part i. p. 119). For that variant and many others—Persian, Hindu,

Modern Greek, etc., including ‘Der Weber als Wischnu’ from Benfey, i. 159–163, ii. 48–56, see W. A. Clouston’s Notes on the Magical Elements in Chaucer’s ‘Squire’s Tale,’ and Analogues (Chaucer Soc. 1890, pp. 413–471). Cf. also Grimm’s ‘Blue Light,’ No. 116; Hahn, No. 15, and ii. 269, for tower of glass or crystal; Cosquin, No. 31; and Hahn, ii. 186, for a king who governs nine kingdoms. With the princess lying lifeless on the bed compare the lady sleeping on a golden bedstead in Lal Behari Day’s Folk-tales of Bengal, p. 251. In ‘The Demon and the King’s Son’ (Maive Stokes’s Indian Fairy Tales, p. 186), the demon every day makes his daughter lie on her bed, and covers her with a sheet, and places a thick stick at her head, and another at her feet. Then she dies till he comes home in the evening and changes the sticks. This brings her to life again. Cf. also notes to our Welsh-Gypsy story of ‘An Old King and his three Sons’ (No. 55).

NO. 27.—TROPSYN

There was a poor man, and he had four sons. And they went out to service, and went to a gentleman to thrash wheat. And they received so much wheat for a wage, and brought it to their father. ‘Here, father, eat; we will go out to service again.’ And they went again to a gentleman, who was to give them each a horse at the year’s end. And the youngest was called Tropsyn; and the gentleman made him his groom. And a mare brought forth a colt; and that colt said, ‘Tropsyn, take me. The year is up now.’

The gentleman said, ‘Choose your horses.’

So the three elder brothers chose good horses; but Tropsyn said, ‘Give me this horse, master.’

‘What will you do with it? it’s so little.’

‘So it may be.’

Tropsyn took it and departed; and the colt said, ‘Let me go, Tropsyn, to my dam to suck.’

And he let it go, and it went to its dam, and came back a horse to terrify the world.

‘Now mount me.’

He mounted, and the horse flew. He caught up his brothers, and his brothers asked him, ‘Where did you get that horse from?’

‘I killed a gentleman, and took his horse.’

‘Let’s push on, and escape.’

Night fell upon them as they were passing a meadow, and in that meadow they saw the light of a fire. They made for the light. It was an old woman’s, and she was a witch, and had four daughters. And they went there, and went into the house; and Tropsyn said, ‘Good-night.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Can you give us a night’s lodging?’

‘I’m not sure; my mother is not at home. When she comes you had better ask her.’

The mother came home. ‘What are you wanting, young fellows?’

‘We’ve come to demand your daughters in marriage.’

‘Good.’

She made them a bed on the ground with its head to the threshold, and her daughters’ with its head to the wall. And the old woman sharpened her sword to cut off their heads. And Tropsyn took his brothers’ caps, and put them on the girls’ heads. And the old woman arose, and kept feeling the caps, and keeps cutting off the heads, and killed her daughters.

Tropsyn arose, and led his brothers outside. ‘Come, be off.’ And he arose, Tropsyn; and the old woman had a golden bird in a cage; and Tropsyn said to the horse, ‘I will take a feather of the bird.’

And the horse said, ‘Don’t.’

‘Bah! I will.’ And he took a feather, and put it in his pocket.

And they mounted their horses and rode away, and went to a city. There was a great lord, a count; and he asked them, ‘Where are you going?’

‘We are going to service.’

‘Take service with me, then.’

And that lord was still unmarried. And they went to him, and he gave them each a place. One he set over the horses, and one he set over the oxen, and one he set over the swine; and Tropsyn he made coachman. Of a night Tropsyn stuck the feather in the wall, and it shone like a candle. And his brothers were angry, and went to their master. ‘Master, Tropsyn has a feather, such that one needs no candle—of gold.’

The master called: ‘Tropsyn, come here, bring me the feather.’

Tropsyn brought it, and gave it to his master. The master liked him better than ever, and the brothers went to the master, and said to him, ‘Master, Tropsyn has said that he’ll bring the bird alive.’

The master called Tropsyn. ‘Tropsyn, bring me the bird. If you don’t, I shall cut off your head.’

He went to his horse. ‘What am I to do, horse, for the master has told me to bring the bird?’

‘Fear not, Tropsyn; jump on my back.’

So he mounted the horse, and rode to the old woman’s. And the horse said to him, ‘Turn a somersault, [84] and you’ll become a flea, and creep into her breast and bite her. And she’ll fling off her smock, and do you go and take the bird.’

And he took the bird, and departed to his master; the master made him a lackey.

And there was in the Danube a lady, a virgin; and of a Sunday she would go out on the water in a boat. And his brothers came to their master and said, ‘Master, Tropsyn boasts that he’ll bring the lady from the bottom of the Danube.’

‘Tropsyn, come here. What is this you’ve been boasting, that you’ll bring me the lady?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You’ve got to, else I shall cut off your head.’

He went to his horse. ‘What am I to do, horse, for how shall I bring her?’

And the horse said, ‘Fear not, let him give you twelve hides and a jar of pitch, [85] and put them on me, and let him make you a small ship, not big, and let him put various drinks in the ship. And do you hide yourself behind the door. And she will come, and drink brandy, and get drunk, and sleep. And do you seize her, and jump on my back with her, and I will run off home.’

The horse ran home to the master, and Tropsyn gave her to his master in the castle. The count shut the doors, and set a watch at the window to prevent her escape, for she was wild. The count wanted to marry her; she will not.

‘Let them bring my herd of horses, then I will marry you. He who brought me, let him bring also my horses.’

The count said, ‘Tropsyn, bring the horses.’

Tropsyn went to his horse. ‘What am I to do, horse? How shall I bring the horses from the Danube?’

‘Come with me, fear not.’

When he came to the Danube, the horse leapt into the Danube, and caught the mother of the horses by the mane, and led her out. And Tropsyn caught her, and mounted her, and galloped off. And the whole herd came forth, and ran after their dam home to the count’s palace. The lady cried ‘Halt!’ to the horses.

The count wants to marry her. She says, ‘Let him milk my mares, and when you have bathed in their milk, then I will marry you.’

The count cried, ‘Tropsyn, milk the mares.’

And Tropsyn went to his horse. ‘What shall I do, horse? How shall I milk the mares?’

‘Fear not, for I will catch her by the mane, and do you milk, and fear not.’

And he milked a whole caldron full.

And the lady said, ‘Make a fire, and boil the milk.’

And they made a fire, and the milk boils.

