12
The Green Mist
Reprinted from M. C. Balfour, âLegends of the Lincolnshire Cars,â Folk-Lore, II (1891), pp. 259â64, as told by an old man from Lindsey. Mrs. Balfour comments on the Lincolnshire people: âI 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.â
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, âLife bound up with external object or event,â and E765.3.4, âGirl lives until her cowslip is pulled.â 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.
âMoolsâ is soil; âspud,â turf; âyarth,â earth; âthruff,â through; âcrommâle,â crumble; âfither,â whether; âquare,â queer.
SO THOUâST heerd tell oâ thâ boggarts anâ all the horrid things oâ thâ auâd toimes? Ay, they wor mischancy, onpleasant sort oâ bodies to do wiâ, anâ aâm main glad as they wor all goâan afore ma daâays. I haâ niver seed nowt oâ that sort, âcep mappen a bogle or soânuthinâ wuâth tellinâ of. But if thou likes them sort oâ tales, aâ can tell thee some as ma auâd granâther tould us when aâ wor nobbut a tiddy brat. He wor main auâd, nigh a hunner year, foâak said; anâ a wor ma faâatherâs granâther reetly speakinâ, so tha can bâleeve as a knowed a lot âbout thâ auâd toimes. Mind, a wunnot say as ahl thâ taâales be treuâue; but ma granâther said as they wor, anâ a bâleeved un ahl hisselâ. Annyways, aâll tell um as a heerd um, and thatâs ahl as a can do.
Waâal, iâ they times foâak mun haâ bin geyan unloike to now. âStead oâ doinâ their work oâ daâays, ân smokinâ ther pipes oâ Sundays, iâ peace ân comfort, tha wor allus botherinâ ther heads âbout summat âr otherâor the choâch wor doinâ it for âum. Thâ priests wor allus at âun âbout thur sowls; anâ what wiâ hell anâ thâ boggarts, ther moinds wor niver aisy. Anâ ther wor things as didnât âlong to thâ choâch, anâ yitâa canât reetly âsplain to âee; but thâ foâak had idees oâ ther oaân, anâ waâays oâ ther oaân, as aâd kepâ oop years anâ years, anâ hunnerds oâ years, since thâ toime when ther wornât no choâch, leastwise no choâch oâ that sort; but tha giân things to thâ bogles ân sich, to kepâ âun friendly. Ma granâther said âs how the bogles âd wanst bin thowt a deal more on, anâ at daâarklins ivery night thâ foâakâd bear loights iâ ther hanâs roon ther haâouses, saâainâ woâds to kepâ âum off; anâ aâd smear bloâood oâ thâ doorsilâ to skeer away thâ horrors; anâ aâd put bread anâ salt oâ thâ flat stouns set oop by thâ laâane side to get a good haâarvest; anâ aâd spill watter iâ thâ fower coâorners oâ thâ fields, when a wanted raâin; anâ they thowt a deal on thâ sun, fur tha reckoned as a maâade thâ yarth, anâ browt thâ good anâ ill chances, anâ a doâant know what ahl. A canât tell âee reetly what they bâleeved; fur âtwor afore ma granâtherâs toime, ahl that, anâ thatâs moreân a hunnerd anâ fifty years agone, seest tha; but a reckon tha made nigh iverythinâ as they seed anâ heerd into sort oâ greâat bogles, anâ tha wor allus giâun âum things, or saâayinâ soât oâ prayers loike, to keep âum froâ doinâ thâ foâak anny evil.
Waâal, that wor a long toime agone, as a said afore, anâ âtwas noâan so bad iâ ma granâtherâs day; but natheless, âtwornât forgot, anâ some oâ thâ foâak bâleeved it ahl still, anâ said auâd prayers or spells loike, oâ thâ sly. So ther wor, so to saâay, two choâches, thâ wan wiâ priests anâ canâles, anâ aâ that; thâ other just a lot oâ auâd ways, kepâ oop ahl onbeknown anâ hidden loike mid thâ foâak thersels; anâ they thowt a deal more, ma granâther said, on thâ auâd spells, âs on thâ sarvice iâ thâ choâch itselâ. Butâs toime went on, tha two got soât oâ mixed oop; anâ some oâ thâ foâaks cudnât ha tould thee ef âtwor fur one or tâother as tha done thâ things.
