12
The Green Mist
Reprinted from M. C. Balfour, “Legends of the Lincolnshire Cars,” Folk-Lore, II (1891), pp. 259–64, as told by an old man from Lindsey. Mrs. Balfour comments on the Lincolnshire people: “I may say, in spite of their receptiveness towards things marvellous, that they were otherwise practical and somewhat unimaginative, and accepted the tales they had heard from their fathers with respect, indeed, but were content not to ask themselves for absolute belief.”
This is Type 1187, Meleager, with an unusual variation from the original form in which the hero lives as long as the brand burning on the hearth lasts; here, the heroine may live until the cowslip withers. Important motifs are E765, “Life bound up with external object or event,” and E765.3.4, “Girl lives until her cowslip is pulled.” The tale is sparsely distributed in northern Europe. Baughman cites English variants from Wales and Perthshire, and American ones from New York and New Jersey.
“Mools” is soil; “spud,” turf; “yarth,” earth; “thruff,” through; “cromm’le,” crumble; “fither,” whether; “quare,” queer.
SO THOU’ST heerd tell o’ th’ boggarts an’ all the horrid things o’ th’ au’d toimes? Ay, they wor mischancy, onpleasant sort o’ bodies to do wi’, an’ a’m main glad as they wor all go’an afore ma da’ays. I ha’ niver seed nowt o’ that sort, ’cep mappen a bogle or so—nuthin’ wu’th tellin’ of. But if thou likes them sort o’ tales, a’ can tell thee some as ma au’d gran’ther tould us when a’ wor nobbut a tiddy brat. He wor main au’d, nigh a hunner year, fo’ak said; an’ a wor ma fa’ather’s gran’ther reetly speakin’, so tha can b’leeve as a knowed a lot ’bout th’ au’d toimes. Mind, a wunnot say as ahl th’ ta’ales be treu’ue; but ma gran’ther said as they wor, an’ a b’leeved un ahl hissel’. Annyways, a’ll tell um as a heerd um, and that’s ahl as a can do.
Wa’al, i’ they times fo’ak mun ha’ bin geyan unloike to now. ’Stead o’ doin’ their work o’ da’ays, ’n smokin’ ther pipes o’ Sundays, i’ peace ’n comfort, tha wor allus botherin’ ther heads ’bout summat ’r other—or the cho’ch wor doin’ it for ’um. Th’ priests wor allus at ’un ’bout thur sowls; an’ what wi’ hell an’ th’ boggarts, ther moinds wor niver aisy. An’ ther wor things as didn’t ’long to th’ cho’ch, an’ yit—a can’t reetly ’splain to ’ee; but th’ fo’ak had idees o’ ther oa’n, an’ wa’ays o’ ther oa’n, as a’d kep’ oop years an’ years, an’ hunnerds o’ years, since th’ toime when ther worn’t no cho’ch, leastwise no cho’ch o’ that sort; but tha gi’n things to th’ bogles ’n sich, to kep’ ’un friendly. Ma gran’ther said ’s how the bogles ’d wanst bin thowt a deal more on, an’ at da’arklins ivery night th’ fo’ak’d bear loights i’ ther han’s roon ther ha’ouses, sa’ain’ wo’ds to kep’ ’um off; an’ a’d smear blo’ood o’ th’ doorsil’ to skeer away th’ horrors; an’ a’d put bread an’ salt o’ th’ flat stouns set oop by th’ la’ane side to get a good ha’arvest; an’ a’d spill watter i’ th’ fower co’orners o’ th’ fields, when a wanted ra’in; an’ they thowt a deal on th’ sun, fur tha reckoned as a ma’ade th’ yarth, an’ browt th’ good an’ ill chances, an’ a do’ant know what ahl. A can’t tell ’ee reetly what they b’leeved; fur ’twor afore ma gran’ther’s toime, ahl that, an’ that’s more’n a hunnerd an’ fifty years agone, seest tha; but a reckon tha made nigh iverythin’ as they seed an’ heerd into sort o’ gre’at bogles, an’ tha wor allus gi’un ’um things, or sa’ayin’ so’t o’ prayers loike, to keep ’um fro’ doin’ th’ fo’ak anny evil.
Wa’al, that wor a long toime agone, as a said afore, an’ ’twas no’an so bad i’ ma gran’ther’s day; but natheless, ’tworn’t forgot, an’ some o’ th’ fo’ak b’leeved it ahl still, an’ said au’d prayers or spells loike, o’ th’ sly. So ther wor, so to sa’ay, two cho’ches, th’ wan wi’ priests an’ can’les, an’ a’ that; th’ other just a lot o’ au’d ways, kep’ oop ahl onbeknown an’ hidden loike mid th’ fo’ak thersels; an’ they thowt a deal more, ma gran’ther said, on th’ au’d spells, ’s on th’ sarvice i’ th’ cho’ch itsel’. But’s toime went on, tha two got so’t o’ mixed oop; an’ some o’ th’ fo’aks cudn’t ha tould thee ef ’twor fur one or t’other as tha done th’ things.
