But the gal, she says to herself, “Well, if they’ll come agin, I’ll ate ’em now.” And she set to work and ate ’em all, first and last.
Well, come supper time, the woman she said, “Goo you and git one o’ them there pies. I daresay they’ve come agin now.”
The gal she went an’ she looked, and there worn’t nothin’ but the dishes. So back she come and says she, “Noo, they ain’t come agin.”
“Not none on ’em?” says the mother.
“Not none on ’em,” says she.
“Well, come agin or not come agin,” says the woman, “I’ll ha’ one for supper.”
“But you can’t, if they ain’t come,” says the gal.
“But I can,” says she. “Goo you and bring the best of ’em.”
“Best or worst,” says the gal, “I’ve ate ’em all, and you can’t ha’ one till that’s come agin.”
Well, the woman she were wholly bate, and she took her spinnin’ to the door, to spin, and as she span she sang—
“My darter ha’ ate five, five pies today—
My darter ha’ ate five, five pies today.”
The king he were a-comin’ down the street an’ he hard her sing but what she sang he couldn’t hare, so he stopped and said—
“What were that you was a-singun of, maw’r?”
The woman she were ashamed to let him hare what her darter had been a’doin’, so she sang ’stids o’ that—
“My darter ha’ spun five, five skeins today—
My darter ha’ spun five, five skeins today.”
“S’ars o’ mine!” says the king, “I never heerd tell o’ anyone as could do that.”
Then he said, “Look you here, I want a wife, an’ I’ll marry your darter. But look you here,” says he, “’leven months out o’ the year, she shall have all the vittles she likes to eat, and all the gownds she likes to git, and all the cumpny she likes to hev; but the last month o’ the year she’ll ha’ to spin five skeins iv’ry day, an’ if she doon’t I shall kill her.”
“All right,” says the woman; for she thowt that was a grand marriage that was. And as for them five skeins, when te come tew, there’d be plenty o’ ways o’ getting out of it and likeliest he’d ha’ forgot about it.
Well, so they was married. An’ for ’leven months the gal had all the vittles she liked to ate, and all the gownds she liked to git, and all the cumpny she liked to hev.
But when the time was gettin’ oover, she began to think about them there skeins, an’ to wonder if he had ’em in mind. But not one word did he say about ’em, and she whoolly thowt he’d forgot about ’em.
Howsiver, the last day o’ the last month, he takes her to a room she’d niver set eyes on afore. There worn’t nothin’ in it but a spinnin’ wheel and a stool. An’ says he, “Now, me dear, hare yow’ll be shut in tomorrow, with some vittles and some flax, and if you hain’t spun five skeins by the night, yar hid’ll goo off.”
An’ awa he went about his business.
Well, she were that frightened. She’d allus been such a gatless mawther, that she didn’t se much as know how to spin, an’ what were she to dew tomorrer with no one to come nigh her to help her. She sat down on a stool in the kitchen, and lork! how she did cry!
Howsiver, all on a sudden, she hard a sort of a knockin’ low down on the door. She upped and oped it, an’ what should she see but a small, little black thing with a long tail. That looked up at her right kewrious, an’ that said:
“What are yew a-crying for?”
“Wha’s that to yew?” says she.
“Niver yew mind,” that said, “but tell me what yew’re a-crying for.”
“That don’t dew me no good if I dew,” says she.
“Yew doon’t know that,” that said, an’ twirled that’s tail round.
“Well,” says she, “that oon’t dew no harm, if that doon’t dew no good,” and she upped and told about the pies an’ the skeins an’ everything.
“This is what I’ll dew,” says the little black thing. “I’ll come to yar winder iv’ry mornin’, an’ take the flax an’ bring it spun at night.”
“Wha’s your pay?” says she.
That looked out o’ the corners o’ that’s eyes, an’ that said: “I’ll give you three guesses every night to guess my name, an’ if you hain’t guessed it afore the month’s up, yew shall be mine.”
Well, she thowt she’d be sure to guess that’s name afore the month was up. “All right,” says she, “I agree.”
“All right,” that says, and lork! how that twirled that’s tail.
Well, the next day her husband he took her inter the room, an’ there was the flax an’ the day’s vittles.
“Now, there’s the flax,” says he, “an’ if that ain’t spun up this night, off goo yar hid.” An’ then he went out an’ locked the door.
He’d hardly goon, when there was a knockin’ agin the winder.
