TALES FROM ENGLAND

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TALES FROM ENGLAND

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TALES FROM ENGLAND

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Tales from England

"Tattercoats" is taken from Folk Tales of the British Isles, edited by Michael Foss and illustrated
by Ken Kiff. London: Macmillan, 1977. The tales from Cornwall (Nos. 2-3 below) are taken
from Piskies, Spriggans, and Other Magical Beings: Tales from the Droll-teller, retold by
Shirley Climo; illustrated by Joyce Audy dos Santos. New York: Crowell, 1981.

1.

Tattercoats

2.

Betty Stoggs' Baby

3.

The Mermaid of Zennor

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Tattercoats

An English Tale

In a great palace by the sea there once dwelt a very rich old lord, who had neither wife nor
children living, only one little granddaughter, whose face he had never seen in all her life. He
hated her bitterly, because at her birth his favorite daughter died, and when the old nurse brought
him the baby, he swore, that it might live or die as it liked, but he would never look on its face as
long as it lived.

So he turned his back, and sat by his window looking out over the sea, and weeping great tears
for his lost daughter, till his white hair and beard grew down over his shoulders and twined round
his chair and crept into the chinks of the floor, and his tears, dropping on to the window-ledge,
wore a channel through the stone, and ran away in a little river to the great sea. And, meanwhile,
his granddaughter grew up with no one to care for her or clothe her; only the old nurse, when no
one was by, would sometimes give her a dish of scraps from the kitchen, or a torn petticoat from
the rag-bag; while the other servants of the palace would drive her from the house with blows
and mocking words, calling her "Tattercoats", and pointing at her bare feet and shoulders, till she
ran away crying, to hide among the bushes.

And so she grew up, with little to eat or wear, spending her days in the fields and lanes, with
only the gooseherd for a companion, who would play to her so merrily on his little pipe, when
she was hungry, or cold, or tired, that she forgot all her troubles, and fell to dancing, with his
flock of noisy geese for partners.

But, one day, people told each other that the king was travelling through the land, and in the
town near by was to give a great ball, to all the lords and ladies of the country, when the prince,
his only son, was to choose a wife.

One of the royal invitations was brought to the palace by the sea, and the servants carried it p to
the old lord, who still sat by his window, wrapped in his long white hair and weeping into the
little river that was fed by his tears.

But when he heard the king's command, he dried his eyes and bade them bring shears to cut him
loose, for his hair had bound him a fast prisoner and he could not move. And then he sent them
for rich clothes, and jewels, which he put on; and he ordered them to saddle the white horse, with
gold and silk, that he might ride to meet the king.

Meanwhile Tattercoats had heard of the great doings in the town, and she sat by the kitchen-door
weeping because she could not go to see them. And when the old nurse heard her crying she
went to the lord of the palace, and begged him to take his grand-daughter with him to the king's
ball.

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But he only frowned and told her to be silent, while the servants laughed and said: "Tattercoats is
happy in her rags, playing with the gooseherd, let her be -- it is all she is fit for."

A second, and then a third time, the old nurse begged him to let the girl go with him, but she was
answered only by black looks and fierce words, till she was driven from the room by the jeering
servants, with blows and mocking words.

Weeping over her ill success, the old nurse went to look for Tattercoats, but the girl had been
turned from the door by the cook, and had run away to tell her friend the gooseherd how
unhappy she was because she could not go to the king's ball.

But when the gooseherd had listened to her story, he bade her cheer up, and proposed that they
should go together into the town to see the king and all the fine things; and when she looked
sorrowfully down at her rags and bare feet, he played a note or two upon his pipe, so gay and
merry that she forgot all about her tears and her troubles, and before she well knew, the herdboy
had taken her by the hand, and she, and he, and the geese before them, were dancing down the
road towards the town.

Before they had gone very far, a handsome young man, splendidly dressed, rode up and stopped
to ask the way to the castle where the king was staying; and when he found that they, too, were
going thither, he got off his horse and walked beside them along the road.

The herdboy pulled out his pipe and played a low sweet tune, and the stranger looked again and
again at Tattercoats's lovely face till he fell deeply in love with her, and begged her to marry him.

But she only laughed, and shook her golden head.

"You would be finely put to shame if you had a goosegirl for your wife!" said she; "go and ask
one of the great ladies you will see tonight at the king's ball, and do not flout poor Tattercoats."