To Yule, i’ th’ cho’ches thur wur gran’ sarvices, wi’ can’les an’ flags an’ what not; an’ i’ th’ cottages ther wor can’les an’ ca’akes an’ gran’ doin’s; but the priests niver knowed as many o’ th’ fo’ak wor on’y wakin’ th’ dyin’ year, an’ ’at tha wine teemed upo’ th’ doorsil to first cock-crow, wor to bring good luck i’ th’ new year. An’ a reckon’ some o’ th’ fo’ak thersel’d do th’ au’d heathen wa’ays an’ sing hymns meantime, wi’ neer a thowt o’ tha strangeness o’t.
Still, ther wor many’s kep’ to th’ au’d wa’ays ahl together, thoff tha did it hidden loike, an’ a’am goin’ to tell ’ee of wan fambly as ma gran’ther knowed fine, an’ how they waked th’ spring wan year.
As a said afore, a can’t, even ef a wud, tell ’ee ahl th’ things as tha useter do; but theer was wan toime o’ th’ year ’s they partic’larly went in fur ther spells an’ prayers, an’ that wor early spring. Tha thowt as th’ yarth wor sleepin’ ahl th’ winter, an’ ’at th’ bogles—ca’all um what ’ee wull—’d nobbut to do but mischief, for they’d nowt to see to i’ th’ fields. So they wor feared on th’ long da’ark winter da’ays ’n noights, i’ th’ mid o’ ahl so’ts o’ unseen fearsome things, ready ’n waitin’ fur a chance to play un evil tricks.
But as the winter went by, they thowt as ’twor toime to wake th’ yarth fro’ its sleepin’ ’n set th’ bogles to wo’k, carin’ fur th’ growin’ things ’n bringing th’ harvest. Efter that th’ yarth wor toired, an’ wor sinkin’ to sleep agen an’ tha useter sing hushieby songs i’ th’ fields o’ th’ autumn evens. But i’ th’ spring, tha want—th’ fo’ak did as b’leeved i’ th’ au’d wa’ays—to every field in to’n, ’n lifted a spud o’ yarth fro’ the mools; an’ tha said stra’ange an’ quare wo’ds, as tha cudn’t sca’arce unnerstand thersels; but th’ same as ’d bin said for hunnerds o’ years. An’ ivery mornin’ at th’ first dawn, tha stood o’ th’ door-sil, wi’ salt an’ bread, i’ ther han’s, watchin’ an’ waitin’ for th’ Green Mist ’s rose fro’ th’ fields ’n tould ’at th’ yarth wor awake again; an’ th’ life wor comin’ to th’ trees an’ th’ pla’ants, an’ th’ seeds wor bustin’ wi’ th’ beginning o’ th’ spring.
Wa’al, ther wor wan fambly as’d done ahl that, year arter year, for’s long as they knowed of; jest ’s ther gran’fathers’d done it afore un. An’ wan winter e’en nigh on a hunnerd an’ thurty year gone t’ now, tha wor makin’ ready for wakin’ the spring. Th’ ’ad had a lot o’ trooble thruff th’ winter, sickness an’ what not ’d bin bad i’ th’ pla’ace; an’ th’ darter, a rampin’ young maid, wor growed whoite ’n wafflin’ loike a bag o’ boans, ’stead o’ bein’ th’ purtiest lass i’ th’ village, as a’d bin afore. Da’ay arter da’ay a growed whoiter an’ sillier, till a cudn’t stan’ upo’s feet more’n a new born babby, an’ a cud on’y lay at th’ winder, watchin’ an’ watchin’ th’ winter crep’ awa’ay.
An’ “Oh, Mother,” a’d kep’ a-sa-ayin’ ower an’ ower agin, “ef a cud on’y wake th’ spring with ’ee agean, mebbe th’ Green Mist ’d mek me strong n’ well, loike th’ trees an’ th’ flowers, an’ the co’n i’ th’ fields.”
An’ tha mother’d comfort her loike, an’ promise ’a she’d coom wi’ ’em agin to th’ wakin’, and grow strong an’ straight ’s iver. But da’ay arter da’ay a got whiter an’ wanner, till a looked, ma gran’ther said, loike a snow-fla’ake fadin’ i’ th’ sun. An’ da’ay arter da’ay th’ winter crep’ by, an’ th’ wakin’ o’ th’ spring wor a’most theer. Th’ pore maid watched an’ waited for th’ toime fur goin’ to th’ fields; but a’d got so weak an’ sick ’at a knowed a cudn’t git ther wi’ th’ rest. But a wudn’t gi’n oop for ahl that, an’s mother mun sweer ’at she’d lift th’ lass to th’ door-sil, at th’ comin’ o’ th’ Green Mist, so’s a mowt toss out th’ bread an’ salt o’ th’ yarth her o’an sel’ an’ wi’ her o’an pore thin han’s. An’ still th’ da’ays went by, an’ th’ fo’ak wor goin’ o’ yarly morns, to lift th’ spud i’ th’ fields; an’ th’ coming o’ th’ Green Mist wor lookit for ivery dawning.
