Habetrot and Scantlie Mab
A woman had one fair daughter, who loved play better than work, wandering in the meadows and lanes better than the spinning-wheel and distaff. The mother was heartily vexed at this, for in those days no lassie had any chance of a good husband unless she was an industrious spinster. So she coaxed, threatened, even beat her daughter, but all to no purpose; the girl remained what her mother called her, “an idle cuttie.”
At last, one spring morning, the gudewife gave her seven heads of lint, saying she would take no excuse; they must be returned in three days spun into yarn. The girl saw her mother was in earnest, so she plied her distaff as well as she could; but her hands were all untaught, and by the evening of the second day only a very small part of her task was done. She cried herself to sleep that night, and in the morning, throwing aside her work in despair, she strolled out into the fields, all sparkling with dew. At last she reached a knoll, at whose feet ran a little burn, shaded with woodbine and wild roses; and there she sat down, burying her face in her hands. When she looked up, she was surprised to see by the margin of the stream an old woman, quite unknown to her, drawing out the thread as she basked in the sun. There was nothing very remarkable in her appearance, except the length and thickness of her lips, only she was seated on a self-bored stone. The girl rose, went to the good dame, and gave her a friendly greeting, but could not help inquiring “What makes you so long lipped?”
“Spinning thread, my hinnie,” said the old woman, pleased with her. “I wet my fingers with my lips, as I draw the thread from the distaff.”
“Ah!” said the girl, “I should be spinning too, but it’s all to no purpose. I shall ne’er do my task:” on which the old woman proposed to do it for her. Overjoyed, the maiden ran to fetch her lint, and placed it in her new friend’s hand, asking where she should call for the yarn in the evening; but she received no reply; the old woman passed away from her among the trees and bushes. The girl, much bewildered, wandered about a little, sat down to rest, and finally fell asleep by the little knoll.
When she awoke she was surprised to find that it was evening. Causleen, the evening star, was beaming with silvery light, soon to be lost in the moon’s splendour. While watching these changes, the maiden was startled by the sound of an uncouth voice, which seemed to issue from below the self-bored stone, close beside her. She laid her ear to the stone and heard the words: “Hurry up, Scantlie Mab, for I’ve promised the yarn and Habetrot always keeps her promise.” Then looking down the hole saw her friend, the old dame, walking backwards and forwards in a deep cavern among a group of spinsters all seated on colludie stones, and busy with distaff and spindle. An ugly company they were, with lips more or less disfigured, like old Habetrot’s. Another of the sisterhood, who sat in a distant corner reeling the yarn, was marked, in addition, by grey eyes, which seemed starting from her head, and a long hooked nose.
While the girl was still watching, she heard Habetrot address this dame by the name of Scantlie Mab, and say, “Bundle up the yarn, it is time the young lassie should give it to her mother.” Delighted to hear this, the girl got up and returned homewards. Habetrot soon overtook her, and placed the yarn in her hands. “Oh, what can I do for ye in return?” exclaimed she, in delight. “Nothing—nothing,” replied the dame; “but dinna tell your mother who spun the yarn.”
Scarcely believing her eyes, the girl went home, where she found her mother had been busy making sausters, and hanging them up in the chimney to dry, and then, tired out, had retired to rest. Finding herself very hungry after her long day on the knoll, the girl took down pudding after pudding, fried and ate them, and at last went to bed too. The mother was up first the next morning, and when she came into the kitchen and found her sausters all gone, and the seven hanks of yarn lying beautifully smooth and bright upon the table, she ran out of the house wildly, crying out—
“My daughter’s spun seven, seven, seven,
My daughter’s eaten seven, seven, seven,
And all before daylight.”
A laird who chanced to be riding by, heard the exclamation, but could not understand it; so he rode up and asked the gudewife what was the matter, on which she broke out again—
“My daughter’s spun seven, seven, seven,
My daughter’s eaten seven, seven, seven
before daylight; and if ye dinna believe me, why come in and see it.” The laird, he alighted and went into the cottage, where he saw the yarn, and admired it so much he begged to see the spinner.
