CHAPTER XIV

CHILDREN‘S LORE

The North Riding is peculiarly rich in children’s lore. I remember when a lad it was considered unlucky to hold a third place whilst crossing a stream. To overcome the difficulty, two would walk abreast, rather than cross last as third boy. A boy was not considered a true grammarian[71] until he had been subjected to the orthodox rule of bumping; and any boy appearing in a new garment had to submit to ’nips for new,’ each one giving him a nip to ‘handsel’ the new garment. I remember, too, it was considered unlucky to write one’s name in a new book with a borrowed pen. And whilst any one had hold of wood, and cried ‘Queenie,’ or wet his finger, calling out ‘I’m wet,’ such for the time being was secure from receiving the last tig (bat or touch) on parting for the night—a most desirable point of vantage to gain in those days. But, be it remembered, this last tig had to be given on the skin, not on the jacket, or the boy would call out, ‘I wasn’t born with my clothes on.’

To possess a white ally-taw was considered most lucky, a considerable number of marbles always being offered in exchange, though it was only dire poverty which would render such a transaction possible. One hears the same words and terms used now which thirty years ago came so glibly from our own lips, and how long before that, goodness knows; but old men tell us that they played the same games with the same terms and laws which govern them now. I remember seeing the look of astonishment which came into a South-country man’s face as some boys rushed out of school to their usual ground, shouting at the top of their voices, ‘Bags Ah fuggy, bags Ah seggy, thoddy thoddy’; and from another, ‘Fowrt! fowrt! fowrt!’ whilst a small scrap of a mortal yelled at the top of his voice, ‘An’ Ah bags laggy, Ah bags laggy.’ Then it was demanded, ‘What’s t’ steeak?’ ‘Tweea a go,’ was the response, after which the game commenced, only to be followed by such expressions as—‘Backs neea flies;’ ‘Ah bags brush;’ ‘Ah sed neea brush;’ ‘Noo, then, neea fullocking;’ ‘Here, thoo’ll ’a’e ti gan ower agaan, thoo ramm’d.’ And then up crept a bully of a boy, who screamed ‘Brulley,’ snatching every taw out of the ring and running off with them. And really, after all, one need not be very much surprised if a southern visitor does fail to understand what the boys are talking about. But then our lads would be equally at sea, and find it just as difficult to understand such a sentence as the following:—‘Oi’ll ketch yer one on yer blooming bouko, if yer deoun’t ’old yer bally reow.’ One is north, the other south, that is all—at least, nearly all.

For what untold ages our children’s methods of counting-out have existed, it would be difficult to say. Some owe their birth to the times of the Reformation, when with a truly Christian spirit all things Romish were consistently or otherwise jeered at[72]; others to still earlier days, and a few to times remote. Take as an example the following:—‘Ena, tena, tethra, pethra, pimps; sarfra, larfra, ofra, dofra, dix; ena dix, tena dix, tethra dix, pethra dix, bumpit; ena bumpit, tena bumpit, tethra bumpit, pethra bumpit, sigit—you’re out.’ Again it is repeated till another is out, and so on until only two remain, and then the last one is counted out.

The above is not very common, but still it lives; it is perhaps one of the oldest methods which has survived. Doubtless, during the centuries through which it has lived, as might be expected, many of the words have lost their original sound. It would seem to date from those days when a mixed race had for some time lived peaceably together, if ever such a thing did happen. The children know it, and that is all. Let us take the first ten words; I will leave my readers to form their own conclusions.

FROM ONE TO TEN IN VARIOUS LANGUAGES.

SIMILARITIES ONLY GIVEN.

_The Children’s _Welsh._ _Anglo-Saxon._ _Old High _Modern _Gothic._ Form._ German._ German._ 1. Ena ... ... Ein ... ... 2. Tena(1) ... Tu ... ... ... 3. Tethra Tair ... ... ... ... 4. Pethra Pedwar ... ... ... ... 5. Pimps Pump ... Finfe Funf ... 6. Sarfra ... ... ... ... Saihs 7. Larfra ... ... ... ... ... 8. Ofra ... ... Ohto ... ... 9. Dofra ... ... ... ... ... 10. Dix Deg ... ... ... ...

1: Probably this is the old form of two ones, for twice, hence _tuena_ or _tena_.