‘Now,’ said the lady, ‘let him who milked the mares bathe in the milk.’

And the count said, ‘Tropsyn, go and bathe in the milk.’

He went to the horse. ‘What shall I do, horse? for if I bathe, then I shall die.’

The horse said, ‘Fear not, lead me to the caldron; I will snort through my nostrils, and breathe out frost.’

He led the horse; the horse snorted through his nostrils; then the milk became lukewarm. Then he leapt into the caldron, and fair as he was before, he came out fairer still. When he came out, the horse snorted through his nostrils, and breathed fire into the caldron, and the milk boiled again.

And the lady said to the count, ‘Go thou too and bathe in the milk, then will I live with thee.’

The count went to the caldron and said, ‘Tropsyn, bring me my horse.’

Tropsyn brought him his horse; the horse trembled from afar. The count leapt into the caldron; only bones were to be seen at the bottom of the caldron.

Then cried the lady, ‘Come hither, Tropsyn; thou art my lord, and I am thy lady.’

Of this Bukowina-Gypsy story we have a very interesting Welsh-Gypsy version, taken down in Rómani from Matthew Wood’s recitation by Mr. Sampson, and thus epitomised by him in English:—

NO. 28.—THE BEAUTIFUL MOUNTAIN

Somewhere far off were a quarryman and his wife. They had a son in their old age. They died. An old man comes to beg, and asks boy will he come with him to seek fortune. They go. ‘Wish me into a horse.’ Boy does so. ‘Jump on my back.’ He does so. They take the road. Horse warns boy to help anything in distress. Boy finds a little fish cast up by the tide, and puts it back in the water. Fish promises gratitude. They cross the Beautiful Mountain. Horse warns boy to touch nothing. A feather blows in his mouth. He spits it out again and again, but it returns. He looks at it, thinks it pretty, puts it in his pocket. They descend other side of the mountain. Boy hears noise of bellowing in a castle. Finds sick giant in bed, without servant-maid. Boy gets him food. Giant promises gratitude. Horse asks boy if he touched anything on mountain. ‘Nothing but this feather.’ ‘That feather will bring you sorrow, but keep it now you have it.’ They come to a castle. Boy asks for work. Master tests his handwriting. Engages him. Wants him to sleep indoors; he prefers stable beside his old horse (cf. Grimm, No. 126, ii. 155, also for pen). They marvel at his penmanship, done with this feather. One day the master’s man steals the pen by a ruse, and brings it to master: ‘Master, the man that got the feather can get the bird.’ Boy tells horse what they want him to do. Horse tells him to ask for three days’ leave and three sacks of gold. Horse and boy go off. They go and get the bird, choosing the dirtiest and ugliest bird (cf. Polish-Gypsy story, No. 49, for choosing bird in common cage). The master’s man says, ‘Master, the bird is fair, but fairer still the lady’ (that owned it). Boy told to fetch lady; he tells horse. Horse reminds him that he said the feather would bring him trouble. Three more days and three purses of gold. Horse says, ‘Wish me into a boat on the sea.’ The boat is full of the finest silk. They sail under the castle. Lure lady on board to see silk. She goes into cabin. Boy weighs anchor and off. Lady comes up, and drops her keys into sea. They return. Man says to master, ‘Master, the man that got the lady can get the castle.’ Boy tells horse. Horse reminds him of unlucky feather. Three more days and bags of gold. They go. Horse reminds boy of giant’s promise. Giant puts chain round castle and drags it along. The castle is walled round and locked. Lady demands her keys. Boy and horse go off, call the little fish. He fails to find keys. Tries again and brings them up. Keys given to lady. Lady says, ‘Which would you prefer, Jack, to have your head cut off or your master’s head cut off?’ Boy says, ‘Cut off mine, not his.’ Lady says, ‘You have spoken well. Had you not spoken thus, your own head would have been cut off. Now the master’s head will fall, not yours.’ Boy and lady wed, and live in the castle still. ‘Now you’ve got it.’

It must at least be nearly five hundred years since the ancestors of our Welsh Gypsies parted from those of their kinsfolk in Bukowina; yet the resemblance between these two versions still is marvellous. The talking horse, the entering into service at the castle, the feather, the fetching the bird, the fetching a lady (in the Bukowina version not the lady), the cabin even, the fetching the lady’s belongings, and the doom of the master—these eight details are common to both: the very order of them is identical. Non-Gypsy variants are Grimm’s ‘Ferdinand the Faithful’ (No. 126; ii. 153, 425), Cosquin’s ‘Le Roi d’Angleterre et son Filleul’ (No. 3, i. 32), his ‘La Belle aux Cheveux d’Or’ (No. 72, ii. 290), the Donegal story of ‘The Red Pony’ in W. Larmenie’s West Irish Folk-tales (1893, pp. 211–218), a Russian story summarised by Ralston (p. 287), and Laura Gonzenbach’s long Sicilian story, ‘Die Geschichte von Caruseddu’ (No. 83, ii. 143–155, 257–9). All six deserve careful study, but specially the last, which links these stories to the heroic version of ‘The Master Thief’ (supra, p. 51). For its plot, told briefly, is this:—Caruseddu and his two elder brothers go as gardeners to a dragu (rendered ‘Menschenfresser’ or ‘ogre,’ but query rather ‘dragon’). By the Hop-o’-my-thumb device of changing caps, as in ‘Tropsyn’ (cf. also Hahn, ii. 179–180), Caruseddu deludes him into devouring his own three daughters. The brothers then take service with a king—Caruseddu as trusted servant, the others as gardeners. They are jealous of Caruseddu, and get the king to send him to steal first the dragu’s talking horse, next his bed-cover with golden balls, and lastly the dragu himself. This last task he achieves by the trick of getting the dragu to try if a new coffin for (the supposed dead) Caruseddu is big enough. [86] Still at his brothers’ suggestion, Caruseddu is now sent to fetch the daughter of the queen with the seven veils; he achieves this, like his former feats, with the help of the talking horse. The princess refuses to wed the king unless he recovers for her the veil and the ring she had lost on the way to him; Caruseddu recovers them by the aid of a grateful bird and a grateful fish (cf. the Welsh version). He also sifts a barnful of wheat, oats, and barley with the aid of grateful ants. Lastly, he has to plunge into a fiery furnace, but, smeared with foam snorted by the talking horse, he emerges uninjured, far fairer than before. The old and ugly king has to essay the same ordeal, and asks Caruseddu what he smeared himself with. Who, sickened at last by his master’s ingratitude, answers, ‘With fat.’ So the king is burnt to ashes, and Caruseddu marries the princess. Reinhold Köhler, the learned annotator of Gonzenbach, compares Straparola, iii. 2 (Grimm, ii. 478) and a Wallachian story, where the hero bathes in boiling milk, which his magic horse blows cold, but in which the king himself perishes. Wratislaw gives a curious Servian story from Bosnia, ‘The Bird-catcher’ (No. 42, pp. 239–245). Here the hero, a bird-catcher, is advised by a grateful crow, but the horse comes in very mal-à-propos at the finish. Cf. also Hahn, ii. 180, 186; and Clouston’s Eastern Romances, p. 499, 570.

