Part 2

Saint Patrick who blessed our Island, bless us and our boat, Going out well, coming in better, With living and dead in the boat.

HOW THE HERRING BECAME KING OF THE SEA

The old fishermen of the island have it to say that years and years ago the fish met to choose themselves a king, for they had no deemster to tell them what was right. Likely enough their meeting-place was off the Shoulder, south of the Calf. They all came looking their best--there was Captain Jiarg, the Red Gurnet, in his fine crimson coat; Grey Horse, the Shark, big and cruel; the Bollan in his brightest colours; Dirty Peggy, the Cuttle-fish, putting her nicest face on herself; Athag, the Haddock, trying to rub out the black spots the devil burnt on him when he took hold of him with his finger and thumb, and all the rest. Each one thought he might be chosen.

The Fish had a strong notion to make Brac Gorm, the Mackerel, king. He knew that, and he went and put beautiful lines and stripes on himself--pink and green and gold, and all the colours of the sea and sky. Then he was thinking diamonds of himself. But when he came he looked that grand that they didn't know him. So they said that he was artificial and would have nothing to do with him.

In the end it was Skeddan, the Herring, the Lil Silver Fella, who was made King of the Sea.

When it was all over, up came the Fluke, too late to give his vote, and they all called out:

'You've missed the tide, my beauty!'

It seems that he had been so busy tallivating himself up, touching himself up red in places, that he forgot how time went. When he found that the herring had been chosen, he twisted up his mouth on one side, and says he:

'An' what am I goin' to be then?'

'Take that,' says Scarrag the Skate, and he ups with his tail and gives the Fluke a slap on his mouth that knocked his mouth crooked on him. And so it has been ever since.

And, maybe, it's because the Herring is King of the Sea that he has so much honour among men. Even the deemsters, when they take their oath, say: 'I will execute justice as indifferently as the herring's backbone doth lie in the midst of the fish.'

And the Manx people will not burn the herring's bones in the fire, in case the herring should feel it. It is to be remembered, too, that the best herring in the world are caught in this place off the Shoulder, where the fish held their big meeting, and that is because it is not very far from Manannan's enchanted island.

THE SILVER CUP

There was once a man living in the south of the island whose name was Colcheragh. He was a farmer, and he had poultry on his street, sheep on the mountain, and cattle in the meadow land alongside the river.

His cows were the best cows in the parish. Nowhere could you see such a fine head of cattle as he had; they were the pride of his heart, and they served him well with milk and butter.

But after a time he began to think that something was amiss with the cows. He went to the cow-house the first thing every morning, and one morning he noticed the cows looking so tired they could hardly stand. When it came to milking time they found not a drop of milk. The girls, who went out to milk the cows, came back with empty cans, saying:

'The milk has gone up into the cows' horns!'

Colcheragh began to think that some one had put an evil eye on his cows, so he swept up some of the dust from the cross four-roads close by, in a shovel, and sprinkled it on their backs. But the cows got no better. Then he wondered if some one was coming at night to steal the milk. He made up his mind to sit in the cow-house all night to see if he could catch the thief.

So one night after everyone had gone to bed he crept out of the house and hid himself under some straw in a corner of the cow-house. Hour after hour of the dark lonesome night crept on, and he heard nothing but the cows' breathing and their rustle in the straw. He was very cold and stiff, and he had just made up his mind to go into the house, when a glimmering light showed under the door; and then he heard Things laughing and talking--queer talk--he knew that they were not right people. The cow-house door opened and in came a whole lot of Little Men, dressed in green coats and leather caps. Keeking through the straw, he saw their horns hung by their sides, their whips in their hands, and scores of little dogs of every colour--green, blue, yellow, scarlet, and every colour you can think of--at their heels. The cows were lying down. The Little Fellows loosed the yokes from the cows' necks, hopped on their backs, a dozen, maybe, on each cow, and cracked their little whips. The cows jumped to their feet and Themselves galloped off!

Colcheragh ran to the stable, got on a horse, and made chase after his cows. The night was dark, but he could hear the whizz of the little whips through the air, the click of the cows' hoofs on stones, and the little dogs going:

'Yep, yep, yep!'