The mother dragged in her girl. He vowed he was lonely without a wife, and had long been in search of one who was a good spinner. So their troth was plighted, and the wedding took place soon afterwards, though the bride was in great fear that she should not prove so clever at her spinning-wheel as he expected. But old Dame Habetrot came to her aid. “Bring your bonny bridegroom to my cell,” said she to the young bride soon after her marriage; “he shall see what comes o’ spinning, and never will he tie you to the spinning-wheel.”
Accordingly the bride led her husband the next day to the flowery knoll, and bade him look through the self-bored stone. Great was his surprise to behold Habetrot dancing and jumping over her rock, singing all the time this ditty to her sisterhood, while they kept time with their spindles:—
“We who live in dreary den,
Are both rank and foul to see?
Hidden from the glorious sun,
That teems the fair earth’s canopie:
Ever must our evenings lone
Be spent on the colludie stone.
“Cheerless is the evening grey
When Causleen hath died away,
But ever bright and ever fair
Are they who breathe this evening air,
And lean upon the self-bored stone
Unseen by all but me alone.”
The song ended, Scantlie Mab asked Habetrot what she meant by the last line, “Unseen by all but we alone.”
“There is one,” replied Habetrot, “whom I bid to come here at this hour, and he has heard my song through the self-bored stone.” So saying she rose, opened another door, which was concealed by the roots of an old tree, and invited the pair to come in and see her family.
The laird was astonished at the weird-looking company, as he well might be, and inquired of one after another the cause of their strange lips. In a different tone of voice, and with a different twist of the mouth, each answered that it was occasioned by spinning. At least they tried to say so, but one grunted out “Nakasind,” and another “Owkasaand,” while a third murmured “O-a-a-send.” All, however, made the bridegroom understand what was the cause of their ugliness; while Habetrot slily hinted that if his wife were allowed to spin, her pretty lips would grow out of shape too, and her pretty face get an ugsome look. So before he left the cave he vowed that his little wife should never touch a spinning-wheel, and he kept his word. She used to wander in the meadows by his side, or ride behind him over the hills, but all the flax grown on his land was sent to old Habetrot to be converted into yarn.
Old Mother Wiggle-Waggle
The fox and his wife they had a great strife,
They never ate mustard in all their whole life;
They ate their meat without fork or knife
And loved to be picking a bone, e-ho!
The fox went out, one still, clear night,
And he prayed the moon to give him light,
For he’d a long way to travel that night,
Before he got back to his den-o!
The fox when he came to yonder stile,
He lifted his lugs and he listened a while!
“Oh, ho!” said the fox, “it’s but a short mile
From this unto yonder wee town, e-ho!”
And first he arrived at a farmer’s yard,
Where the ducks and the geese declared it was hard,
That their nerves should be shaken and their rest should be marred
By the visits of Mister Fox-o!
The fox when he came to the farmer’s gate,
Who should he see but the farmer’s drake;
“I love you well for your master’s sake,
And long to be picking your bones, e-ho!”
The grey goose she ran round the hay-stack,
“Oh, ho!” said the fox, “you are very fat;
You’ll grease my beard and ride on my back
From this into yonder wee town, e-ho!”
Then he took the grey goose by her sleeve,
And said: “Madam Grey Goose, by your leave
I’ll take you away without reprieve,
And carry you back to my den-o!”
And he seized the black duck by the neck,
And slung him all across his back,
The black duck cried out “quack, quack, quack,”
With his legs all dangling down-o!
Old Mother Wiggle-Waggle hopped out of bed,
Out of the window she popped her old head;
“Oh! husband, oh! husband, the grey goose is gone,
And the fox is off to his den, oh!”
Then the old man got up in his red cap,
And swore he would catch the fox in a trap;
But the fox was too cunning, and gave him the slip,
And ran through the town, the town, oh!
