“Urchin” is a hedgehog; “owl-light” is deep dusk.
THERE WAS A farmer who had a farm by the Polden Hills, and Granfer ’e was a very old man, and ’is pony was also a very old pony. They reckoned she was nearly forty. And he and Dolly used to be sent off for the day, really to get him out of the way, and it would take him most of the morning to get Dolly harnessed up. She used to stand and go to sleep in the shafts while he pottered around. And then they’d send him to some village about a mile away. If it were two miles Granfer and Dolly would not be back all day. But otherwise she’d come daundering along the road, having a snatch of grass here, and a snatch of grass there, with Granfer sitting up in the seat fast asleep, and they would come back into the yard. No one worried about them, and when the farm was pressed for time, hay time, harvesting time, well, it didn’t matter, Dolly would look after Granfer.
One July harvesting time, they were very busy. They got rid of Granfer and Dolly early in the morning. They reckoned he’d be back about six o’clock. Well, time went on, and they were still very busy out in field, and when it came to owl-light, neither Granfer nor Dolly had come back. Then later the moon rose—still they weren’t back and suddenly somebody said, “Oh! Do ’ee mind what night ’tis? ’Tis the very night o’ Sedgemoor fight, an’ they say the ghost o’ the Duke on a fine foaming black horse do go galloping along top road where Granfer be, and all who sees ’en faints from fear.”
Well, the family got together, men and boys, and the women stayed at home and trembled, and they took lanterns and they took pitchforks, and then they took the family Bible, and off they went to see whether they could find the corpses of Granfer and Dolly. Well, when they got to the top, they could hear Granfer, e’ was alive then. So somebody shouts out, “Granfer, be ’ee all right?”
“’Course I be all right,” came an irate voice. Granfer was usually a most good-humored old man, but he was spluttering with rage.
So they came a bit nearer, and then one of the boys, being a bit incautious, said, “Granfer, did ’ee see the Duke?”
“Did I see the Duke then,” splutters Granfer. “’E came galloping down the road on a fine black ’orse ’e did, right down the middle, an’ the right o’ the road was Dolly’s! That didn’t stop ’im. ’E come right on, and Dolly ’er took a look at ’im. One look, an’ look what ’e done to my Dolly!” Well, the family looked, and the boys went away and hid themselves round a corner, so they could laugh. Granfer and the cart were on the slope of the verge on one side of a hedge, and Dolly, still in the shafts, was on the other. “Come right at us, ’e did,” said Granfer furiously. “And there she went, took one look at ’e. She jumped the hedge, thought she was to Bridgewater Fair, an’ at ’er age too, an’ ’ow be us going to get ’er back?”
Well, they got her back, and her fat little behind was as full of prickles as an urchin. When they got home to the farm, of course there were a lot of questions. Then somebody again said, “Granfer, what were the black ’orse like?” “Oh! Too fine ’orse to be ’andled like that—the man weren’t no ’orseman. Come leathering a good beast down the road like that! And look what ’e done to my Dolly!”
And to his dying day, Granfer would never hear a word about the Duke of Monmouth without snorting, “Man were no ’orseman. Didn’t know ’is road usage!”
R. L. Tongue added:
“I knew the old man. He was a little round, apple-faced old man, rather like those you see in gardens now as dwarfs. He wore an old brown coat and leggings, and used to sit up there in the cart nodding in his sleep while the fat pony ambled along with him. And I know the bend in the road down which Dolly took the cart, when she jumped the hawthorn hedge.”
54
Summat Queer on Batch
Recorded from Ruth L. Tongue, September 27, 1963, who remembers this as a favorite story of an old North Somerset groom about 1907.
For Motif J1495.1, “Man runs from actual or supposed ghost,” Baughman gives 11 American references, including Negro. Add Dorson, Negro Tales from Pine Bluff, Arkansas and Calvin, Michigan, p. 219.
A “batch” is a piece of open common land or moorland.
THERE WERE A old widow body ’oo ’ad a little cottage up to Batch, and ’er come to market with ’er bits to sell, and she wouldn’t go ’ome no how. Well, they axed ’en, and all she’d say was, “There’s Summat Queer on Batch!” and not a word more. Well, Job Ash, ’e say to ’er, “Never ’ee mind, my dear, I’ll go up Batch for ’ee. No fear.” And ’e up and went.
’Twere a bit of a unket wind up to Batch, road was lonely, and wind did blow whist. ’E got to cottage, ’twere a little cottage like, with a front door and back door opposite each other, and kitchen were one side o’ passage, sitting-room were t’other side o’ passage, and stairs was in cupboard. In ’e goes, front door were wide open, and ’e swing the bar acrost, and ’e go to back door, and ’e swing the bar acrost there. Then ’e take a look-see to sitting-room. Weren’t no one there. Then e’ gave a look-see to kitchen. No one there neither. Then ’e rub ’is ’ands together, and ’e think o’ the drubbing they lads was going to ’ave.