To Yule, iâ thâ choâches thur wur granâ sarvices, wiâ canâles anâ flags anâ what not; anâ iâ thâ cottages ther wor canâles anâ caâakes anâ granâ doinâs; but the priests niver knowed as many oâ thâ foâak wor onây wakinâ thâ dyinâ year, anâ âat tha wine teemed upoâ thâ doorsil to first cock-crow, wor to bring good luck iâ thâ new year. Anâ a reckonâ some oâ thâ foâak therselâd do thâ auâd heathen waâays anâ sing hymns meantime, wiâ neer a thowt oâ tha strangeness oât.
Still, ther wor manyâs kepâ to thâ auâd waâays ahl together, thoff tha did it hidden loike, anâ aâam goinâ to tell âee of wan fambly as ma granâther knowed fine, anâ how they waked thâ spring wan year.
As a said afore, a canât, even ef a wud, tell âee ahl thâ things as tha useter do; but theer was wan toime oâ thâ year âs they particâlarly went in fur ther spells anâ prayers, anâ that wor early spring. Tha thowt as thâ yarth wor sleepinâ ahl thâ winter, anâ âat thâ boglesâcaâall um what âee wullââd nobbut to do but mischief, for theyâd nowt to see to iâ thâ fields. So they wor feared on thâ long daâark winter daâays ân noights, iâ thâ mid oâ ahl soâts oâ unseen fearsome things, ready ân waitinâ fur a chance to play un evil tricks.
But as the winter went by, they thowt as âtwor toime to wake thâ yarth froâ its sleepinâ ân set thâ bogles to woâk, carinâ fur thâ growinâ things ân bringing thâ harvest. Efter that thâ yarth wor toired, anâ wor sinkinâ to sleep agen anâ tha useter sing hushieby songs iâ thâ fields oâ thâ autumn evens. But iâ thâ spring, tha wantâthâ foâak did as bâleeved iâ thâ auâd waâaysâto every field in toân, ân lifted a spud oâ yarth froâ the mools; anâ tha said straâange anâ quare woâds, as tha cudnât scaâarce unnerstand thersels; but thâ same as âd bin said for hunnerds oâ years. Anâ ivery morninâ at thâ first dawn, tha stood oâ thâ door-sil, wiâ salt anâ bread, iâ ther hanâs, watchinâ anâ waitinâ for thâ Green Mist âs rose froâ thâ fields ân tould âat thâ yarth wor awake again; anâ thâ life wor cominâ to thâ trees anâ thâ plaâants, anâ thâ seeds wor bustinâ wiâ thâ beginning oâ thâ spring.
Waâal, ther wor wan fambly asâd done ahl that, year arter year, forâs long as they knowed of; jest âs ther granâfathersâd done it afore un. Anâ wan winter eâen nigh on a hunnerd anâ thurty year gone tâ now, tha wor makinâ ready for wakinâ the spring. Thâ âad had a lot oâ trooble thruff thâ winter, sickness anâ what not âd bin bad iâ thâ plaâace; anâ thâ darter, a rampinâ young maid, wor growed whoite ân wafflinâ loike a bag oâ boans, âstead oâ beinâ thâ purtiest lass iâ thâ village, as aâd bin afore. Daâay arter daâay a growed whoiter anâ sillier, till a cudnât stanâ upoâs feet moreân a new born babby, anâ a cud onây lay at thâ winder, watchinâ anâ watchinâ thâ winter crepâ awaâay.