An’ wan even th’ lass, as’d bin layin’ wi’s eyes fixed o’ th’ little gyarden, said to ’s mother:
“Ef the Green Mist don’t come i’ th’ morn’s dawnin’, a’ll not can wait fur ’t longer. Th’ mools is ca’allin’ ma, an’ th’ seeds is burstin’ as’ll bloom ower ma head; a know’t wa’al, Mother—’n yit, ef a cud on’y see th’ spring wake wanst agin! Mother, a sweer a’d axe no more’n to live ’s long ’s wan o’ them cowslips as coom ivery year by th’ ga’ate, an’ to die wi’ th’ furst on ’em when th’ summer’s in.”
The mother whisht tha maid in fear, fur tha bogles an’ things as they b’leeved in wor allus gainhand, an’ cud hear owt as wor said. They wor niver safe, niver aloan, the pore foak to than, wi th’ things as tha cudn’t see, an’ th’ things as tha cudn’t hear, allus roon ’em. But th’ dawn o’ th’ next da’ay browt th’ Green Mist.
A com’d fro’ th’ mools, an’ wrapped asel’ roon iverythin’, green’s th’ grass i’ summer sunshine, ’n sweet-smellin’ as th’ yarbs o’ th’ spring, an’ th’ lass wor carried to th’ door-sill, wheer a croom’led th’ bread ’n salt, on to th’ yarth wi’s oan han’s, an’ said th’ stra’ange au’d wo’ds o’ welcoming to th’ new spring. An’ a lookit to th’ ga’ate wheer th’ cowslips growed, an’ thon wor took ba’ack to’s bed by th’ winder, when a slep’ loike a babby, an’ dreamt o’ summer an’ flowers an’ happiness.
Fur, fither ’twor th’ Green Mist as done it, a can’t tell ee more’n ma gran’ther said, but fro’ that day, a growed stronger n’ prettier nor iver, an’ by th’ toime th’ cowslips wor buddin’, a wor runnin’ about an’ laughin’ loike a very sunbeam i’ th’ au’d cottage. But ma gran’ther tould as a wor allus so white ’n wan, while a lookit loike a will-o’-th’-wyke flittin’ aboot; an’ o’ th’ could da’ays a’d sit shakin’ ower th’ foire, an’ a’d look nigh de’ad, but when th’ sun’d coom oot, a’d da’ance an’ sing i’ th’ loight, an’ stretch oot’s arms to’t ’s if a on’y lived i’ th’ warmness o’t. An’ by ’n by th’ cowslips burst ther buds, an’ coom i’ flower, an’ th’ maid wor growed so stra’ange an’ beautiful ’at they wor nigh feared on her. An’ ivery mornin’ a’d kneel by th’ cowslips, ’n watter ’n tend ’em, ’n da’ance to ’em, i’ th’ sunshine, while th’ mother’d stand beggin’ her to leave ’em, an’ cried ’at she’d have ’em pu’d oop by th’ roots ’n throwed awa’ay. But th’ lass on’y looked stra’ange at a, ’n say, soft an’ low loike, “Ef thee aren’t tired o’ ma, Mother, niver pick wan o’ them flowers. They’ll fade o’ thersels soon enuff—ay, soon enuff—thou knows.”
An’ tha mother’d go’a back to th’ cottage, ’n greet ower th’ wo’k; but a niver said nowt of her trouble to th’ neebors, not till arter’ds. But wan da’ay a lad o’ th’ village stopped at th’ ga’ate to chat wi’ ’em, an’ by an’ by, whiles a wor gossipin’ a picked a cowslip ’n pla’ayed wi’ it. Th’ lass didn’ see what a’d done; but as he said goodbye, a seed th’ flower as’d fa’allen to th’ yarth at’s feet. “Did thee pull that cowslip?” a said, lookin’ stra’ange an’ white, wi’ wan han’ laid ower her heart.
“Ay,” says he, ’n lifting it oop a gin it to her, smilin’ loike, ’n thinkin’ what’n a pretty maid it wor.
She looked at th’ flower, ’n at th’ lad, an’ ahl roon aboot her—at th’ green trees, an’ th’ sproutin’ grass, an’ th’ yaller blooms, an’ oop at th’ gowlden shinin’ sun itself’—an’ ahl to wanst, shrinkin’ ’sif th’ loight a’d loved so mooch wor brennin’ her, a ran into th’ hoose, wi’oot a spoken word on’y a so’t o’ cry, loike a dumb beast i’ pain, an’ th’ cowslip catched close agin her heart.