But the more she refused him the sweeter the pipe played, and the deeper the young man fell in
love; till at last he begged her, as a proof of his sincerity, to come that night at twelve to the
king's ball, just as she was, with the herdboy and his geese, and in her torn petticoat and bare
feet, and he would dance with her before the king and the lords and ladies, and present her to
them all, as his dear and honored bride.

So when night came, and the hall in the castle was full of light and music, and the lords and
ladies were dancing before the king, just as the clock struck twelve, Tattercoats and the herdboy,
followed by his flock of noisy geese, entered at the great doors, and walked straight up the
ballroom, while on either side the ladies whispered, the lords laughed, and the king seated at the
far end stared in amazement.

But as they came in front of the throne, Tattercoats's lover rose from beside the king, and came
to meet her. Taking her by the hand, he kissed her thrice before them all, and turned to the king.

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"Father!" he said, for it was the prince himself, "I have made my choice, and here is my bride,
the loveliest girl in all the land, and the sweetest as well!"

Before he had finished speaking, the herdboy put his pipe to his lips and played a few low notes
that sounded like a bird singing far off in the woods; and as he played, Tattercoats's rags were
changed to shining robes sewn with glittering jewels, a golden crown lay upon her golden hair,
and the flock of geese behind her became a crowd of dainty pages, bearing her long train.

And as the king rose to greet her as his daughter, the trumpets sounded loudly in honor of the
new princess, and the people outside in the street said to each other:

"Ah! now the prince has chosen for his wife the loveliest girl in all the land!"

But the gooseherd was never seen again, and no one knew what became of him; while the old
lord went home once more to his palace by the sea, for he could not stay at court, when he had
sworn never to look on his granddaughter's face.

So there he still sits by his window, if you could only see him, as you some day may, weeping
more bitterly than ever, as he looks out over the sea.

Betty Stoggs' Baby

A Cornish Tale

On her seventeenth birthday, Betty Stoggs was up with the sun. Without wasting a minute of that
day, she sat down and began peeling apples.

She wasn't peeling them to help her old mam.

She wasn't peeling them to eat, either, although more went into her mouth than into the saucepan.

Betty was trying to cut an all-in-one-piece apple peeling. She wasn't very handy with a knife, so
it took thirteen apples and two nicked fingers before she got what she wanted. And then, what
did she do with the apple peel but toss it away! But not just anywhere. Betty Stoggs closed her
eyes and threw the peeling over her right shoulder, calling:

"Apple tree! Apple tree! Show my true love's name to me!"

When she turned round, there on the hearth lay the apple peel, curled nicely into a large and
perfect J.

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Betty clapped her hands in delight, although she took care to put the knife down first. If the
paring told her fortune true, then surely Betty must marry a man whose name began with J.

"For I'm that old now," said Betty, "that I'll be needing a husband so's I can live happily ever
after."

Betty counted up all the J's she knew on those fingers that weren't too scratched.

"There's Jacky over at Lelant -- but he's as old and shriveled as a winter apple hisself. Then
there's John -- but Nan's already spoke for him. And Jim and Josiah the twins." Betty giggled.
"Together they add to eighteen, but separate each one's only nine years old. I've no wish to wait
for either to grow up. Jan the miner! Now there's one not too old nor too young. And not spoke
for by any. It's Big Jan who'll be the husband of my very own."

So Betty Stoggs set her cap for the miner known as Big Jan. Since she was pretty and rosy as an
apple herself, in no time at all the banns were called in church and they were wed. Betty Stoggs
nearly always got what she wanted.

Big Jan was a tin-streamer and went down each day in the mine. This left Betty at home with his
old mother. That woman had the wits of a witch when it came to thinking up chores for Betty to
do. It was "Lend a hand here with the knitting, now" or "Brew a dish of tea, child" all the day
through. This was not what Betty Stoggs had set her heart upon. Not at all. So she put a scowl on
her forehead and let a tear come into her eye. It upset Big Jan to see her so.

"What's to be done to please ye, Betty?" asked he. "Tell me and I'll do it."

"It's my own cottage I need to make me happy. All by its own and of my own," she said.

"Well, if that's what'll please ye."

So, when Jan was not working down in the mine, he was working on building a house, and by
the year's end there was as nice a little cottage as ever you saw. It was set off all by itself at the
edge of a moor in a place called Towednack.