Anâ âOh, Mother,â aâd kepâ a-sa-ayinâ ower anâ ower agin, âef a cud onây wake thâ spring with âee agean, mebbe thâ Green Mist âd mek me strong nâ well, loike thâ trees anâ thâ flowers, anâ the coân iâ thâ fields.â
Anâ tha motherâd comfort her loike, anâ promise âa sheâd coom wiâ âem agin to thâ wakinâ, and grow strong anâ straight âs iver. But daâay arter daâay a got whiter anâ wanner, till a looked, ma granâther said, loike a snow-flaâake fadinâ iâ thâ sun. Anâ daâay arter daâay thâ winter crepâ by, anâ thâ wakinâ oâ thâ spring wor aâmost theer. Thâ pore maid watched anâ waited for thâ toime fur goinâ to thâ fields; but aâd got so weak anâ sick âat a knowed a cudnât git ther wiâ thâ rest. But a wudnât giân oop for ahl that, anâs mother mun sweer âat sheâd lift thâ lass to thâ door-sil, at thâ cominâ oâ thâ Green Mist, soâs a mowt toss out thâ bread anâ salt oâ thâ yarth her oâan selâ anâ wiâ her oâan pore thin hanâs. Anâ still thâ daâays went by, anâ thâ foâak wor goinâ oâ yarly morns, to lift thâ spud iâ thâ fields; anâ thâ coming oâ thâ Green Mist wor lookit for ivery dawning.
Anâ wan even thâ lass, asâd bin layinâ wiâs eyes fixed oâ thâ little gyarden, said to âs mother:
âEf the Green Mist donât come iâ thâ mornâs dawninâ, aâll not can wait fur ât longer. Thâ mools is caâallinâ ma, anâ thâ seeds is burstinâ asâll bloom ower ma head; a knowât waâal, Motherâân yit, ef a cud onây see thâ spring wake wanst agin! Mother, a sweer aâd axe no moreân to live âs long âs wan oâ them cowslips as coom ivery year by thâ gaâate, anâ to die wiâ thâ furst on âem when thâ summerâs in.â
The mother whisht tha maid in fear, fur tha bogles anâ things as they bâleeved in wor allus gainhand, anâ cud hear owt as wor said. They wor niver safe, niver aloan, the pore foak to than, wi thâ things as tha cudnât see, anâ thâ things as tha cudnât hear, allus roon âem. But thâ dawn oâ thâ next daâay browt thâ Green Mist.
A comâd froâ thâ mools, anâ wrapped aselâ roon iverythinâ, greenâs thâ grass iâ summer sunshine, ân sweet-smellinâ as thâ yarbs oâ thâ spring, anâ thâ lass wor carried to thâ door-sill, wheer a croomâled thâ bread ân salt, on to thâ yarth wiâs oan hanâs, anâ said thâ straâange auâd woâds oâ welcoming to thâ new spring. Anâ a lookit to thâ gaâate wheer thâ cowslips growed, anâ thon wor took baâack toâs bed by thâ winder, when a slepâ loike a babby, anâ dreamt oâ summer anâ flowers anâ happiness.
Fur, fither âtwor thâ Green Mist as done it, a canât tell ee moreân ma granâther said, but froâ that day, a growed stronger nâ prettier nor iver, anâ by thâ toime thâ cowslips wor buddinâ, a wor runninâ about anâ laughinâ loike a very sunbeam iâ thâ auâd cottage. But ma granâther tould as a wor allus so white ân wan, while a lookit loike a will-oâ-thâ-wyke flittinâ aboot; anâ oâ thâ could daâays aâd sit shakinâ ower thâ foire, anâ aâd look nigh deâad, but when thâ sunâd coom oot, aâd daâance anâ sing iâ thâ loight, anâ stretch ootâs arms toât âs if a onây lived iâ thâ warmness oât. Anâ by ân by thâ cowslips burst ther buds, anâ coom iâ flower, anâ thâ maid wor growed so straâange anâ beautiful âat they wor nigh feared on her. Anâ ivery morninâ aâd kneel by thâ cowslips, ân watter ân tend âem, ân daâance to âem, iâ thâ sunshine, while thâ motherâd stand begginâ her to leave âem, anâ cried âat sheâd have âem puâd oop by thâ roots ân throwed awaâay. But thâ lass onây looked straâange at a, ân say, soft anâ low loike, âEf thee arenât tired oâ ma, Mother, niver pick wan oâ them flowers. Theyâll fade oâ thersels soon enuffâay, soon enuffâthou knows.â
Anâ tha motherâd goâa back to thâ cottage, ân greet ower thâ woâk; but a niver said nowt of her trouble to thâ neebors, not till arterâds. But wan daâay a lad oâ thâ village stopped at thâ gaâate to chat wiâ âem, anâ by anâ by, whiles a wor gossipinâ a picked a cowslip ân plaâayed wiâ it. Thâ lass didnâ see what aâd done; but as he said goodbye, a seed thâ flower asâd faâallen to thâ yarth atâs feet. âDid thee pull that cowslip?â a said, lookinâ straâange anâ white, wiâ wan hanâ laid ower her heart.