The comparative study of children’s lore proves, perhaps more conclusively than that of anything else, how local circumstances in all things compel both alteration and modification. Our American cousins have retained with commendable accuracy most of the lore belonging to the old country; but as in some cases the nasal twang has altered the sound of words, so local and national peculiarities have influenced and modified them in others; it must, however, be admitted not to any vital extent. As an example of what I mean, take the following.

There is a very common girls’ game not only in the North Riding, but in most parts of England, called ‘Jennie o’ Jones.’ It is a singing game. One verse runs:—

Red is for the soldiers, For soldiers, for soldiers; Red is for the soldiers, And that will never do.

Now, the American soldiers are not dressed in red coats, but some years ago their firemen were; this fact enabled the American girls (God bless ’em!) to shape the song so as to meet their case. So, without any other alteration worth noticing, they sing and act the song through just the same as our English bairns, until they come to this verse, and then, from one end of America to the other, where the Anglo-Saxon race predominates, they sing—

Red is for the firemen, For firemen, for firemen; Red is for the firemen, And that will never do.

But to return to our counting-out games, some of which, by-the-way, originally were curses and anathemas, but as now sung by our children the original is lost in a meaningless jargon, often being devoid of rhyme, but always possessing rhythm. Many such are undoubtedly little else than so much gibberish, but in a few cases the rhythm is hoary with age, and possibly in the long past was listened to with awe and trembling. A very old and widely spread counting-out rhyme runs as follows:—

Eary, ory, hickory, on, Philson, Valson, Dickson, John, Squeaby, Squaby, Irishman, Stiggerum, staggerum, buck[73].

The above is the North Riding version.

The American children sing:—

One-ery, two-ery, ickery, Ann, Fillisey, fallisey, Nicholas, Jan; Quiver, quaver, English Knave-a[74], Stringleum, strangleum, Jericho Buck.

One other:—

Ena, mena, mina, mo, Catch a beggar by the toe; If he squeals, let him go, Ena, mena, mina, mo.

Again notice the difference local circumstances give. The American children sing:—

Ana, mana, mina, mo, Catch a nigger by the toe; When he hollers, let him go, Ana, mana, mina, mo.

Of children’s games no further notice can be taken, interesting though they be. To nursery stories, however, a short space must be devoted.

It is difficult now to discover in many of them any trace of religion, stories of the gods, or witchcraft, but the roots from which many of them spring were in existence thousands of years ago, and flourished in far-off lands. The similarity these stories bear to the myths of other countries greatly help in tracing that connecting link which shows the relationship of one race to another, when nearly all other landmarks and finger-posts have vanished[75].

Admitting the difficulty of assigning to every story its myth-root, it is easy enough in most cases to see the moral.

THE LITTLE CROOKED OLD WOMAN AND THE PIG.

A little crooked woman had a little crooked broom, She found a crooked sixpence when sweeping her little crooked room. She set her off to market, which was a crooked mile, Along a crooked pathway with a little crooked style; With her little crooked sixpence a little pig she bought, And with a band tied to its crooked leg, her homeward way she sought[76].

All went well until she came to the bridge quite near to her own little cottage, but this the pig refused to cross. At that moment a stick came by, and the little old woman called out, ‘Stick, stick, beat the pig; for the pig won’t go over the bridge, and I shall never get home to get my old man his supper ready.’ The stick declined to help her, leaning itself against the bridge end. Then came by a dog. To it she cried, ‘Dog, dog, bite the stick; for the stick won’t beat the pig, the pig won’t go over the bridge, and I shall never get home to get my old man his supper ready.’ But the dog refused to do any such thing, sitting down near by the stick. Just then a bull came along. ‘Bull, bull,’ she shouted, ’toss the dog; for the dog won’t bite the stick, and the stick won’t beat the pig, and the pig won’t go over the bridge, and I shall never get home to get my old man his supper ready.’ But the bull refused to give her any help, placing himself near to the dog. From a butcher’s boy passing at the moment, she begged assistance, urging him to kill the bull, telling him how the bull, dog, and stick had all refused to help her to induce the pig to cross the bridge, winding up with the sad assurance, that ’she would never get home to get her old man his supper ready’; but the lad only laughed at her, he taking his stand by the side of the bull, waiting to see how she would manage. Next came along a horse, which she besought to kick the boy, as the boy would not kill the bull, and the bull would not toss the dog, &c.; but still she fared no better, the horse standing by the side of the boy. Next a fire sprang up in the hedge bottom; this she implored to burn the horse, as the horse would not kick the boy, and the boy would not kill the bull, &c. The fire, like the rest, refused all help, quietly burning where it was. Then she begged of the stream to sleck the fire, as the fire would not burn the horse, &c.; but the water ran peacefully on, heeding not her prayers. Then she heard in the distance the sound of a mighty wind; to this she prayed, ‘O wind, dry up the brook; the brook won’t sleck the fire, the fire won’t burn the horse, the horse won’t kick the boy, the boy won’t kill the bull, the bull won’t toss the dog, the dog won’t bite the stick, the stick won’t beat the pig, the pig won’t go over the bridge, and I shall never get home to get my old man his supper ready.’ Then came a voice amongst the trembling leaves as the coming wind sighed through them, ‘I will dry up the brook.’ Then said the brook, ‘Before I’ll be dried up I’ll quench the fire.’ The fire at once cried out, ‘Before I’ll be quenched I’ll burn the horse.’ The horse neighed, ‘I’ll kick the boy before I’ll be burnt.’ The boy declared, ‘Before I’ll be kicked I’ll kill the bull.’ The bull said, ‘Before I’ll be killed I’ll toss the dog.’ The dog declared, before it would be tossed it would bite the stick. The stick at once offered to beat the pig, at which resolution on the stick’s part the pig said, ‘Before I’ll be beaten I’ll go over the bridge’; and so it did, and the old woman got home and made her old man his supper.