When she saw it, Betty wiped away her scowl and clapped her hands with delight. And Jan
picked her up and carried her over the threshold. For a bride must always be carried over the
threshold of her new home, lest she stumble and bring bad luck.

There was nothing but good luck round that cottage for a while. Betty played at keeping house
and whistled more cheerfully than the kettle on the hearth. Each morning Jan went off to the
mine and she had the day to herself. Or what was left of it. For Betty took to lying abed, not
bothering to get up and give Jan his breakfast, nor even pack him his noon bite. Indeed,
sometimes it was already after noon before she got up. But Big Jan did not complain, for if Betty
was happy, then so was he.

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But by and by the little cottage did not look so new and neat. There were cobwebs strung from
beam to rafter and dust balls in all the corners. The windows were so dirty that even the
sunbeams were shut out. Betty Stoggs was not so sunny, either.

"It's fine for ye," she said to Jan, "down in the mine with others about. But I must sit here alone
in a house as glum as a grave."

"Perhaps if ye swept it a bit -- "

"Only witches need brooms," retorted Betty, and she put her mouth in a pout. "It's some
company I'm needing."

"Well, if that's what'll please ye."

The very next evening when Jan came home he carried his pick and shovel and something else
besides. The something was a small kitten, as black as the leek pie that was at that moment
burning on the hearth (for Betty had quite forgotten to turn it).

"Ah!" cried Betty when she spied the cat. "It's a tabby for my very own!" She clapped her hands
with delight and wiped away the pout and put back her dimples.

So then Jan did not mind that his supper was burnt and spoilt, for if Betty was happy, then so was
he.

Betty was not lonely anymore. Wherever she went, and whatever she did, she had Tabby the cat
for company. It chased dust balls in the corner and played with the yarn when she worked her
spinning wheel. And it rubbed its soft fur against her boots and purred when she cooked. For
Betty never forgot to feed Tabby -- nor, now, Big Jan, either. And all three of them were happy
in the cottage.

For a little while. But the evening came when Jan got home to find the house in a mess. The cat
was howling in one corner, Betty was howling in another, and nothing at all was boiling in the
pot.

"What ails the two of ye?" he asked, patting first the cat and then Betty.

"We're lonely, that's what. The kitten has no one to play with, and I've no one to talk to."

"Ye have each other," said Big Jan.

"That don't do," answered Betty. "I'm too big to play about on the floor with the cat, and all
Tabby says to me is mews and purrs."

"What is it ye're needing, then?" asked Jan.

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"A baby, that's what. A dear small child that Œtwill crawl about the floor with Tabby and coo
and laugh at me when I pick it up. It's a baby of our very own that will make me happy now --
and forever."

"Well, if that's what will please ye."

Before the next winter had come, there was a baby in the cottage at Towednack. It was a fine
boy, named Jan for his father, and with dimples like Betty's. Betty loved Wee Jan, and so did
Tabby. The cat shared his cradle, and sometimes when Betty bent over it, she thought she could
hear the both of them purring. And Wee Jan and Tabby played about on the floor and chased
dust balls together and drank milk from the same bowl. The baby was so often covered with a
layer of soot that Big Jan would complain that he scarce could tell which was their child and
which was their cat.

Then Betty would shake her head and reply, "The moor's a cold place and the wind blows sharp.
A good cover of dirt do help keep the child warm. He's happy as 'tis, and so am I."

So Betty seldom washed Wee Jan, but let the cat lick him clean when it had a mind to.

But Wee Jan grew bigger anyway, as babies will do. And sometimes he fretted and fussed, as
babies will do as well. Then he was a bit of a bother to Betty. So she took to leaving the boy in
the cottage every so often and going across the moor to town for a bit of milk or meat or a little
gossip.

"Twill be all right," said she. "Tis just for a small time, and Wee Jan has Tabby for company."

Then Betty would tuck the child and the cat into the cradle, lock the door, and off she'd go. One
midsummer afternoon she lingered in town longer than usual, hearing some especially interesting
tittle-tattle. It was already dusk when she started back over the moor to Towednack. She hurried
as fast as she could in the twilight, for it would never do to have Jan get home before her. When
at last she saw her cottage, the door was open wide. Her heart gave a skip, for Big Jan would
have found Wee Jan alone and supper not even begun.

But no smoke curled from the cottage chimney, no light shone from its window. When Betty
Stoggs burst through the doorway, there was no angry Big Jan awaiting her, either. Nor any
Tabby -- and no Wee Jan! The house was a shambles, the pots and pans all overturned, and the
cradle empty.