’E opens door—cupboard door—upstairs to bedroom. When ’e got up to bedroom, wasn’t no one there neither. “Where be they tew?” said Job and ’e come down, and front door were open—back door were open tew. Bar were set back. Well, Job ’e took a quick look-see outside back door, and it slammed tew be’ind ’im, and bar slid acrost. Well, Job, ’e took off round corner o’ that ’ouse; ’e didn’t stop to look—gets round by front door, as fast as ’e could, and just as ’e got to front door, that slam in ’is face tew, and bar come down acrost. Well, Job, ’e took a deep breath, ’e did, and then ’e takes a look over ’is shoulder, and there were Summat Queer standing right be’ind ’im. At that Job ’e took off down that road, like ’e were to Shepton Mallet races. ’E were a girt vleshly veller, and when ’e’d got about a mile or so, ’e sat down on a ’eap o’ stoneses, and ’e puff like a pair o’ bellowses, and ’e got out ’is neck-’ankercher, and ’e rub ’is face, thankful. And then ’e look down, and there’s a girt vlat voot aside o’ ’isn. Then ’e look up a little vurther, and there’s a girt ’airy ’and by ’is knee. And then ’e look up a little bit vurther still, and there’s a girt wide grin.
“That were a good race, weren’t it?” sez it.
“Ar!” sez Job, “And when I’ve got my breath back, us’ll ’ave another!”
55
A Cure for a Witch
Recorded from W. H. Barrett, October 12, 1963, as one of his stock of traditions from the Cambridge Fens. Witchcraft beliefs were very strong in the eastern counties of England, and indeed in most lonely districts. Salt has always been considered a prophylactic against witches, who were supposed to take no salt with their meat (G271.3, “Use of salt in exorcism of witch”). Even to ask for salt was enough to break up the witches’ banquet. Witches habitually frequent churchyard graves (Motif D1278.1, “Magic churchyard mould”).
Any joke against the parson was welcome to the Fenmen, who had a strong bias against all churchmen which dated back to the exactions of the monks of Ely (Motif X410, “Jokes on parsons”).
IN FENLAND A hundred years ago, the Fens was smothered with witches. Everybody believed in them, except the parson, and he had good cause to think there was something supernatural about them.
It happened like this. One night old Billy Bowers, the local poacher, was returning home with his bag heavy with what he’d found in the woods, and as he walked by the churchyard, he saw a flittering light. So he stopped on his way and peered through the fence, and saw that it was one of the so-called local witches gathering earth off a new-made grave. Well, Billy don’t like to see that, so he went home, got his old muzzle loading gun, put a charge of gunpowder into it, and then filled it up with broken rock salt, which he used to use to cure rabbit skins. So he went back up the lane, and he saw this old girl’s behind bobbing up and down in the lantern light. So he took aim, and he fired. Well, the screech the old girl gave woke everybody up in the neighborhood. They all opened their bedroom windows to hear her screaming. Soon they was congregating round the churchyard gate. One said, “This is a job for the parson.” So he went along, called the parson up. The parson wanted to know what was the trouble. “Well,” he said, “all the devils in Hell are running round the churchyard, shrieking their insides out.”
So the parson got up, and he called this man in, and he said, “Before we go, we’d better have something to put some courage into us.”
So he produced a bottle of whiskey, took a good drink himself, and then handed a good drink to the other chap, who, by the way, was the sexton. Then the parson put on his surplice, in case there was something, and he picked up one of these new-fangled oil lamps, grabbed a big stick, and went across to the churchyard gate. He wanted the sexton to go with him. The sexton said his was a day job, he wasn’t paid for night work. No one else wanted to go. So the parson said he’d go on his own. As he went down the churchyard, the old girl who’d had a dose of rock salt in her buttocks saw something coming the other way. Her gave a scream, and run down the churchyard. The parson followed her. He caught his foot on a tombstone, the lamp flew out of his hand, and burst into flames. Billy thought it was time he took a hand. So he went into the church, and he rang the bells for all he was worth. That caused all the jackdaws in the church steeple to fly out, and hover just over the heads of the people standing in the road with lanterns. So Billy went along and wanted to know what they was all out there for at that time of night. Someone told him that the Devil was in the churchyard. He’d come out of Hell, and when he came out of Hell, there was a flame of fire went up into the sky, and they hadn’t seen him [the parson] since, so they supposed the Devil had took him.
So Billy says, “Well, ain’t none of you going in to see what’s happened to him?”
They said, “No.”
“Well,” he said, “I’ll go.”
So he went along, and he found the parson laying there with his face all covered with blood, where he’d hit his nose on the tombstone as he fell. Billy said, “I’m surprised! That must have been a hell of a fight you was in. I wonder what the other chap looks like, you being so covered with blood.”
But the parson said if he’d only help him home, he’d give him whatever he’d like to ask. So Billy helped him home, and the parson promised him that he’d have a brace of pheasants off of him all the time the game season lasted. But Billy used to sit in the pub, and tell his tale.
He said, “People as thinks they knows think there’s a lot of ways of curing witches.” He said, “There’s only one—that is, pepper their hams with rock salt. That’ll cure ’em! “
56
A Paddock in Heaven
Heard by Katharine M. Briggs in Edinburgh in 1915 from D. Ellis, a teacher from Cornwall.
There exists a large modern cycle of stories about St. Peter and exclusive sects and individuals in Heaven. The Indiana University Folklore Archives has a folder labeled “Modern Jokes: St. Peter in Heaven” containing thirty-one comic stories on this theme. The central motif is X597*, “Jokes about new arrival in Heaven” (Baughman). A serious motif adapted to the joke is A661.0.1.2, “Saint Peter as porter of heaven.”
THERE WAS A man who had just died, and arrived in Heaven, and St. Peter was showing him round. Presently they came to a high wall. “Hush,” said St. Peter. He fetched a ladder very quietly, and climbed up, beckoning the newcomer to follow him. They went stealthily up and peered over the wall. It was one of the Heavenly Meadows, and there were a lot of rather ordinary-looking people walking about in twos and threes.