It was not until the old lady besought the aid of Woden, that her petition was granted. Little doubt can exist that, as told in the north, the approaching storm-wind represents that god[77].

The next story, under various garbs, is told to the little folks in nearly every corner of the earth. The connexions between the various forms and alterations (which different local peculiarities have demanded) are not difficult to trace, as the connecting links are all there. Possibly its root originated in the far East. Though our version comes from the Scandinavian race, they learnt it from some other nation, probably Germany.

NORTH RIDING VERSION OF THE BOY AND HIS WAGES.

A boy once had a very cruel step-mother; so cruel was she, that the lad determined to run away. In the end he did so, and hired himself to a farmer. Now when a year had passed, the kind farmer gave the lad for his wages an ass which dropped gold. Off home went the boy, driving his ass in front of him. On coming to a wayside inn, the landlord asked him why he did not ride such a fine-looking ass. The lad in reply foolishly told Boniface that his ass was much too valuable a one to ride; adding, ‘Would you ride an ass that dropped gold?’ To this the man asked him to make it drop gold where it stood. The boy wisely explained that it was only when nature’s call had to be obeyed that it did so, and quite beyond his power to command it. Whilst the boy was having refreshment, the ass was put in the stable, the landlord keeping his eye on it; before the lad had eaten and rested, evidence was given that he had spoken nothing but the truth. It happened the landlord had a very fine ass of his own; this he fetched from the field, and whilst the lad slept he groomed it, trimmed its ears and tail, and blacked its hoofs, till in the end it exactly resembled the gold-dropping one. This he took away and hid, putting his own ass in its place. The boy never noticed it was a changeling which he was driving home. On his arrival he told his step-mother what a treasure he had brought her. Hearing such good news, she received him kindly, giving him a supper of fried eggs and bacon. For three days he was, as she told him, treated like a prince; but the third morning, instead of his breakfast, she gave him a worse thrashing than ever, and turned him to the door, calling him all the names she could lay her tongue to. He returned to his master, who kindly received him, and on the completion of his second year’s labour, gave him for his wages a hamper, which every day, on the command being given to fill itself, would be found packed with choicest food, sufficient to feed a large household. Again he stopped at the inn on his way home; calling for a glass of beer, he ordered the hamper to fill. On beholding such a wonderful hamper, the landlord determined to steal that also, so whilst the lad slept, he took it away, replacing it with one of his own exactly similar. To the lad’s discomfiture, the fraud was discovered the moment he returned home. Once again he was severely beaten and turned adrift. Again his kind master took him in, and at the end of his third year gave him a bag containing a thick stick, which on the command being given, ‘Come out, stick, and bend yourself,’ would immediately leap out and unmercifully thrash the individual who at the time was holding the bag. On his way home, the landlord spied him approaching, and with smiles and kind words asked him in. ‘And, pray, what does your bag contain?’ asked he, as soon as the lad was seated. ‘The most wonderful thing you ever saw,’ said he; ‘but let me have a good dinner, and then I will show you.’ The landlord, thinking to have another good haul, served him with the best of everything, going even so far as to give him a glass of wine. All impatience, he waited until the repast was finished. ‘Now,’ said the youth, smacking his lips, as he swallowed the last bite, ‘stand in the middle of the room and hold the bag in your hand, and I’ll promise you the biggest surprise you ever had in your life. That bag is just wonderful.’ Before the lad had finished speaking, the landlord had taken his place in the middle of the floor, holding the bag in his hand. ‘Now open it,’ said the boy—which Boniface did. ‘Why,’ said he, in a tone of great disappointment, ‘it is only a stick.’ ‘Yes,’ replied the boy, ‘but it is a wonderful stick. Now just watch what it can do;’ and then he shouted, ‘Come out, stick, and bend yourself.’ Immediately the stick jumped out of the bag, and bent itself about the back of the landlord until he howled with pain. Do what he would, go where he might, the stick leapt after and beat him, till at last, almost dead, he cried out, ‘Put it in the bag again; I will return thee thy ass and hamper,’ which he did. On nearing home, the lad saw his cruel step-mother waiting for him with a thick stick in her hand. ‘Wait a while,’ he called, ‘until you see what I have brought you in my bag.’ Thinking it would be wiser to wait, she laid down her stick, and let him enter. ‘Now, before I show to you what I have in my bag, give me a good tea; you can thrash me afterwards quite as well as now,’ said he. After his tea, he asked the cruel old dame to take hold of the bag and open it. This she readily did, little dreaming of what was to follow. Again he shouted, ‘Come out, stick, and bend yourself’; and for once the old hag knew what a stick laid across the back meant. She begged, she implored, she promised she would be good and kind to him, if he would only call off the stick. At last, when he considered she had been sufficiently punished, he ordered the stick back into the bag. And from that day she behaved herself in a decent manner.