NO. 29.—PRETTY-FACE

There was a widow lady, and she had an only son. And he stuck his ring in the wall, and said, ‘Mother, when blood flows from the ring, then I am dead.’

And he was called Peter Pretty-face.

He took the road, and the dragon with six heads came, and he drew his sword and killed him, and made three heaps of him, and planted a red flag, and went further. And a dragon with twelve heads came, and he drew his sword, and killed him also, and made twelve heaps, and planted a black flag, and went further. And there came one with twenty-four heads, and he killed him also, and made twenty-four heaps, and planted a white flag.

Behold! the dragons carried off an emperor’s daughter—there were twelve dragons—and shut her up in their castle. And they went and fought from morning even till noon; he who shall prove himself strongest, he shall marry the maiden.

And his mother had said to him, ‘If you will go, your death will not be by a hero, but your death will be by a cripple.’

So he went to that castle, and saw the maiden at the window, and he asked her, ‘What are you doing there?’

‘The dragons carried me off, and shut me up here.’

‘And where are they gone to?’

‘They are gone to fight for me.’

‘And when will they come home?’

‘They will come at noon to dine. And they will hurl their club, and it will strike the door, that I may have the food ready.’

He opened the door and went in to her. The dragons hurled the club, and struck the door; and he took the club, and hurled it back, and killed them all.

‘Now have no fear; they are dead.’

He married the emperor’s daughter.

And the emperor heard that the dragons had carried off his daughter; and the emperor said, ‘He who shall free her from the dragons, he shall marry her.’ The emperor knew not that Peter Pretty-face had married her. He thought that the dragons had carried her off.

And there was one Chutilla the Handless, and he went to the emperor. ‘I, O emperor, will rescue your daughter from the dragons.’

‘Well, if you do, she shall be yours.’

So he, Chutilla, went to Peter Pretty-face. And night came upon him, and he had nowhere to sleep, and he crept into the hen-house. In the morning Peter Pretty-face arose, and washed his face, and looked out of the window, and Chutilla came forth from the hen-house.

And Peter Pretty-face saw him. ‘By him is my death.’

Chutilla came indoors and said, ‘Good-morning, Peter Pretty-face.’

‘Thanks, Chutilla.’

‘Come, Peter Pretty-face, give me the emperor’s daughter.’

He said, ‘I will not.’

Chutilla caught him by the throat, and placed his head on the threshold. [87] ‘Give me, Peter Pretty-face, the maiden, else I will cut off your head.’

‘Cut it off; I will not give her.’

Chutilla cut off his head, and took the girl and departed.

Blood began to flow from the ring. His mother saw it. ‘Now my son is dead.’ She went after him, to seek for him, and came to the red flag. His mother said, ‘My son went this way.’ She went further, and came to the black flag. ‘My son went this way.’ She went further, and came to the white flag. ‘My son went this way.’ She came to the castle, found her son dead; and two serpents were licking the blood. And she struck one serpent, and it died. And the other serpent brought a leaf in its mouth, and went to the first serpent, and it also arose. And the lady saw, and killed it also, and took the leaf, and placed her son’s head again on the trunk, and touched it with the leaf, and he arose.

‘Mother, I was sleeping soundly.’

‘You would have slept for ever if I had not come.’

‘Mother, I will go to my lady.’

‘Go not, mother’s darling.’

‘Bah! I will go, mother.’

‘If go you will, God aid you.’

He went, and went straight to Chutilla, and seized Chutilla, and cut him all in little pieces, till he had cut him up, and cast him to the dogs, and they devoured him. And he took the emperor’s daughter, and went with her to the emperor.

And the maiden said, ‘Father, this is he that saved me from the dragons.’

The emperor joined them in marriage, and made him king. And they lived, perhaps they are living even now.

I know no variant, Gypsy or Gentile, of this story, though Chutilla recalls the ‘Halber Mensch’ of Hahn, ii. 274. The three flags, red, black, and white, are seemingly unique. For casting the club to announce one’s coming, cf. supra, pp. 37, 40; and Denton’s Serbian Folklore, p. 124. For snake-leaf in Hungarian-Gypsy tale, cf. supra, p. 99. And for ‘Mother, I was sleeping soundly,’ cf. supra, p. 33. If the story of ‘Peter Pretty-face’ is complete, his easy victory at the end may be due to God’s help, invoked by the mother.

NO. 30.—THE RICH AND THE POOR BROTHER

There were two brothers, one poor and one rich. And the rich one said to him, ‘Come with me, brother, to our father.’ And the rich one took bread for himself, and the poor one had none.

And the rich one kept eating bread, and the poor one said, ‘Give me, too, a bit of bread.’

‘If you will give me an eye, I will give you a bit of bread.’

‘I will give it you, brother.’

And he took out an eye, and gave him a bit of bread.

And he went further, and he hungered. ‘Give me a bit more bread.’

‘Give me one more eye.’

‘I will give it you, brother.’

Behold, he was blind now, and his brother took him by the hand and led him under the gallows, and left him there; and his brother departed. At nightfall came the devils, and perched on the gallows.

And the biggest devil asked, ‘What hast done in the world? where wert walking?’

‘I did—I stopped the water.’

‘And thou, what hast thou done?’

‘The emperor’s daughter neither dies nor lives; she is just in torment.’

‘And thou, what hast thou done?’

‘I did—that a brother dug out a brother’s eyes.’

‘If he knew, there’s a brook here, and if he washed himself, he would see.’

‘If the townsfolk knew to go to the mountain and remove the stone, the water would flow again.’

And the third said, ‘But if the emperor’s daughter knew, under her bed there is a toad, and if she takes it out, and gets ready a bath, and puts the toad in the bath, and if they wash her, she would grow strong.’

Then the cocks crowed, and the devils departed.

So the man dragged himself to the brook, and kept feeling with his hand till he found the water. And he washed his face, and his eyes were restored to him. And he went into the city where they had stopped the water. ‘What will you give me if I release the water?’