When he got to the top of the hill,
He blew his trumpet both loud and shrill,
For joy that he was safe and sound
Through the town, oh!
But at last he arrived at his home again,
To his dear little foxes, eight, nine, ten,
Says he “You’re in luck, here’s a fine fat duck
With his legs all dangling down-o!”
So he sat down together with his hungry wife,
And they did very well without fork or knife,
They never ate a better duck in all their life,
And the little ones picked the bones-o!
Catskin
Well, there was once a gentleman who had fine lands and houses, and he very much wanted to have a son to be heir to them. So when his wife brought him a daughter, bonny as bonny could be, he cared nought for her, and said, “Let me never see her face.”
So she grew up a bonny girl, though her father never set eyes on her till she was fifteen years old and was ready to be married. But her father said, “Let her marry the first that comes for her.” And when this was known, who should be first but a nasty rough old man. So she didn’t know what to do, and went to the henwife and asked her advice. The henwife said, “Say you will not take him unless they give you a coat of silver cloth.” Well, they gave her a coat of silver cloth, but she wouldn’t take him for all that, but went again to the henwife, who said, “Say you will not take him unless they give you a coat of beaten gold.” Well, they gave her a coat of beaten gold, but still she would not take him, but went to the henwife, who said, “Say you will not take him unless they give you a coat made of the feathers of all the birds of the air.” So they sent a man with a great heap of pease; and the man cried to all the birds of the air, “Each bird take a pea, and put down a feather.” So each bird took a pea and put down one of its feathers: and they took all the feathers and made a coat of them and gave it to her; but still she would not, but asked the henwife once again, who said, “Say they must first make you a coat of catskin.” So they made her a coat of catskin; and she put it on, and tied up her other coats, and ran away into the woods.
So she went along and went along and went along, till she came to the end of the wood, and saw a fine castle. So there she hid her fine dresses, and went up to the castle gates, and asked for work. The lady of the castle saw her, and told her, “I’m sorry I have no better place, but if you like you may be our scullion.” So down she went into the kitchen, and they called her Catskin, because of her dress. But the cook was very cruel to her and led her a sad life.
Well, it happened soon after that the young lord of the castle was coming home, and there was to be a grand ball in honour of the occasion. And when they were speaking about it among the servants, “Dear me, Mrs. Cook,” said Catskin, “how much I should like to go.”
“What! you dirty impudent slut,” said the cook, “you go among all the fine lords and ladies with your filthy catskin? a fine figure you’d cut!” and with that she took a basin of water and dashed it into Catskin’s face. But she only briskly shook her ears, and said nothing.
When the day of the ball arrived, Catskin slipped out of the house and went to the edge of the forest where she had hidden her dresses. So she bathed herself in a crystal waterfall, and then put on her coat of silver cloth, and hastened away to the ball. As soon as she entered all were overcome by her beauty and grace, while the young lord at once lost his heart to her. He asked her to be his partner for the first dance, and he would dance with none other the live-long night.
When it came to parting time, the young lord said, “Pray tell me, fair maid, where you live.” But Catskin curtsied and said:
“Kind sir, if the truth I must tell,
At the sign of the ’Basin of Water’ I dwell.”
Then she flew from the castle and donned her catskin robe again, and slipped into the scullery again, unbeknown to the cook.
The young lord went the very next day to his mother, the lady of the castle, and declared he would wed none other but the lady of the silver dress, and would never rest till he had found her. So another ball was soon arranged for in hope that the beautiful maid would appear again. So Catskin said to the cook, “Oh, how I should like to go!” Whereupon the cook screamed out in a rage, “What, you, you dirty impudent slut! you would cut a fine figure among all the fine lords and ladies.” And with that she up with a ladle and broke it across Catskin’s back. But she only shook her ears, and ran off to the forest, where she first of all bathed, and then put on her coat of beaten gold, and off she went to the ball-room.