down. It was very, very strong and it happened on a Hogmanay night. So he wandered along this road and the storm was gettin worse an worse, an he was gettin blowed here and blowed there. An he wis holdin his old coat roon him an his pipes an his gear an everything in this bag on his back an tryin tae keep hissel warm trodgin along the road. The snow’s comin on deeper an it’s lyin deeper along the roadside. He had boots so worn they were goin away fae the soles an his toes wis stickin oot o his boots an the snow was going between the sole o his boots an hes fit an he wis fair frostit.
An he’s trodgin along an he’s trodgin along, till all of a sudden he tumbles owre somethin lyin in the road. He sits doon aside it on his knees an he rakes his hand along the top o this thing, whitever it wis. God! here, it’s a man’s face! A man wis lyin in the snow an he wis freezin. So he raked the snow right doon off the man, right doon till he come tae his feet. When he lookit at the män’s feet, the man had new boots on, split n
ew boots – lovely boots, the best boots that ever this piper ever seen!
He says, ‘God,’ he says, ‘that’s a pair o great boots!’ he says. He says, ‘I think I’ll take them off, ’cause he’ll never use them again!’ he says. ‘Puir soul.’
So his fingers were fair freezin. He’s slackened the laces an everything an he tried tae pull the boot aff, but no! the boot wouldnae come off, because the boot was freezin tae the sock an the sock was freezin tae the man’s fit, he’d been lyin that long. So he tried the ither wan but he couldnae get it aff either. ‘Oh, I’ll have tae get these boots,’ he says, ‘I’ll have tae get these boots.’
So he pulled the man’s trousers up a bit, just up abeen the uppers, an the man’s leg was freezin. There were a case o icin roon the man’s anklers, the dead man’s anklers. He got a chisel and a haimmer oot o his wee bag an he chiselled away the ice, fae the anklers, richt roon aboot the ankler. Pit the chisel back in the bag again and got a wee hacksaw oot an he sawed the fit aff, a wee bit abeen the upper o the boot. He got the two o them aff an tied them thegither an pit them roon his neck an he’s away on the road noo.
So he forgot aboot the dead man; he never told nobody. So on he went an he was looking for a place tae sleep. An the snow’s still comin doon strong, an he’s getting blowed here an blowed there. Anyway he comes roon this corner efter he wis traivellin for aboot hauf an oor, an he sees a light. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘thank goodness, there a light,’ he says. ‘I’ll maybe get in for a shelter somewhere.’
So he comes along an this was a wee farm, a wee croft at the side o the road, some wee steadins an things. He come along an there was this winda an there was a bright light come through the winda. He keeked through the winda tae see whit he could see. An he sees an old man and wumman sittin an there was a bottle of whisky on the table an there was a great big chicken on the table. It bein Hogmanay night they were holdin their Hogmanay, ye see. An a great big roarin fire was on. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘this is lovely! I’ll get in here for the night!’
Scottish Traditional Tales Page 25