‘What you want, we will give you.’

‘Well, come with me to the mountain, take to you iron crowbars.’

So they went to the mountain, and raised the stone; and the water flowed plentifully.

‘Well, now, what do you want, man, for releasing the water?’

‘Give me a carriage and two horses and a carriageful of money.’

They gave them to him. He went to the emperor’s daughter. ‘What will you give me if I make her strong?’

‘What you want, I will give you.’

‘Set water on the fire to boil.’

And he went and took out the toad, and threw it into the bath; and they washed the emperor’s daughter, and she grew stronger and fairer than ever.

‘What do you want for making her strong and fair?’

‘Give me two horses and a carriageful of money, and give me a driver home.’

So he went home, and sent the servant to his brother, to borrow a bushel. And his brother asked, ‘What to do with the bushel?’

‘To measure money with.’

His brother gave him the bushel, and went himself and asked his brother, ‘Where did you get it, the money, from, and the horses?’

‘From there where you left me.’

‘Lead me, too, thither to that place. I am sorry, brother.’

‘Don’t be sorry; you’ve just got to go. Well, come, brother.’

So they both went to the place where he dug out his eyes.

‘Give me, brother, a bit of bread.’

‘Give me an eye.’

He gave him an eye, and he gave him a bit of bread.

And they went further. ‘Give me, brother, a bit more bread.’

‘Give me one more eye.’

‘I will, brother.’

So he gave him a bit more bread, and took him by the hand, and led him under the gallows, and left him there, and departed. At nightfall came the devils, and perched on the gallows. And the biggest devil asked, ‘What have you done? where have you been to in the world?’

One said, ‘Don’t tell, for there was lately a blind man under the gallows, and he heard what we said. And he made himself eyes, and made the water run, and raised up the emperor’s daughter. Stay, while I look under the gallows.’

And they found the blind man. ‘There’s a blind man here.’ And they rent him all in pieces. Then the devils departed; the man was dead.

This story is told as well as story may be. There is a Gypsy variant, longer but not half so good, from the Hungarian Carpathians, in Miklosich’s Beiträge, p. 3:—

NO. 31.—THE THREE BROTHERS

There was, there was not, a lord; and he had three sons. And one was the eldest son, and he said to his father, ‘We will go somewhere to seek a livelihood.’

‘Well, go, my sons,’ said their father.

When they went, he baked loaves for each one to put in his wallet. Then they went a long way, and the youngest had most bread. And that youngest brother said, ‘Brothers mine, I cannot carry this wallet, so first we will eat from my wallet, brothers mine.’

When they had eaten, they then went a long way further, and then those two brothers ate, and gave not to the third. He now had nothing, and says, ‘Brothers mine, why don’t you give me to eat? You ate up mine, and now you don’t give me to eat.’

‘If you’ll let one of your eyes be taken out, then we will give you to eat,’ said the two elder brothers. And then they took out his eye, and then gave him to eat. When they had eaten, they went a long way further. And there again those two brothers eat, and the third one says, ‘Why don’t you give me to eat? Now you’ve taken my eye out, and yet give me nothing to eat.’

‘If you’ll let your other eye be taken out, then we will give you to eat.’

And he, the youngest, says, ‘Just do with me what you will.’

Then they took out his eye; then they gave him to eat; then that eyeless one said, ‘Lead me under the cross; maybe some one will give me something.’

They led him not under the cross, but under a gallows, and there hung a dead man. And then thither came three crows, and thus talked one with another:

‘What’s the news in your country?’ thus they asked one of them. ‘What’s the news?’

‘In my country there is no water.’

‘And in your country what’s the news?’

‘There’s a dew there, if a blind man rubs his eyes with it, he forthwith sees.’

‘And in your third country what’s the news?’

‘In my country there is a princess sick.’

And then those three crows went to the lad, and then they asked him what he was doing under the gallows.

And he said, ‘My brothers brought me here.’

And then those three crows flew away. And that lad feels in the grass with his hands, then he put it on his eyes, then he moistened his eyes; forthwith he saw. And then that lad departed to the king. That lad was then the king’s servant, and went then to a city, and went up above the city, and saw there such a great rock, and struck that rock as with a rod; forthwith the water came from the rock. And then that water flowed into the city, where there was no water, there flowed that water, and the people were greatly rejoiced. And then he, that lad, cried that the water will always flow; then were the people greatly rejoiced that that water was flowing.

And then that boy went to another city, and there was a sick princess. He went to that king, and asked him, ‘What’s this princess got?’

‘What’s she got! she’s sick.’

‘If you will give me her to wife, then I will help her,’ said that lad to the king.

‘Do but help her, then we will give you her to wife.’

When he had healed her, then he took her to wife; and then they held the bridal seven whole years. And then he became young king.

That young king said to his soldiers, ‘Hark ye, soldiers, go after my two brothers.’

Then those soldiers went after those two brothers, and then they brought the brothers. Then that young king asks them, ‘How many brothers had you?’

And they said, ‘We are only two.’

The king says, ‘Hah! were there ever more of you?’

Then those two brothers say, ‘We were three.’

Then, ‘What have you done with the third one?’

‘Done with him! He demanded of us to eat, then we took out his eyes.’

Then, ‘I am he,’ thus did that young king say. ‘Now, what am I to do with you?’

Those two brothers say, ‘Lead us under that cross.’

He led them under that very cross. When he had led them, there came again those same three crows. When they had come, again they asked one another, ‘What is the news in your country?’

‘In my country now is the princess well.’

‘And in your second country what is the news?’

‘In my country now is much water.’

‘And in your third country what is the news?’

‘There now is no such dew as they rubbed the eyes with.’

Then those three crows came to those two lads, and then there those crows say, ‘We will tear these two lads.’ And they tore and devoured them. And then those three crows flew away, and flew into the sky.

With its then’s and its that’s, a very imperfect, schoolboyish version. It does not tell how the hero cured the princess, or that his two brothers were blinded. Non-Gypsy variants of this widespread story are Grimm’s ‘The Two Travellers’ (No. 107, ii. 81), Cosquin’s ‘Les Deux Soldats de 1689’ (No. 7, i. 84), Denton’s Servian story of ‘Justice or Injustice’ (p. 83), Wratislaw’s ‘Right always remains Right’ (Lusatian, No. 14, p. 92), Hahn’s ‘Gilt Recht oder Unrecht’ (No. 30, i. 209), and others cited by Clouston (i. 249–261) from Norway, Portugal, the Kabyles, the Kirghiz, Arabia, Persia, and India. The borrowing the bushel occurs in the ‘Big Peter and Little Peter’ group of stories (cf. Clouston, i. 120, ii. 241–278; and Campbell’s Santal Folk-tales, pp. 30, 100), of which we have a Welsh-Gypsy version (No. 68), and which have a certain affinity with ‘The Rich and the Poor Brother.’ ‘Prince Half-a-Son’ in F. A. Steel’s Indian Wide-awake Stories, p. 290, is plainly analogous. On p. 277 we have ‘a great rich wedding that lasted seven years and seven days.’