âAy,â says he, ân lifting it oop a gin it to her, smilinâ loike, ân thinkinâ whatân a pretty maid it wor.
She looked at thâ flower, ân at thâ lad, anâ ahl roon aboot herâat thâ green trees, anâ thâ sproutinâ grass, anâ thâ yaller blooms, anâ oop at thâ gowlden shininâ sun itselfââanâ ahl to wanst, shrinkinâ âsif thâ loight aâd loved so mooch wor brenninâ her, a ran into thâ hoose, wiâoot a spoken word onây a soât oâ cry, loike a dumb beast iâ pain, anâ thâ cowslip catched close agin her heart.
Anâ thenâbâleeve it or not as âee wullâa niver spoak agin, but laâay on thâ bed, starinâ at thâ flower inâs hanâ anâ fadinâ as it faded all thruff the daâay. Anâ at thâ dawninâ ther wor onây layinâ on thâ bed a wrinkled, whoite shrunken dead thing, wiâ inâs hanâ a shrivelled cowslip; anâ thâ mother covered ât ower wiâ thâ cloâes, anâ thowt oâ thâ beautiful joyful maid daâancinâ loike a bird iâ thâ sunshine by thâ gowden noddinâ blossoms, onây the daâay goan by. Thâ bogles âd heerd a, anâ aâd giânâs wish. Aâd bloomed wiâ thâ cowslips, anâ aâd faâaded wiâ thâ first on âem! Anâ ma granâther said as âtwor ahl âs treueâs 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: âPitminster 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 âthe Apple-Tree Man.â In 1958 I heard of him again on the Devon-Somerset borders.â
Common motifs here are B251.1.2, âAnimals speak to one another at Christmasâ; N541.1, âTreasure reveals itself only on Christmas at midnight (or Christmas Eve)â; N511.1.9, âTreasure buried under treeâ; and N471, âFoolish attempt of second man to overhear secrets.â
American legends containing Motif B251.1.2 are known from North Carolina (Brown Collection, 1, 637), and Mississippi (Dorson, Negro Folktales in Michigan, pp. 152â53).
âBorough Englishâ 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 âdunkâ is a donkey; a ânatomy,â a skeleton; âquarter-ail,â paralysis; and âdiddicky,â rotten.
THERE WERE A hard-working chap as was eldest of a long family, see, zo when his Dad die there wasnât nothing left for he. Youngest gets it all, and he do give bits and pieces to all his kith; but he donât like eldest, see, spoilt young hosebird he were, so all he do let he have is his Dadâs old dunk, and a ox that was gone to a natomy (I sâpose 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 donât 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 donât 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, ââTwill be Christmas Eve come tomorrow, when beasts do talk. Thereâs a treasure hereabouts weâve all heard tell, and Iâm set to ask your dunk. He mustnât refuse to tell me. Yew wake me just afore midnight and Iâll take a whole sixpence off the rent.â
Come Christmas Eve the chap âe 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 giveân to the apple trees. . . . Then the Apple-Tree Man he calls to the chap and âe say, âYew take and look under this gurt diddicky root of ours.â And there was a chest full of finest gold. ââTis yours, and no one else,â say the Apple-Tree Man. âPutân away zafe and bide quiet aboutân.â So he done that. âNow yew can go call your dear brother,â say Apple-Tree Man, ââtis midnight.â
Well, youngest brother he do run out in a terrible hurry-push and sure enough the dunkâs a-talking to the ox. âYew do know thic gurt greedy fule thatâs a-listening to we, so unmannerly, he do want we should tell where treasure is.â
âAnd thatâs where he never wonât get it,â say the ox. âCause someone have a-tooked he already.â
14
Tibbâs Cat and the Apple-Tree Man
Recorded from Ruth L. Tongue, September 28, 1963, as she heard it about 1910 from âAnnieâs Granny.â The title of the tale was noted on the back of a school exercise book.