He heard, too, the laughing of Themselves. Then one of them would be singing out to the dogs, calling them up by name, giving a call out of him:

'Ho la, ho la, la!'

Colcheragh followed these sounds, keeping close at their heels. On and on they went, helter-skelter over hedges and over ditches till they got to the Fairy Hill, and Colcheragh was still following them, though on any other night he would not have gone within a mile of the great green mound. When the Little Fellows came to the hill they sounded a tan-ta-ra-ra-tan on their horns. The hill opened, bright light streamed out, and sounds of music and great merriment. Themselves passed through, and Colcheragh slid off his horse and slipped unnoticed in after them. The hill closed behind them and he found himself in a fine room, lit up till it was brighter than the summer noonday. The whole place was crowded with Little People, young and old, men and women, all decked out for a ball, that grand--he had never looked on the like. Among them were some faces that he thought he had seen before, but he took no notice of them, nor they of him. In one part there was dancing to the music of Hom Mooar--that was the name of the fiddler--and when he played all men must follow him whether they would or no. The dancing was like the dancing of flowers in the wind, such dancing as he had never seen before.

In another part his cows were being killed and roasted, and after the dance there was a great feast, with scores of tables set out with silver and gold and everything of the best to eat and drink. There was roast and boiled, and sollaghan and cowree, and puddings and pies, and jough and wine--a feast fit for the Governor himself. When they were taking their seats one of them, whose face he thought he knew, whispered to him: 'Don't thee taste nothin' here or thou will be like me, and never go back to thy ones no more.'

Colcheragh made up his mind to take this advice. When the feast was coming to an end there was a shout for the Jough-y-dorrys, the Stirrup Cup. Some one ran to fetch the cup. The one among the Little People, who seemed to be their king, filled it with red wine, drank himself, and passed it on to the rest. It was going round from one to another until it came to Colcheragh, who saw, when he had it in his hands, that it was of fine carved silver, and more beautiful than anything ever seen outside that place. He said to himself: 'The little durts have stolen and killed and eaten my cattle--this cup, if it were mine, would pay me for all.' So standing up and grasping the silver cup tightly in his hand, he held it up and said:

'Shoh Slaynt!' which is the Manx toast.

Then he dashed the cupful of wine over Themselves and the lights. In an instant the place was in black darkness, save for a stime of grey dawn light which came through the chink of the half-closed door. Colcheragh made for it, cup in hand, slammed the door behind him, and ran for his life.

After a moment of uproar Themselves missed the cup and Colcheragh, and with yells of rage they poured out of the hill after him, in full chase. The farmer, who had a good start, ran as he had never run before. He knew he would get small mercy at their hands if he was caught; he went splashing through the wet mire and keeping off the stepping stones; he knew they could not take him in the water. He looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the whole Mob Beg behind him, close at his heels, waving their naked arms in the light of the torch each one held up. On they came, shrieking and howling in Manx:

Colcheragh, Colcheragh, Put thy foot on the stone, And do not put it in the wet!

But he ran in the water till he came to the churchyard, and they could not touch him there. When he went into the cowhouse the next morning the cows had all come home and they got rest after that.

He put the cup in the Church at Rushen, and they are saying it was there for many years; then it was sent to London. It is said that after this the farmer would not go out of his house of an evening after dark.

THE CHILD WITHOUT A NAME

It was many and many a year ago that the heiress of Eary Cushlin Farm had a little child. Eary Cushlin is a terribly lonely place; it stands high up on the Eanin Mooar, the big precipice, close by the steep brow of Cronk-yn-Irree-Laa. You might live there for months without seeing the face of clay, and no person knew of the birth of the child. It was not welcome when it came, and as soon as it was born, it died. Then the mother carried it, at dead of night, along the narrow path over the rocks, past where the waters of Gob-yn-Ushtey leap into the bay, past Ooig-ny-Goayr, the Cave of the Goat, to Lag-ny-Keilley. She buried it in the ruins of the lonely little Keeill that has been there on the hill-side for fourteen hundred years and more. There she left it alone.