NO. 32.—THE ENCHANTED CITY

There was a poor lad, and he served seven years, and could not earn anything. And he went into the world, and went into a city, and spent the night there, and lay down under a wall, and slept. In that wall there was a hole, and he awoke, and looked through the hole, and saw a candle. And he crept through the hole, and went into a palace. There was a great city, and there was an emperor in the city; and the emperor was dead, and also the empress was dead. And the emperor had a daughter, and she commanded the army. And that city was excommunicated, and the people were turned into stone. So the lad went into the palace of the emperor, and there in the palace all were turned into stone. And he marvelled what this might be, that the men were like men, but yet were all turned into stone.

A cat came, and set food on the table. He sat down to table, and ate. At night came the cat, and brought him food, and brought him cards, and said to him, ‘There will come a lord, and will say, “Play at cards,” and do you play; and he will spit on you, and do you bear it, but look at the clock. When it strikes ten, then give him a slap.’

Then there came devils as many as the blades of grass; and they beat him and tormented him till twelve o’clock; and the cocks crowed, and they fled. He lay down in the bed and slept. In the morning the cat brought him food, and he ate. At nightfall she again brought him food, said to him, ‘He will come again for you to play with him, and do you play till ten o’clock, and give him a slap; and they will come to you as many as all the blades of grass, and will beat you and torment you, and do you bear it till twelve o’clock.’

The lord came to him. ‘Hah! let us play cards.’

And they played till ten o’clock. He gave him, the devil, a slap. They came as many as all the blades of grass, and they beat him and tormented him till twelve o’clock, and they fled. He lay down in the bed and slept. In the morning he heard the folks talking in the city. In the morning the cat brought him food, and brought him royal clothes. He ate, and put on the clothes, and went into twelve chambers. There was the emperor’s daughter in her bed. One half was alive, and she said, ‘You are my emperor, and I am your empress, but come no more to me.’

Again at night the cat brought him food, and said to him, ‘He will come again to-night to play cards till ten o’clock. At ten o’clock give him a slap again, and they will come to you as many as all the blades of grass, and they will beat you and torment you, but bear it.’

That lord came to him. ‘Hah! let us play cards.’

And they played till ten o’clock. He gave him a slap, and they came as many as all the blades of grass, and they beat him and tormented him, and he bore it till twelve o’clock. At twelve o’clock they fled. He lay down on the bed and slept. In the morning the band began to play, they held a review. [88] ‘For we have a new emperor.’ The ministers came to him, and raised him shoulder-high. ‘We have a new emperor.’

And he is in a hurry to go to his empress, and said, ‘Stay here, I will be back immediately.’

And he went to her. There she stood with her head to the roof, and a vapour went forth from her mouth; and he opened the door, and she just made a sign to him with her hand, and fell back on the bed, and became stone up to the waist. And she called him to her. ‘Leave me; I want you not. Why did you not wait to come to me, till I should obtain remission of my sins? Take you my father’s horse and his sword, and take a purse; as much money as you want, it shall not fail.’

He set out, and journeyed, and departed into another kingdom. There two emperors were fighting, because one would not give his daughter to the other’s son. ‘Set yourself to battle with me, since you refuse your daughter.’ They fought seven years. So he [89] came into that city, and came to an inn, to a certain Armenian. And there was a great famine; the soldiers were dying of hunger. So he asked the Armenian, ‘What’s the news here?’

‘No good. They have been waging a great war seven years here for a girl, and the soldiers are dying of hunger.’

And he said, ‘Go and call them to me.’

The soldiers came, and he bought bread and brandy, and they drank and ate; and he said to the Armenian, ‘I, if I choose, I will cut that army to pieces.’

The Armenian went to the emperor. ‘Emperor, a king’s son is come, and has boasted that he by himself will cut that army to pieces.’

‘Call him to me.’

‘What is this you’ve been boasting? will you cut that army to pieces?’

‘I will.’

‘If you do, I will give you my daughter, and give you one half of my kingdom.’

And he, when he went to battle, waved to the right hand, and slew one half of the army, and he waved to the left hand, and slew the other half. And he came home, and the emperor gave him his daughter, and made a marriage.

‘Ask him what strength is his, that he slew so great an army.’ [90]

And he said, ‘My sword slays.’

And she sent back a letter, ‘The sword alone slays; send me another sword, and I will send this one to you.’

She sent him the sword, and he then said, ‘Set yourself now to battle with me.’

And he went in hope. But the emperor slew him, and cut him all in pieces, and put him in the saddle-bags, and placed him on his horse, and said, ‘Whence thou didst bear him living, bear him dead.’ [91]

The horse carried him home, thither to that lady who was of stone. She cried, ‘Bring him to me.’ She laid him on a table, and put him all together; and she sprinkled him with dead water, and he became whole; and she sprinkled him with living water, and he arose. [92]

‘Go back; take you this purse, you have but to wish and you will find it full of money. And go to that Armenian, and give him whatever he wants, and tell him you will turn yourself into a horse. Take a hair from my tail, [93] and bind it round you like a girdle, and fling a somersault.’ [94]

So he turned himself into a horse; and the Armenian took him, and led him into the city. The emperor bought him, and mounted him. He dashed him to the earth, and he died. The horse took the sword in his mouth, and went to the Armenian. The Armenian loosened the hair, and he became a man again. He made the Armenian king; and he departed home to his mistress, the first one, and wedded her. And he became emperor.

