Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/540

24, 1859.] was a little  past  one. she got  up. and lighted  a fire  under  the  brewing  caldron,  and  was  busy  with the wort. But every  moment  the  fire  went  out under the  caldron,  and  it  was  just  as  though  some one kept  throwing  the  brands  out  from  the hearth, but  who  it  was  she  couldn’t  see. So she gathered up  the  brands,  time  after  time,  but  it was  all  no  good,  and  the  wort  wouldn’t  run  out  of the  tap  either. At last  she  got  tired  of  all  that,  so she  took  a burning  brand,  and  ran  about  with  it, swinging it  about  high  and  low,  and  bawling,  ‘Be off with  you  whence  you  came. If you  think you’re going  to  frighten  me,  you’re  quite  wrong.’

“‘Fie upon  you,  then!’ she  heard  some  one  say in the  darkest  corner,  ‘I had  got  seven  souls  here in this  house,  and  I thought  I should  have  got  the eighth as  well.’

“After that  Katie  Gusdal  said,  ‘No  one  ever heard or  saw  the  brownie  in  the  Foundling.’”

Here one  of  the  little  ones  called  out. ‘I’m afraid! I’m afraid! No. Lieutenant,  you  tell something; when you  tell  us  a story  I’m  never afraid, you  always  tell  it  so  funnily!”

Then another  proposed  that  I should  tell  them about the  brownie  who  danced  a reel  with  the lassie. Now, this  was  an  undertaking  into  which I was very  unwilling  to  put  my  foot,  because  there was singing  in  it  as  well  as  telling; but  as  they wouldn’t let  me  off,  I began  to  hem  and  cough  in order  to  get  my  very  discordant  voice  ready  to sing  the  words  of  the  reel,  when  to  the  joy  of  the children, and  to  my  rescue,  in  came  the  pretty niece I spoke  of.

“Well, bairns,”  I said,  as  she  took  her  seat, “now I’ll  tell  you  the  story,  if  you’ll  only  get cousin Liz  to  sing  you  the  reel; for  you’ll  all  of you  dance  it,  of  course.”

So the  children  took  the  pretty  cousin  by  storm, and she  had  to  promise  to  sing  the  words  of  the dance while  I told  the  story.

“Once on  a time,  there  was  a lassie,  who  lived I’m sure  I don’t  know  where,  but  I think  it  was  in Hallingdale,  and  she  had  to  carry  a syllabub  to the  brownie. Whether it  was  on  a Thursday evening, or  on  a Chistmas  Eve,  I can’t  bear  in mind; but  still  I think  it  was  a Christmas  Eve, like this. Well! she thought  it  a shame  to  give the brownie  such  good  food,  so  she  gobbled  up the  syllabub  herself  both  thick  and  thin,  and  then went off  to  the  barn  with  some  oatmeal  porridge and sour  milk  in  a pig’s  trough.

“‘There you  have  your  trough,  ugly  beast,’ she said. But the  words  were  scarce  out  of  her mouth before  the  brownie  came  tearing  at  her, and took  her  by  the  waist,  and  began  to  dance with her. And he  kept  her  at  it  till  she  fell  down gasping, and  then  when  folks  came  next  morning to the  barn,  they  found  her  more  dead  than  alive. But so  long  as  he  danced  he  kept  on  singing” —

(Here my  part  was  over,  and  Miss  Liz  took  up the  brownie’s  song,  and  sang  to  the  tune  of  the Hallingdale  reel:) —— Thou hast  eaten  up  all  the  brownie’s  brose, Now come  with  the  brownie  and  try  thy  toes. Thou hast  robbed  the  brownie  of  his  right, And now  thou  must  dance  with  brownie  all  night. As the  cousin  sang,  I kept  time  with  my  feet, while the  children  with  roars  of  mirth  cut  the  most extraordinary capers,  and  executed  the  queerest steps between  us  both  on  the  floor.

“Bairns, bairns. You turn  the  room  topsy- turvy with all  this  clatter,”  said  old  Mother  Skau; “be quiet  a bit,  and  I’ll  tell  you  some  stories.” So all  were  still  as  mice,  and  Mother  Skau  struck up:

“Old Folk  tell  so  many  stories  about  brownies  and huldras, and  such  like,  but,  for  my  part,  I don’t put much  faith  in  them. I’m sure,  I never  saw  a brownie  or  a huldra;  but,  then,  I haven’t  tra- velled very far  in  all  my  life,  still  I think  all  such stories stuff. But old  ’Stina,  out  yonder,  she  tells how she  once  saw  the  brownie. About the  time that I was  confirmed,  she  had  a place  in  our house, and  before  that  she  was  out  at  service  with an old  captain  who  had  given  up  the  sea. That just was  a still  quiet  house; they  never  went  out and no  one  ever  came  to  them,  and  the  captain’s longest walk  was  down  to  the  wharf  and  back. They went  early  to  bed  too,  and  people  said  they had a brownie  in  the  house.

“‘ But once  on  a time,’  said  ’Stina,  ‘the  cook  and I were up  at  night  in  the  maid’s  room  mending  our clothes; and, when  bedtime  came — for  the  watchman had  already  called  past  ten!— darning  and sowing was  hard  work; for  every  moment  came Billy Winky; and  so  she  nodded  and  I nodded, for we  had  been  up  early  that  morning  to  work. But all  at  once,  as  we  sat  there  half-asleep,  we heard  such  a dreadful  clatter  down  in  the  kitchen. ’Twas just  as  if  someone  were  tossing  all  the  crockery about and  throwing  the  plates  on  the  floor. Up we jumped  in  alarm,  and  I screamed  out,  Heaven help and  comfort  us,  it’s  the  brownie! and I was so scared,  I daren’t  set  foot  into  the  kitchen. As for cook  she  was  just  as  much  afeard; but  at  last she plucked  up  heart,  and  then,  when  she  came into the  kitchen,  all  the  plates  lay  on  the  floor, but there  wasn’t  one  of  them  broken; and  there stood the  brownie  in  the  doorway  with  his  red  cap on his  head,  laughing,  so  that  it  did  one’s  heart  good to see  him  [see  p.  530]. Well, she  had  heard  tell how sometimes  the  brownie  could  bo  cheated  into flitting, if  one  only  had  the  courage  to  beg  him  to go,  and  told  him  of  a nice  quiet  place  somewhere else; and so  she  had  long  had  it  in  her  head  to play  him  a trick. Well, she  spoke  to  him  there and then; though  to  tell  the  truth  her  voice faltered a little,  and  bade  him  to  flit  over  the  way to the  coppersmith,  there  he  would  find  it  far  less noisy, for  there  they  went  to  bed  every  night  as the  clock  struck  nine. It was  true,  too,  she said, but  you  know,  too,  that  the  coppersmith was always  up  with  all  his  mates  and  apprentices  at three  o’clock  every  morning,  and  kept  on  hammering and  clattering  the  whole  day  through. After that day  we  saw  no  mere  of  the  brownie  at  the captain’s. But he  got  on  well  at  the  coppersmith’s in spite  of  all  their  hammering  and  pounding,  for people said  the  gudewife  put  him  a bowl  of custard  in  the  loft  every  Thursday  evening,  and  so one  can’t  wonder  that  they  soon  got  rich;  for the brownie  helped  them,  and  drew  money  to them.’

“That was  what  ’Stina  said  about  the  brownie,” said  Mother  Skau,  “and  true  it  is  that  they  pros-