A short while after some yawls were going to the haddock fishing from Dalby. There was the 'Lucky Granny' from the Lagg, the Muck Beg, or Little Pig, from Cubbon Aalish's, Boid-y-Conney from Cleary's, Glen Rushen, and others, ten in all. Then it began to be said that something strange was going on over at Lag-ny-Keilley. The men would be fishing close in to land under the black shadow of Cronk-yn-Irree-Laa, the Hill of the Rising Day. When little evening came, the yawls would be drifting south with the flood tide, north with the ebb, passing and repassing the strand of Lag-ny-Keilley. Then they would see a beautiful light and hear a lamentation and crying, as if from a little lost child. In the end the light would run up the steep brow to the old Keeill, and go out. The men got so frightened that at last they would not go on the bay after dark, but would make from the fishing-ground as soon as the sun was getting low.

Things became so black for the women and children at home that one old, old man, Illiam Quirk, who had not gone to sea for many years, said he would go with one of the yawls to see for himself. They used to say of him: 'Oul Illiam has the power at him in the prayer, and he is a middlin' despard fella; he will dar' most anything.' It was so at this time--his yawl was the last of them coming in; the rest were frightened. It was a right fine, beautiful moonlight night when he was coming down from the mark, and when he was near to Gob-yn-Ushtey he heard crying and crying. He lay on his oars and listened, and he heard a little child wailing over and over again: 'She lhiannoo beg dyn ennym mee!' That is, 'I am a little child without a name!'

'Pull nearer to the lan',' said Illiam when he heard it. They pulled close in, and he plainly saw a little child on the strand bearing a lighted candle in his hand.

'God bless me, bogh, we mus' give thee a name!' said Illiam. And he took off his hat, and stood up in the boat, and threw a handful of water towards the child, crying out: 'If thou are a boy, I chrizzen thee in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Juan! If thou are a girl I chrizzen thee in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Joanney!'

In an instant the crying stopped, and was never heard again, and the light went out and was seen no more.

THE FAIRY DOCTOR

The shoemakers and tailors and chance spinners used to go round on people's houses, making things and spinning rolls of wool for the people.

One time the tailor went to Chalse Ballawhane. Long enough they were waiting for him, and, as luck happened, he caught Chalse at home.

Now Chalse had power over the fishes of the sea and the birds of the air as well as over the beasts of the field. Himself and the Little Ones got on well together too, but somehow or other he was never able to get the power over them. People said he was never able to learn their language right. Anyhow, be that as it may, he was often enough with them.

After the tailor had had a crack with the women he turned round to Ballawhane, who was sitting in the big chair, his elbow on the table and his hand holding his forehead, the other hand in his trouser's pocket to the elbow, and he not minding anybody nor anything.

'I batter take yer measure, Mr. Teare, while yer in, for there's no knowin' how long that'll be,' the tailor said.

'Aw, boy, boy,' answered Chalse, looking out through the window--people were not bothering with blinds then--and then turning to the clock, he said: 'There's no time goin' to-night: I want to go from home apiece, an' it's time I was gettin' ready.' Nobody said a word for a minute or two. He was exactly like a body with his mind far away. Again, all of a sudden, he looked at the tailor. Then he said:

'Ahm goin' to a big supper to-night. Thou'll get nothin' done here, maybe thou would like to go? It's apiece to go, but thou'll be right enough with me. But there's one promise I'll be wantin' from thee--no matter, no matter what thou'll see, nor what thou'll hear, nor who'll spake to thee, thou mustn't spake back or it'll be all over with thee.'

The tailor was so taken up with the chance of seeing the Little People for himself that he promised faithfully, no matter what took place, never to speak a word, and he knew he would be right enough with Chalse.

Ballawhane then took his hat from the latt, and when he was going out he said:

'I'll be back for thee just now; side thee things a bit while thou 're waitin'.'

In a while there was a noise of horses coming up the street--it was awful. Then they stopped on the street and in came Ballawhane saying:

'We couldn' get another hoss for thee, boy, do what we would, but thou 'll have to get a hoss of some sort.'