As has been said, there are many forms of this story. This one differs slightly from that told in the West Riding, and considerably from that of other countries, but one and all contain the same mythological essentials.

The kind master is the all-ruling God. The ass is typical of spring, yielding that which gives all good things. And the hamper undoubtedly represents the earth, which is full of all things necessary for our happiness and existence. But there comes a time when the gods, displeased with our ungratefulness or other sins, permit evil spirits to either steal or withhold the good blessings from us; then follows a chastising of the evil spirits, who are driven away, and the earth becomes once again plentiful.

The gold-dropping ass, and in some collateral form the hamper, bag, and stick, are old friends in Eastern tales, which were told when the world was very young. Possibly their radicals, if ever discovered, will be found in some early religious creed.

Perhaps some student will work out the meaning and application of the following; it is beyond me. An old servant of ours was taught it by her grandmother:—

There was a man who lived in Leeds, He set his garden full of seeds, And when the seeds began to grow, It was like a garden full of snow; But when the snow began to melt, It was like a ship without a belt; And when the ship began to sail, It was like a bird without a tail; And when the bird began to fly, It was like an eagle in the sky; And when the sky began to roar, It was like a lion at my door; And when my door began to crack, It was like a penknife at my back; And when my back began to bleed, I was dead, dead, dead in_deed_.

I remember, when this doggerel was repeated, we all sat round the kitchen fire, the maid sitting by the table with her hand near the lighted candle; towards the last few lines her voice would drop, until, on repeating the last line, it almost became a whisper. With ears strained, and eyes nearly out of our heads, we awaited the dramatic _dénouement_, which most of us well knew; but in those days the excitement never waned, always the same intensity of feeling was duly worked up, as she repeated in a hoarse whisper, ‘dead, dead, dead in_deed_,’ extinguishing the light, as she uttered the last syllable with a fearful shriek, whilst we all yelled in one mighty chorus. Houses in those days were built, not held together by the tacks in the carpets and the paper on the wall; such a yell as we gave would have shaken the ornaments from off every bracket nailed to the walls of a whole row of modern blown-together domiciles.

THE STORY OF THE POOR OLD COBBLER AND THE WICKED KNIGHT.