An’ then—b’leeve it or not as ’ee wull—a niver spoak agin, but la’ay on th’ bed, starin’ at th’ flower in’s han’ an’ fadin’ as it faded all thruff the da’ay. An’ at th’ dawnin’ ther wor on’y layin’ on th’ bed a wrinkled, whoite shrunken dead thing, wi’ in’s han’ a shrivelled cowslip; an’ th’ mother covered ’t ower wi’ th’ clo’es, an’ thowt o’ th’ beautiful joyful maid da’ancin’ loike a bird i’ th’ sunshine by th’ gowden noddin’ blossoms, on’y the da’ay goan by. Th’ bogles ’d heerd a, an’ a’d gi’n’s wish. A’d bloomed wi’ th’ cowslips, an’ a’d fa’aded wi’ th’ first on ’em! An’ ma gran’ther said as ’twor ahl ’s treue’s death!
13
The Apple-Tree Man
Recorded from Ruth L. Tongue, September 28, 1963, as she heard it from an old man at Pitminster, Somerset, about 1920. Miss Tongue comments: “Pitminster was the place where in my childhood I was gravely and proudly conducted by a farm-child to a very old apple tree in their orchard and told mysteriously that it was ‘the Apple-Tree Man.’ In 1958 I heard of him again on the Devon-Somerset borders.”
Common motifs here are B251.1.2, “Animals speak to one another at Christmas”; N541.1, “Treasure reveals itself only on Christmas at midnight (or Christmas Eve)”; N511.1.9, “Treasure buried under tree”; and N471, “Foolish attempt of second man to overhear secrets.”
American legends containing Motif B251.1.2 are known from North Carolina (Brown Collection, 1, 637), and Mississippi (Dorson, Negro Folktales in Michigan, pp. 152–53).
“Borough English” was a local inheritance custom in various country districts, by which the farm came to the youngest son instead of to the eldest, who was supposed to have already made his way in the world. This ancient form of land tenure long survived in Pitminster. It has sometimes been suggested that it was this custom which made it seem right to folk storytellers that the youngest son of the king should inherit the throne before his brothers. It is clear, however, from this story that the system aroused some criticism.
A “dunk” is a donkey; a “natomy,” a skeleton; “quarter-ail,” paralysis; and “diddicky,” rotten.
THERE WERE A hard-working chap as was eldest of a long family, see, zo when his Dad die there wasn’t nothing left for he. Youngest gets it all, and he do give bits and pieces to all his kith; but he don’t like eldest, see, spoilt young hosebird he were, so all he do let he have is his Dad’s old dunk, and a ox that was gone to a natomy (I s’pose it had the quarter-ail), and a tumbledown cottage with the two-dree ancient old apple-trees where his Dad had lived to with his granfer. The chap don’t grumble, but he go cutting grass along lane, and old dunk begun to fatten, and he do rub the ox with herbs and say the words, and old ox he perk up hisself and walk smart, and then he do turn they beastses into orchet, and they old apple-trees flourish a marvel.
But it don’t leave him no time to find the rent! Oh yes, youngest was bound to have his rent. Dap on the dot too!
Then one day he come into orchet and say, “’Twill be Christmas Eve come tomorrow, when beasts do talk. There’s a treasure hereabouts we’ve all heard tell, and I’m set to ask your dunk. He mustn’t refuse to tell me. Yew wake me just afore midnight and I’ll take a whole sixpence off the rent.”
Come Christmas Eve the chap ’e give old dunk and ox a bit extra and he do fix a bit of holly in the shippen, and he gets his last mug of cider, and mull it by ashen faggot, and outs to the orchet to give’n to the apple trees. . . . Then the Apple-Tree Man he calls to the chap and ’e say, “Yew take and look under this gurt diddicky root of ours.” And there was a chest full of finest gold. “’Tis yours, and no one else,” say the Apple-Tree Man. “Put’n away zafe and bide quiet about’n.” So he done that. “Now yew can go call your dear brother,” say Apple-Tree Man, “’tis midnight.”
Well, youngest brother he do run out in a terrible hurry-push and sure enough the dunk’s a-talking to the ox. “Yew do know thic gurt greedy fule that’s a-listening to we, so unmannerly, he do want we should tell where treasure is.”
“And that’s where he never won’t get it,” say the ox. “Cause someone have a-tooked he already.”
14
Tibb’s Cat and the Apple-Tree Man
Recorded from Ruth L. Tongue, September 28, 1963, as she heard it about 1910 from “Annie’s Granny.” The title of the tale was noted on the back of a school exercise book.