And going down to the parlour he got hold of something, and went out, never saying a word. Coming back to the door after a bit, he said:

'Come on, boy. I'll hold her head till thou get on.'

Out goes the tailor, and up, with one whip, on her back, and they go like the very hommers, on and on, over hedges and ditches, till they came to a big brow by a river. It seems they knew the way, night as it was, for they all took it one after another like fun. It was a big jump, though, and when the tailor felt himself flying through the air, his heart jumped to his mouth.

'Oh Lord, what a jump!' he said.

The next minute he fell flop in a bog, with the lapboard between his legs, all alone in the dark. Next morning he got up all slaaed with slush, looking like a thing that had been dragged through a gutter, and as quiet as a mouse--the shy he was, every bit of steam took out of him.

Awhile after some of the women were asking him, how did he like it last night, and would he go again? But all they could get out of him was:

'Aw, naver no more, naver no more!'

JOE MOORE'S STORY OF FINN MACCOOILLEY AND THE BUGGANE

This Finn MacCooilley was an Irish giant, and the Buggane was a Manx giant. But, anyway at all, this Finn came across from the Mountains of Mourne to see what was the Isle of Mann like, for he was seeing land. He liked the island uncommon well, so he stopped in it, living out Cregneish way. The Buggane was hearing great talk about the giant Finn MacCooilley that was in the Sound, so he came down from the top of Barrule to put a sight on him. Finn knew that he was coming to have a fight with him, to see who was best man, and Finn did not want to fight. 'Lave him to me,' says the wife; 'an' I'll put the augh-augh on him!'

Before long they caught sight of the Buggane, and he was a walking terror. He was coming from Barrule to them, in a mighty pursue.

'Slip in the criddle, Finn,' says she. 'It's me that'll spake to him.'

Up comes the Buggane to the door, hot-foot.

'Where's Himself?' says he.

'This man is gone from home this bit,' says she. 'What is it you are wantin' with him?'

'Aw, there is no hurry on me. I'll put my fut inside and wait till he comes back,' says he.

'Plaze yourself,' says she, 'an' you'll plaze me; but I must get on with my bakin'.'

'Who have you got in the criddle?' says he.

'That's our baby,' says she.

'An' in the name of the Unknown Powers, what sort of a man is he Himself if his baby is that big?'

'He's very big an' powerful,' says she. 'An' the child is favourin' the father.'

She was baking barley bread, and when the baking was done at her, she took the griddle and put it between two cakes of bread, and gave it to the Buggane to eat, with a quart of buttermilk. He went to try and eat, and he couldn'.

'Aw, man-alive! But this is the hard bread,' says he. 'What sort have you given me at all, at all?'

'That's the sort I'm giving Finn,' says she.

'An' will Finn's teeth go through this?'

'Aw, yes, Finn thought nothing at all of 'atin' that--that's the sort of bread he was wantin',' says Thrinn.

Finn got up out of the cradle, and began to roar for a piece. She fetched him a clout on the lug.

'Stop your noisin',' says she. 'An' stand straight and don't be puttin' the drone on yer back like that.' And givin' him a buttercake, she says:

'Ate, ate, lash into ye, an' let's have no lavins.'

'You'll have the chile's teeth broke in his head, woman. He can naver ate bread as hard as that!' says the Buggane.

'Aw, he can do that with life,' says she.

But that done the Buggane; he sleeched out and claned away again. He thought if Finn was that strong and the baby that big, he had best catch home again.

But it was not long until the Buggane and Finn did meet, and then they had the battle! One day Finn met the Buggane over at Kirk Christ Rushen, and they went at each other early in the day till the sunset. Finn had one fut in the Big Sound, an' so he made the Channel between the Calf and Kitterland, and the other in the Little Sound, an' so he made the narrow Channel between Kitterland and the islan'. The Buggane was standin' at Port Iern--that's what made the fine big openin' at Port Iern. The rocks were all broken to pieces with their feet. But, anyway, the Buggane came off victorious and slashed Finn awful, so he had to run to Ireland. Finn could walk on the sea, but the Buggane couldn'; and when Finn got off and he couldn' get more revenge on him, he tore out a tooth and hove it whizzing through the air after Finn. It hit him on the back of the head, and then it fell into the sea and became what we are now calling the Chickens' Rock. Finn turned round with a roar and a mighty curse:

'My seven swearings of a curse on it!' says he. 'Let it lie there for a vexation to the sons of men while water runs and grass grows!'