There was once a poor old cobbler had twelve children, all girls. He was quite broken down with the hard work of finding food and clothes for them. One night, when he was working very late, he suddenly heard a laugh, and on looking up, saw the queerest little man his eyes had ever beheld sitting by the stove door. ‘And who may you be?’ inquired the cobbler, resting from his work. But the queer little man did nothing but laugh and shake his head. After a while, however, he said, ‘I have a bit of news for you.’ ‘Good, I hope,’ said the cobbler, waxing a thread. ‘You won’t think so; there is another daughter going to be added to your little family,’ chuckled the old chap. On hearing this, the poor old cobbler fainted; the shock was too much for him. He had hoped it would be a boy, who would in time grow up and help him; but a girl! it was too much. However, when he came to himself, the baby was born, and sure enough the queer little old man had been right. It was a sweet babe, and when three years old the wee thing showed promise of growing up to be a most beautiful maiden. One day, whilst the little lass was playing about the shop door, a knight rode by; seeing the child, he was struck with her marvellous beauty. Never before had he seen such beauty and shapeliness of limb in one so young. As he rode along, he consulted his book of fate, for he was a wicked wizard knight, and discovered the child was fated to be the bride of his own son. This he determined should not be. Turning his horse about, he returned to the cobbler’s shop, and after some conversation offered him a sum of money, and promised to take the child along with him, adopt her, and leave her all his wealth. To this the poor old man agreed, and away rode the knight with the lovely child in his arms. Now, he dare not kill the child himself, because the book of fate told him if any one did so before she had been kissed by the man she would wed, the same should die that day. So he determined her death should be an accident. Riding to the banks of the Ouse, he jumped his horse off the bank, leaving hold of the little lass as he did so. As they sank beneath the flood, she was washed away, and the wicked wizard left her to her fate. Her clothes, however, buoyed her up, and as she floated along, she heard a voice call her by name, and a queer little old man, who was fishing, threw his line over her, and dragged her to shore. Taking her to a cottage near by, he gave her in charge of the good wife and her husband, begging them to take great care of her until he came that way again; placing a large sum of money on the table to pay for her keep, he departed on his way. So she lived with these kind people, until she was eighteen. At this time her many charms of form and face had become the talk amongst the courtiers at York. To such an extent was her wondrous beauty famed abroad, that she was even toasted in the castle. A certain wizard knight, hearing her so extolled, rode out one day to where she lived. Seeing her standing by the door, he passed on, and again consulted his book of fate, and discovered she was the very maiden he had looked upon as drowned years ago. Turning back, he offered the good woman a large sum of money if she would permit the maiden to carry a note to his brother who lived at Scarborough Castle. The dame said it was too far for the maiden to walk; however, just then a queer little old man drove by with an ass yoked to a cart, and offered to give the maiden a lift most of the way, so she was permitted to go. When the queer little old man and the maiden rested for the night, he stole into her bedroom, and removed the note, which she had pinned within her chemise for security; so gently was this accomplished, that she never awoke. He broke the seal and read, ‘Let the bearer see my son, command him to kiss her, and then cast her into a dungeon, and let her starve to death.’ ‘I knew,’ muttered the old man. Returning to the sleeping maiden, he gently pinned within her chemise another note, with just the same seal on, and written in exactly the same writing. But written in this note was a command that the brother should at once marry his nephew to the bearer. In the morning, when the girl arose, she found the ass, cart, and little old man had left very early; however, she was quite near to Scarborough, for never had an ass trotted like the queer little old man’s had done. On arriving at the castle, she was speedily married to the wizard knight’s son, and they were as happy as they could be. Two months afterwards, the father-in-law came to stay at the castle. No sooner did he behold the bride, than he saw that he had been baulked again, but he held his peace. Early next day he met his daughter-in-law in a wood: she had been seeing her husband off on a hawking expedition. The wicked knight asked her to walk with him along the shore, and when they came to a lonely place, he told her she must prepare to die. Plunging his sword into the sand, he scratched a mark on the beach, telling her that when its shadow reached that mark, he would draw it from the sand and run it through her heart. So eloquently did she plead, and her beauty was so great, that he relented so far as to offer her her freedom if she would swear to go away and never see his son again, until she wore upon her finger the ring which he held in his hand. She swore she would do as he wished if he would only spare her life. He then by magic art threw the ring into the very middle of the sea, where it sank.