A mere ruin of a folk-tale, but what a fine ruin. The cat reminds one of Grimm’s No. 106, ‘The Poor Miller’s Boy and the Cat’ (ii. 78, 406), where the cat takes the hero into an enchanted castle, and gives him to eat and to drink. But Grimm’s No. 92, ‘The King of the Golden Mountain’ (ii. 28, 390), comes much closer to our Gypsy story. There the hero has three nights running to let himself be tortured in a bewitched castle by twelve black men till twelve o’clock, so to set free an enchanted maiden. Grimm’s No. 121, ‘The King’s Son who feared Nothing’ (ii. 134, 419), should also be compared, and our Welsh-Gypsy story, ‘Ashypelt’ (No. 57). The latter half of ‘The Enchanted City’ is identical with Krauss’s No. 47 (i. 224), a Slovenian story. For the magic sword cf. infra, p. 160; Clouston’s notes to Lane’s Continuation of Chaucer’s ‘Squire’s Tale’ (Chaucer Soc. 1888, pp. 372–381); Wratislaw’s Polish story, ‘The Spirit of a buried Man,’ No. 18, p. 122; and F. A. Steel’s Wide-awake Stories, p. 62. Playing cards with the devil or a monster occurs also in our No. 63 (p. 256), and in folk-tales from Russia, Germany, French Flanders, Lorraine, and Brittany (cf. Ralston, p. 375; Grimm, No. 4, i. 16, 346; and Cosquin, i. 28; ii. 254, 259, 260).

NO. 33.—THE JEALOUS HUSBAND

There was a merchant, great and wealthy, and he had a beautiful wife; he did not let her go out. And he went in a ship on the Danube after merchandise with another merchant. And they were coming home. They hauled their ships to the bank, and moored them to the bank, to pass the night. They fell into discourse. Said one, ‘Has your wife got a lover at home?’

And he said, ‘My wife has not got a lover.’

‘Come, what will you give me if I become her lover?’

‘If you do, I will give you my estate, and my merchandise too, ship and all.’

‘How will you know that I am her lover?’

‘If you tell me her birth-mark, and if you take the gold ring from her finger. But my wife will be like to thrash you, if you but hint such a thing to her. I left a maid with her, to see that my wife does not go out of doors.’

‘I shall succeed, though.’

‘Go home and try; I’ll bring your ship.’

Home he went. What will he do? for he cannot come near her. He found an old wife. ‘Old wife, what am I to do to get the ring from the lady?’

‘What will you give me if I contrive that you get it?’

‘I will give you a hundred florins.’

‘Get a big chest made, and a window in it, and get into it, and make a bolt inside, and I will carry you to her.’

She carried him in the chest under the wall of her house, and went to the lady. ‘I beg you, lady, to take in my box of clothes, so that they may not be stolen.’

‘Carry it into the hall.’

She called the maid, and the maid helped her to carry him into the hall.

‘I beg you, lady, to let me take it right into your house. I will come in the morning to fetch it.’

‘Well, put it in a corner.’

The old woman went off home. The lady at night took a bath, and laid the ring on the table, and washed herself. And through the little window he perceived a mole under her right breast. The lady slept all night in her bed, and forgot the ring on the table, and put out the candle. And he let himself out, took the ring off the table, and got back into the chest, shut himself in. The old woman came next morning at daybreak, and carried her chest outside. He opened it, and came out, and took the chest, and departed. He went to meet the husband, and found him on the way.

‘Hast thou lain with my lady?’

‘I have.’

‘What is her birth-mark?’

‘She has a mole under her right breast. If you do not believe me, here is the ring as well.’

‘It’s all right; take the ship and everything in it, and come home, and I will give you also the estate.’

He went home, and said never a word to the lady; and he made a little boat, and put her in it, and let it go on the Danube. ‘Since you have done this, away you go on the Danube.’ He gave his whole estate, and became poor, and carried water for the Jews.

A whole year she floated on the Danube; the year went like a day. An old man caught her, and drew her to shore, and opened the boat, and took her out, and brought her to his house. She abode with him three years, and spun with her spindle, and made some money. And she bought herself splendid man’s clothes, and dressed herself, and cut her hair short, and went back to her husband. She went and passed the night beneath a lime-tree, and slept under the lime-tree. In that city the emperor was blind. She saw a dream: in the lime-tree was a hole, and in the hole was water; and if the emperor will anoint himself with that water he will see. She arose in the morning, and searched around, and found the hole. And she had a little pail, and she drew water in the pail, and put it in her pocket, and went into that city to an inn, and drank three kreutzers’ worth of brandy. And she asked the Jew, ‘What’s the news with you?’

‘Our emperor is blind, and he will give his kingdom to him who shall make him see.’

‘I will do so.’

The Jew went to the emperor, and the emperor said to him, ‘Hah! go and bring him to me.’

They brought him to the emperor. ‘Will you make me see? then I will give you my daughter.’

She took water, and anointed his eyes, and he saw. The emperor set his crown on her head. ‘Do you be emperor. I want nothing but to stay beside you.’ The emperor clad her royally, called his army, beat the drum. ‘For there’s a new emperor.’

And she saw her husband carrying water for the Jews. ‘Come hither. Have you always been poor?’

‘No, I once was not poor, I was rich. I had an estate, and I was a great merchant.’

‘Then how did you lose your estate?’

‘I lost it over a wager. My wife played the wanton with another, and I gave up the estate, and sent her adrift on the Danube.’

Straightway she sent for the other, and they brought him. ‘How did you come by this man’s estate?’

‘Over a wager.’

‘What was your wager?’

‘That I would lie with her.’

‘Then you did so?’

‘I did.’

‘And, pray, what were her birth-marks?’

‘Under her right breast she had a mole.’

‘Would you know that mole again?’

‘I would.’

Then she drew out her breast. ‘Did you lie with me?’

‘I did not.’

‘Then why those falsehoods? Here, take him, and cut him all to pieces.’

And she looked earnestly on her husband. ‘You, why did you not ask me at the time?’

‘I was a fool, and I was angry.’

‘Here, take him outside, and give him five-and-twenty, to teach him wisdom.’

She threw the robes off her, and put them on him. ‘Do you be emperor, and I empress.’