"Heaven keep us!" cried Betty, and she began poking in the dusty corners and under the dirty
bedclothes and in the empty cupboards, looking for her baby.

But all she found were a spider or two and a frightened mouse.

Then Betty Stoggs sat down and cried so hard that Big Jan heard her halfway across the moor as
he trudged along home. And neighbors to east and west, and a full mile off, heard her, too, and
came running to see what was wrong.

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They found Betty tearing pieces from her apron to wipe her eyes.

"Wee Jan is gone! Stole away!" she shrilled. "Oh, never have I been so unhappy!"

Big Jan just looked at Betty Stoggs. For a minute he said nothing. Then he puffed up with rage
and with grief, and when he found words, they roared out like thunder.

"Get!" he shouted. "Get ye out, Betty Stoggs! Find that dear crumb of a child, or ye'll find ye's
lost your husband besides. And see how that'll please ye!"

Betty ran out the door and onto the moonlit moor, fearing for both her baby and herself. And Big
Jan and the neighbors all ran out, too, all to look for Wee Jan.

"Jan! Sweet small Jan!" called Betty, and she listened for his laugh. But all she heard was the
hoot of an owl.

Betty stumbled across the moor, sometimes hitting her shins on sharp stones, sometimes sinking
to her boot tops in swampy places, all the time looking and calling for her baby. Big Jan and the
neighbors searched as well, every bush and bank, each croft and hedge for miles about. Though
the moonlight showed up everything like day, it showed no sign of any child. At daybreak, the
neighbors shook their heads sadly and went to their own homes. And Big Jan took himself back
to the cottage at Towednack, there to have a quiet cry.

All alone, and just as the sun broke through, Betty Stoggs heard a small sound -- no more than
the chirp of a cricket. She cupped her hand to her ear and listened. It came again, but this time
louder, and then she knew it well. The noise came from beneath a gorse bush, and, on her hands
and knees, Betty crawled toward it. A mew -- a mew and a purr -- and when Betty parted the
prickly branches, there was Tabby. Tabby looked at Betty and mewed, and then turned and
licked something, and purred. What Tabby had licked was Wee Jan, lying fast asleep beneath the
bush.

Betty clapped her hands in delight. Her baby was washed sweet and clean. There were herbs and
flower petals to pillow his head, and he was wrapped in bright chintz cloth. Betty snatched him
up, chintz and all, and ran with him to the cottage, with Tabby close behind.

When she showed Wee Jan to Big Jan, that one did not stop his crying, but cried all the harder
with joy. Betty cried along with him, and then the boy awoke and cried too, but only for his
breakfast. The neighbors heard and came again to see what now was amiss, and wondered at the
baby, so safe and sound and clean.

They each hugged the child and then each other. But one woman, older and wiser than the others,
spied a dirty mark, no bigger than a freckle, on the bottom of Wee Jan's foot.

"See here, Betty," said she. "Twas fairy folk took the child. They'd not yet quite cleaned him
from tip to toe -- nice enough to go with them -- when the sun broke through and scared them
off."

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Everyone looked at Wee Jan's foot, and all agreed. For wasn't he wrapped in chintz as well? It's
well known that fairies love bright chintz and will steal any they find that's been spread out on a
bush to dry.

"Mark my words," the old woman said then. "The Small People will fetch the baby back tonight
to finish the job lest ye're careful, Betty."

Betty was careful. So careful that she did not let the baby out of her sight for any bit of time, and
kept him clean every bit of the time, too. She cut up the chintz to make shirts for him, and even
made a curtain for the window with a piece of it. No one worked more cheerfully than Betty did
now. The baby shone, the cottage shone, and Betty Stoggs did, too.

Still, no matter how hard she scrubbed, she could not wash away the dirty spot from the bottom
of Wee Jan's foot.

"A fairy mark," the neighbors called it.

"A lucky spot" was what Betty called it. For it was there to remind her that she had everything
she needed to make her happy now.

And forever.

The Mermaid of Zennor

A Cornish Tale

The village of Zennor lies upon the windward coast of Cornwall. The houses cling to the hillside
as if hung there by the wind. Waves still lick the ledges in the coves, and a few fishermen still set
out to sea in their boats.