Broken-hearted, she left her cruel father-in-law, and wandered far away, feeling that she would never see her husband again. For more than a year she travelled from place to place. At last the poor young wife was engaged as cook by a great baron’s lady. Some time afterwards her father-in-law and her husband came to stay at the castle. The very day they arrived, the queer little old man and his cart drew up at the servants’ door, offering fish for sale. The cook purchased a large turbot, and on opening it, she found inside it the very ring which her wicked father-in-law had thrown into the middle of the sea. She cooked the dinner so well, that the guests begged to see the cook; to this end she dressed herself in her best gown, put the ring on her finger, and appeared before them. The wicked knight recognized her at once, and rushed forward to slay her with his uplifted sword. But the delighted husband folded her in his arms, so that his father must have slain both had he dared to strike. Freeing herself from her husband’s loving embrace, she held up her hand. The knight saw the ring. He then knew she was guarded beyond the reach of any machinations of his; so he gave them his blessing, and they all lived happily ever afterwards.

Although in another form the same story is told by Grimm, and is known to-day in every country in Europe, originally it was two separate stories, which have grown into each other. The first part is closely related to a Swedish and Norwegian story, whilst the second is from a different root, which is common to many others. One having a strong resemblance is that of ‘Mageloné,’ and of mythological signification. Regarding the story itself, I dare not venture an opinion. But the guardian spirit, in the form of the little old man, comes out much more strongly in the North Riding version than in that of any other. Again, the act of throwing the ring into the sea, which was followed by total darkness being cast over two lives, may be typical of the sun[78] sinking into the middle of the universe. And the fish bringing it to light may be symbolical of its rising again; anyway, the act brought light, life, and hope for the future. I leave it with you—I have only suggested, not laid my ideas before you as the opinion of one able to give an _opinion_ on a question of this kind.

The story of the ‘Golden Ball’ and others are common with us; but they must be passed by, as space only remains for one other.

THE CRUEL STEP-MOTHER AND HER LITTLE DAUGHTER.

Once upon a time, years and years ago, when animals possessed the power of speech, a cruel woman lived with a son of her own, and a little step-daughter of her husband’s whom she hated—but then she was a wicked step-mother. This poor little girl never knew what it was to have a kind word spoken to her, though she tried in all things to win her step-mother’s love, but it was a hopeless task. One day she was sent to the neighbouring village for some candles, her step-mother giving her a silver piece, telling her to be sure and bring the change back. On returning home, she had a stile to climb, and it was such an awkward stile. There was no other way but to push the candles under the lowest bar, and then climb over; this she attempted to do, but when on the topmost rail, a black dog snatched up the candles and ran off. In great trouble she returned to the grocer’s, and with some of the remaining money bought another pound of candles; but this time, when she came to the stile, a white dog ran away with them. Again she went to the grocer’s, and found she had just sufficient money left to purchase a third pound. This time she was wiser, and balanced the candles on the topmost rail; but just as she did so, a great black bird swooped down and flew away with them. On her return home she told her cruel step-mother all that had happened. Instead of scolding and beating her, she told the child to come and rest her head on her knee whilst she combed her hair; and the cruel woman’s heart was filled with envy and hatred when she saw the wealth of golden hair which fell about the child, hiding her from view. ‘Your head tires my knee,’ said she; ‘fetch in the stick-block, and rest your head upon it whilst I comb out the cotters[79].’ There really wasn’t a cotter in her hair, it was only a wicked excuse. Whilst the child was gone for the wooden block, she took a sharp axe from its nail and hid it under her apron. ‘Put your head on the block, my dear,’ said she—oh, so kindly—and the little child, never dreaming what her cruel step-mother contemplated, laid her head upon the block. Then the cruel woman brought out the bright sharp axe, and with one blow severed the head from the body. This wicked step-mother then tore the child’s heart from her little breast, put it in a pan, and set it upon the fire to boil, whilst she buried the body. On the father’s return home, she said that his daughter was chopping sticks. She then offered the father some of the broth she had made from his own dear child’s heart. He tasted it, but said he did not like the flavour, and would not drink any more; her own son refused even to taste it. Next evening, when the father asked for his little daughter, the woman lied again. She made the excuse that she had sent her with the carrier to stay with her grandmother, a great way off, declaring that she would not return for a whole year.