Were I a painter, I would paint a picture—the Forest of Arden, a Gypsy encampment, with tents, dogs, donkeys, and children, a Gypsy story-teller, and Shakespeare. But one knows, of course, that Shakespeare derived the material of his Cymbeline from the novel of Boccaccio (Dec. ii. 9), immediately in all likelihood, and not through the second story in Westward for Smelts. Granted he did, the question arises next, whence did Boccaccio get his material? Did he invent it, and, if so, is this Gypsy story derived from Boccaccio, and not it only, but Campbell’s West Highland tale of ‘The Chest’ (No. 18), Larminie’s ‘Servant of Poverty’ (West Irish Folk-tales, pp. 115–129), and at least two other folk-tales cited by Köhler—one in Wolf’s German Hausmärchen, p. 355, and one from Roumania in Ausland, 1856, p. 1053? Campbell’s story at any rate cannot have come from Boccaccio, containing, as it does, the essence, not merely of Cymbeline, but also of The Merchant of Venice. For its hero borrows £50 on condition that if he does not repay it within a year and a day he is to lose a strip of skin cut from his head to his foot; [95] ‘Yes,’ says the heroine, ‘but in cutting it, not one drop of blood must be shed.’ To go fully into this question would occupy pages and pages; I must content myself with referring to The Remarks of M. Karl Simrock on the Plots of Shakespeare’s Plays, with notes by J. O. Halliwell (Shakespeare Soc. 1850), pp. 64–75 and 45–63, and to Reinhold Köhler on Campbell’s tale in Orient und Occident, ii. 1864, pp. 313–316. But it is just worth pointing out that Gypsies may have had a considerable influence on the European drama. The Scottish Gypsies who, as recorded in the Introduction, used yearly to gather in the stanks of Roslin during the last half of the sixteenth century, acted there ‘severall plays.’ We have not the dimmest notion what those plays may have been; still, this would be quite an early item in any history of the stage in Scotland. Sir William Ouseley in his Travels in Persia (1823), iii. 400–405, gives a long description of a Persian puppet-play, curiously like our own Punch and Judy: ‘the managers of these shows, and the musicians who attended them, were said to be of the Karachi or Gypsy tribe.’ I myself at Göttingen, in 1873, several times came across a family of German Gypsies, very full-blooded ones, who were marionette-showers; like a dull dog, I never went to see their shows. Gorger (Rómani gaújo, Gentile or man) is current theatrical slang for a manager; and Mayhew’s London Labour and the London Poor (1851) shows that the slang of our English show-folk contains a good many Rómani words. The very Pandean pipes are suggestive of importation from South-east Europe. Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister offers something to the purpose, so also do the Bunjara players in Mrs. F. A. Steel’s On the Face of the Waters (1896); and my own In Gypsy Tents, pp. 295–6, gives a glance at an English travelling theatre whose performers spoke fluent Rómani.

NO. 34.—MADE OVER TO THE DEVIL

There was a rich man, and he went into the forest, and fell into a bog with his carriage. And his wife brought forth a son, and he knew it not. And the Devil came forth, and said, ‘What will you give me if I pull you out?’

‘I will give you what you want.’

‘Give me what you have at home.’

‘I have horses, oxen.’

‘Give me that which you have not seen.’

‘I will.’

‘Make a covenant with me.’

He made a covenant with him, and the Devil pulled him out of the mud, and the man went home. By the time he got home he had forgotten the covenant.

The boy was twenty years old. ‘Make me a cake, mother, for I’m off to the place my father pledged me to.’ And he went far over the mountains, and came to the Devil’s house. There was an old woman in the house, and a daughter of the Devil’s, and she asked him, ‘Whither art going, lad?’

‘I have come to the lord here, to serve.’

And the girl saw him, and he pleased her. ‘I may tell you that he is my father. My father will turn himself into a horse, and will tell you to mount him and traverse the world. And do you make yourself an iron club and an iron curry-comb, and hit him with the club, for he will not stoop, and get on his back, and as you go keep hitting him on the head.’

He traversed the world, and came home, put him in the stable, and went to the maiden.

‘My father didn’t fling you?’

‘No, for I kept hitting him on the head.’

The Devil called him, and took a jar of poppy-seed, and poured it out on the grass, and told him to gather it all up, and fill the jar, for, ‘If you don’t, I will cut off your head.’

He went to the maiden, and wept.

‘What are you weeping for?’

‘Your father has told me to fill the jar with poppy-seed; and if I don’t, he will cut off my head.’

She said, ‘Fear not.’ She went outside and gave a whistle, and the mice came as many as all the blades of grass and the leaves.

And they asked, ‘What do you want, mistress?’

‘Gather the poppy-seed and fill the jar.’

And the mice came and picked up the grains of poppy-seed one by one, and filled the jar.

The Devil saw it. ‘You’re a clever chap. Here is one more task for you: drain the marsh, and plough it, and sow it, and to-morrow bring me roasted maize. And if you do not, I shall cut your head off.’

He went to the maiden and wept. ‘Your father has told me to drain the marsh, and give him roasted maize to-morrow.’

‘Fear not.’

She went outside, and took the fiery whip. And she struck the marsh once, and it was dried up; a second time she struck, and it was ploughed; the third time she struck, it was sowed; the fourth time she struck, and the maize was roasted; and in the morning he gave him roasted maize.

She said to him, ‘We are three maidens. He will make us all alike, will call you to guess which is the eldest, which is the middle one, and which the youngest; and you will not be able to guess, for we shall be all just alike. I shall be at the top, and notice my feet, for I shall keep tapping one foot on the other; the middle one will be in the middle, and the eldest fronting you, and so you will know.’

The Devil said to him, ‘One more task I will give you. Fell the whole forest, and stack it by to-morrow.’

He went to the maiden, and the maiden asked him, ‘Have you a father and mother?’

‘I have.’

‘Ah! let us fly, for my father will kill you. Take the whetstone, and take a comb; I have a towel.’

They set out and fled. The Devil arose, saw that the forest is not felled. ‘Go and call him to me.’

Ho, ho! there is neither the lad nor the maiden.

‘Hah! go after them.’

They went, and the two saw them coming after them. And she said to him, ‘I will make myself a field of wheat, and do you make yourself to be looking at the wheat, and they will ask you, “Didn’t a maiden and a lad pass by?” “Bah! they passed when I was sowing the wheat.”’

‘Go back, for we shall not catch them.’

They went back. ‘We did not catch them.’

‘On the road did not you find anything?’

‘We found a field of wheat and a peasant.’

‘Go back, for the field of wheat was she, and he was the peasant.’

They saw them again. She said to the lad, ‘I will turn a somersault and make myself an old church, and do you turn a somersault and make yourself an old monk, and they will ask you, “Didn’t a maiden and a lad pass by?” “They passed just as I began the church.”’

‘Ah! go back, for we shall never catch them. When he was beginning the church! It is old now.’

‘Did you not find anything on the road?’

‘We found a church and a monk.’

‘The church was she, and he was the monk. I will go myself.’

They saw him. ‘Now my father is coming; we shall not escape. Fling the comb.’

He flung the comb, and it became a forest from earth to sky. Whilst he was gnawing away the forest, they got a long way ahead. He was catching them up; she cried, ‘Fling the whetstone.’

He flung the whetstone, and it became a rock of stone from earth even to heaven. Whilst he, the Devil, was making a hole in the rock, they got a long way ahead. Again he is catching them up. ‘Father is catching us up.’ She flung the towel, and it became a great water and a mill. They halted on the bank.

And he cried, ‘Harlot, how did you cross the water?’