And a vexation and a curse has it been to seamen from that day to this.

THE FYNODEREE

The Fynoderee went to the meadow To lift the dew at grey cock crow, The maiden hair and the cow herb He was stamping them both his feet under; He was stretching himself on the meadow, He threw the grass on the left hand; Last year he caused us to wonder, This year he's doing far better.

He was stretching himself on the meadow, The herbs in bloom he was cutting, The bog bean herb in the curragh, As he went on his way it was shaking, Everything with his scythe he was cutting, To sods was skinning the meadows, And if a leaf were left standing, With his heels he was stamping it under.

Old Song.

THE FYNODEREE OF GORDON

There was one time a Fynoderee living in Gordon. Those persons who saw him said that he was big and shaggy, with fiery eyes, and stronger than any man. One night he met the blacksmith who was going home from his shop and held out his hand to him to shake hands. The blacksmith gave him hold of the iron sock of the plough which he had with him, and he squeezed it as if it had been a piece of clay, saying: 'There's some strong Manx-men in the world yet!'

The Fynoderee did all his work at night and went into hidlans in the daytime. One night, when he was out on his travels he came to Mullin Sayle, out in Glen Garragh. He saw a light in the mill, so he put his head through the open top-half of the door to see what was going on inside, and there was Quaye Mooar's wife sifting corn. When she caught sight of the great big head she was frightened terrible. She had presence of mind, however, to hand him the sieve and say: 'If thou go to the river and bring water in it, I'll make a cake for thee; and the more water thou carry back, that's the bigger thy cake will be.'

So the Fynoderee took the sieve, and ran down to the river; but the water poured from it and he could fetch none for the cake, and he threw the sieve away in a rage, and cried:

'Dollan, dollan, dash! Ny smoo ta mee cur ayn, Ny smoo ta goll ass.'

Sieve, sieve, dash! The more I put in, The more there's going out.

The woman got away while he was trying to fill the sieve, and when he came back to the mill he found it in darkness.

The Fynoderee was working very hard for the Radcliffes, who owned Gordon then. Every night he was grinding their corn for them, and often he would take a hand at the flails. If they put a stack into the barn in the evening and loosed every sheaf of it, they would find it thrashed in the morning, but he would not touch one sheaf of it unless it were loosed. In the summer time he was getting in their hay and cutting their corn.

Many a time the people of the farm were passing the time of day with him. One cold frosty day, big Gordon was docking turnips and he blew on his fingers to warm them.

'What are thou blowing on thee fingers for?' said the Fynoderee.

'To put them in heat,' said the Farmer.

At supper that night the Farmer's porridge was hot and he blew on it.

'What are thou doing that for?' said the Fynoderee. 'Isn't it hot enough for thee?'

'It's too hot, it is; I'm blowing on it to cool it,' said the Farmer.

'I don't like thee at all, boy,' said the Fynoderee, 'for thou can blow hot and blow cold with one breath.'

The Fynoderee was wearing no clothes, but it is said that he never felt the cold. Big Gordon, however, had pity on him that he had none, and one frosty winter he went and got clothes made for him--breeches, jacket, waistcoat and cap--great big ones they were too. And he went and gave them to him in the barn one night. The Fynoderee looked on them and took them up, and says he:

Coat for the back is sickness for the back! Vest for the middle is bad for the middle! Breeches for the breech is a curse for the breech! Cap for the head is injurious for the head! If thou own big Gordon farm, boy-- If thine this little glen east, and thine this little glen west, Not thine the merry Glen of Rushen yet, boy!

So he flung the clothes away and walked his ways to Glen Rushen, out to Juan Mooar Cleary's. He was working for him then, cutting the meadow hay for him, cutting turf for him, and seeing after the sheep.

It happened one winter's night that there was a great snow-storm. Juan Mooar got up to see after the sheep, but the Fynoderee came to the window.