In a short time, on the very spot where she had buried the child, there sprang up a most wonderful rose-tree, which bore one large bud; this presently bloomed into a lovely white rose, when lo! from its petals, there flew forth a little bird as white as the purest snow. The bird did not stay in the garden, but flew into the town, and alighting on the window-sill of a toy-maker, at once commenced to sing more sweetly than he had ever heard a bird sing before. So charmed was he that he begged of it to sing again. ‘I will,’ said the bird, ‘if you will give me the best toy sword you have,’ which he gladly promised to do. So the bird sang again, and flew away with the sword to the door of a watchmaker. Here again it sang: this time it received a gold watch and chain. With this and the sword it flew to where some stone-masons were working; to them it promised to repeat its song if they would tie to its neck a large round stone which they had just finished making. This they readily did, and away it flew, alighting on the chimney of its former home. After resting awhile, it rattled the stone against the chimney side, which sounded in the house like thunder. ‘It thunders down the chimney,’ said the mother; so the little boy thrust his head under the chimney, to hear better. No sooner had he done so, than the bird let the sword drop, the leather belt falling round his neck. ‘See,’ cried the lad, ‘what the thunder has sent me,’ jumping about with joy. Again the bird rattled the stone against the brickwork. ‘It thunders again,’ said the father, thrusting his head into the chimney, when round his neck fell a gold chain with a beautiful watch attached. ‘And see what the thunder has sent me,’ said the father, removing the chain from his neck, and admiring his present. A third time the stone was shaken against the chimney side. Pushing the other two aside, the cruel step-mother cried, ‘It is my turn this time.’ So saying, she thrust her head up the chimney, when the bird let the stone ball drop, which falling on her head crushed her skull, and she fell back dead on to the kitchen floor. Such was the sad end of the cruel step-mother.

The variety of forms which this story has taken, and its wide distribution over perhaps the greatest area of any of our early-life stories, gives it a prominence and distinction second to none. In many of the stories of other places, the stone ball is described as a millstone. Possibly this is nearest to the original, as in many early fables the millstone figures as thunder. But to the eminently practical mind of the Yorkshire folk, it has been discarded, owing possibly to the unlikelihood of finding a chimney big enough to admit of its being dropped down. If its mythological root is somewhat obscure, its close relationship to other stories hoary with age is as clear as the noonday sun.

Passing on to other branches of childhood’s lore, we call to mind the many charms of our youthful days. Were we stung with a nettle, we at once searched for a dock-leaf, and rubbing the part stung, repeated with all due solemnity:—

Docken in drahve t’ nettle oot, Just leyke an au’d dishcloot;

or,

In docken, oot nettle, Deean’t let t’ warm blood sattle.

The snail-charm is as follows:—

Sneeal[80], sneeal, shut oot yer horn, Or Ah’ll kill yer feyther an’ muther ti morn;

or,

Snahl[80], snahl, cum oot o’ yer shell, Or Ah’ll bray yer flat wiv a wooden mell.

The crow-charm, as sung by the bairns, is:—

Craw, craw, flee oot o’ seet, Or else Ah’ll eat yer liver an’ leet.

The rain charm is:—

Raan, raan, go away, Cum agaan anuther daay;

or,

Raan, raan faster, T’ bull’s in t’ pastur.

It is curious how spitting has come to play such a prominent part as it has. In certain games of catching, a boy may be quite securely caught, so far as actual grip is concerned; but until he has been hit three times on the back, and the operation of spitting over his head duly carried out, the capture is not fully concluded. Again, when two boys quarrel, one will be asked if he dare give the other ‘his buff.’ This is a slight blow, struck on any part of the opponent’s person. Virtually, it is a challenge. Up to this point, however, the actual fight may or may not come off. The opponents, if left to themselves, are still open to arrange matters amicably. But if some boy hold his finger under the chin of one of them, and ask him ‘if he dare spit over,’ and some lad make the same demand of the other, and both spit over, then utter disgrace and obloquy would for ever cling to the boy who, after the performance of such a sacred rite, dare refuse to do battle.

What boy does not yet fully believe that a horsehair, either pushed up the cane or held in the hand, will split it, so as to render it useless as a means of correction? And which of us in our younger days did not accept in full faith the belief that horse-hairs steeped in water turned to eels. Why, I can well remember the time that every man jack of us, when we passed Sharrow Cross, always touched the old stone and wished, and many a pin have I dropped into St. Helen’s Well and done the same.

Rob a Robin, Go a-sobbing,

so we used to say, and for that reason we never stole their eggs—that is, we did not actually take them out of the nest with our fingers. No, to save ourselves from sobbing, we poked one out with a stick, and then picked it up—under such conditions, we found it lying outside. Don’t smile, please. Grown-up people nowadays round the corners of their consciences in quite as barefaced a manner, and with fewer qualms.

Other children’s lore must with reluctance be omitted. May what has been written be acceptable to them.