‘Fasten the millstone to your neck, and jump into the water.’

He fastened the millstone to his neck, and jumped into the water, and was choked.

She said, ‘Fear not, for my father is choked.’

He went to his father with the maiden. His father rejoiced; but the maiden said to the lad, ‘I will go to expiate my father’s sins, for I choked him. I go for three years.’

She took her ring, and broke it in half, and gave one half to him. ‘Keep that, and do not lose it.’ She departed for three years.

He forgot her, and made preparations to marry. He was holding his wedding. She came, and he knew her not.

‘Drink a glass of brandy.’

She drank out of his glass, and flung the half of the ring into the glass, and gave it to him. When he drank, he got it into his mouth, and he took it in his hand and looked at it, and he took his half and fitted the two together. ‘Hah! this is my wife; this one saved me from death.’

And he quashed that marriage, and took his first wife and lived with her.

There are several obvious lacunæ in this story, one that the poppy-seed must have been mixed with some other seed, else the task would have been far too easy. The Polish-Gypsy story of ‘The Witch’ (No. 50), corresponds pretty closely; and for the roasted maize task compare the Roumanian-Gypsy story of ‘The Snake who became the King’s Son-in-law’ (No. 7). For a multitude of non-Gypsy variants see Ralston’s ‘The Water-King and Vasilissa the Wise’ (pp. 120–133), especially the Indian story at the end. Cf. also Cosquin, ii. 9, and i. 103, 106, 139, 141. The ring episode recurs in the Bohemian-Gypsy story, ‘The Three Dragons’ (No. 44, p. 154). The fiery whip in the Gypsy story is, to the best of my knowledge, unique.

NO. 35.—THE LYING STORY

Before I was born, my mother had a fancy for roast starlings. And there was no one to go, so I went alone to the forest. And I found roast starlings in the hollow of a tree. I put in my hand, and could not draw it out. I took and got right in, and the hole closed up. I set out and went to my godfather to borrow the axe.

My godfather said, ‘The servant with the axe is not at home, but,’ said my godfather, ‘I will give you the hatchet, and the hatchet is expecting little hatchets.’

‘Never fear, godfather.’

And he gave me the hatchet, and I went and cut my way out of the tree, and I flung down the hatchet. Whilst it was falling a bird built its nest in the handle, and laid eggs, and hatched them, and brought forth young ones; and when the hatchet had fallen down, it gave birth to twelve little hatchets. And I put them in my wallet, and carried them to my godfather. My godfather rejoiced. He gave me one of the hatchets, and I stuck it in my belt at my back, and went home. I was thirsty and went to the well. The well was deep. I cut off my brainpan, and drank water out of it. I laid my brainpan by the well, and went home. And I felt something biting me on the head; and when I put up my hand to my head there came forth worms. I returned to my brainpan, and a wild-duck had laid eggs in my brainpan, and hatched them, and brought forth ducklings. And I took the hatchet, and flung it, and killed the wild-duck, but the ducklings flew away. Behind the well was a fire, and the hatchet fell into the fire. I hunted for the hatchet, and found the handle, but the blade of the hatchet was burnt. And I took the handle, and stuck it in my belt at my back, and went home, and found our mare, and got up on her. And the handle cut the mare in half, and I went riding on two of her legs, and the two hind ones were eating grass. And I went back, and cut a willow withy, and trimmed it, and sewed the mare together. Out of her grew a willow-tree up to heaven. And I remembered that God is owing me a treeful of eggs and a pailful of sour milk. And I climbed up the willow, and went to God, and went to God’s thrashing-floor. There twelve men were thrashing oats.

‘Where are you going to, man?’

‘I am going to God.’

‘Don’t go; God isn’t at home.’

And the smiths felled the willow, and I took an oat-straw and made a rope, and let myself down. And the rope was too short, and I kept cutting off above, and tying on below; then I jumped down, and came to the other world. I went home, and got a spade, and dug myself out [of the other, or nether world], and went home, and gave the starlings to my mother, and she ate, and was safely delivered of me, and I am living in the world.

One is reminded of Münchausen and of several lying tales in Grimm, e.g. Nos. 112, 138, 158, and 159. Cf. especially his notes at ii. 413. The very first Gypsy folk-tale I ever took down, twenty years ago now, from one of the Boswells, was the following lying tale:—

NO. 36.—HAPPY BOZ’LL

Wonst upon a time there was a Romano, and his name was Happy Boz’ll, and he had a German-silver grinding-barrow, and he used to put his wife and his child on the top, and he used to go that quick along the road he’d beat all the coaches. Then he thought this grinding-barrow was too heavy and clumsy to take about, and he cut it up and made tent-rods of it. And then his donkey got away, and he didn’t know where it was gone to; and one day he was going by the tent, and he said to himself, ‘Bless my soul, wherever’s that donkey got to?’ And there was a tree close by, and the donkey shouted out and said, ‘I’m here, my Happy, getting you a bit o’ stick to make a fire.’ Well, the donkey came down with a lot of sticks, and he had been up the tree a week, getting firewood. Well then, Happy had a dog, and he went out one day, the dog one side the hedge, and him the other. And then he saw two hares. The dog ran after the two; and as he was going across the field, he cut himself right through with a scythe; and then one half ran after one hare, and the other after the other. Then the two halves of the dog catched the two hares; and then the dog smacked together again; and he said, ‘Well, I’ve got ’em, my Happy’; and then the dog died. And Happy had a hole in the knee of his breeches, and he cut a piece of the dog’s skin, after it was dead, and sewed it in the knee of his breeches. And that day twelve months his breeches-knee burst open, and barked at him. And so that’s the end of Happy Boz’ll.

Also Münchausen-like; but I believe it was largely this story, which I printed on p. 160 of my In Gypsy Tents, that led the great Lazarus Petulengro to remark once to Mr. Sampson, ‘Isn’t it wonderful, sir, that a real gentleman could have wrote such a thing—nothing but low language and povertiness, and not a word of grammar or high-learned talk in it from beginning to end.’

We have a third Gypsy lying story, a Welsh-Gypsy one. Matthew Wood’s father had, like a good many Gypsies, a contempt for folk-tales, and, when called on for his turn, he always gave this, the very shortest one:—‘There were a naked man and a blind man and a lame man. The blind man saw a hare, and the lame man ran and caught it, and the naked man put it in his pocket.’ Cf. Grimm’s No. 159, ‘The Ditmarsch Tale of Wonders’ (ii. 230, 452). Indian lying stories occur in Maive Stokes’s Indian Fairy Tales, Nos. 4, 8, 17.