In times past, the sea was both the beginning and the end for the folk of Zennor. It gave them fish
for food and fish for sale, and made a wavy road to row from town to town. Hours were
reckoned not by clocks but by the ebb and flow of the tide, and months and years ticked off by
the herring runs. The sea took from them, too, and often wild, sudden storms would rise. Then
fish and fisherman alike would be lost to an angry sea.

At the end of a good day, when the sea was calm and each boat had returned with its share of fish
safely stowed in the hold, the people of Zennor would go up the path to the old church and give
thanks. They would pray for a fine catch on the morrow, too. The choir would sing, and after the
closing hymn the families would go

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Now, in the choir that sang at Evensong there was a most handsome lad named Mathew
Trewella. Not only was Mathew handsome to the eyes, his singing was sweet to the ears as well.
His voice pealed out louder than the church bells, and each note rang clear and true. It was
always Mathew who sang the closing hymn.

Early one evening, when all the fishing boats bobbed at anchor, and all the fisher families were
in church and all the birds at nest, and even the waves rested themselves and came quietly to
shore, something moved softly in the twilight. The waves parted without a sound, and, from deep
beneath them, some creature rose and climbed out onto a rock, there in the cove of Zennor. It
was both a sea creature and a she-creature. For, though it seemed to be a girl, where the girl's
legs should have been was the long and silver-shiny tail of a fish. It was a mermaid, one of the
daughters of Llyr, king of the ocean, and her name was Morveren.

Morveren sat upon the rock and looked at herself in the quiet water, and then combed all the
little crabs and seashells from her long, long hair. As she combed, she listened to the murmur of
the waves and wind. And borne on the wind was Mathew's singing.

"What breeze is there that blows such a song?" wondered Morveren. But then the wind died, and
Mathew's song with it. The sun disappeared, and Morveren slipped back beneath the water to her
home.

The next evening she came again. But not to the rock. This time she swam closer to shore, the
better to hear. And once more Mathew's voice carried out to sea, and Morveren listened.

"What bird sings so sweet?" she asked, and she looked all about. But darkness had come, and her
eyes saw only shadows.

The next day Morveren came even earlier, and boldly. She floated right up by the fishermen's
boats. And when she heard Mathew's voice, she called, "What reed is there that pipes such
music?"

There was no answer save the swishing of the water round the skiffs.

Morveren would and must know more about the singing. So she pulled herself up on the shore
itself. From there she could see the church and hear the music pouring from its open doors.
Nothing would do then but she must peek in and learn for herself who sang so sweetly.

Still, she did not go at once. For, looking behind her, she saw that the tide had begun to ebb and
the water pull back from the shore. And she knew that she must go back, too, or be left stranded
on the sand like a fish out of water.

So she dived down beneath the waves, down to the dark sea cave where she lived with her father
the king. And there she told Llyr what she had heard.

Llyr was so old he appeared to be carved of driftwood, and his hair floated out tangled and green,
like seaweed. At Morveren's words, he shook that massive head from side to side.

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"To hear is enough, my child. To see is too much."

"I must go, Father," she pleaded, "for the music is magic."

"Nay," he answered. "The music is man-made, and it comes from a man's mouth. We people of
the sea do not walk on the land of men."

A tear, larger than an ocean pearl, fell from Morveren's eye. "Then surely I may die from the
wanting down here."

Llyr sighed, and his sigh was like the rumbling of giant waves upon the rocks; for a mermaid to
cry was a thing unheard of and it troubled the old sea king greatly.

"Go, then," he said at last, "but go with care. Cover your tail with a dress, such as their women
wear. Go quietly, and make sure that none shall see you. And return by high tide, or you may not
return at all."

"I shall take care, Father!" cried Morveren, excited. "No one shall snare me like a herring!"

Llyr gave her a beautiful dress crusted with pearls and sea jade and coral and other ocean jewels.
It covered her tail, and she covered her shining hair with a net, and so disguised she set out for
the church and the land of men.

Slippery scales and fish's tail are not made for walking, and it was difficult for Morveren to get
up the path to the church. Nor was she used to the dress of an earth woman dragging behind. But
get there she did, pulling herself forward by grasping on the trees, until she was at the very door
of the church. She was just in time for the closing hymn. Some folks were looking down at their
hymnbooks and some up at the choir, so, since none had eyes in the backs of their heads, they
did not see Morveren. But she saw them, and Mathew as well. He was as handsome as an angel,
and when he sang it was like a harp from heaven -- although Morveren, of course, being a
mermaid, knew nothing of either.

So each night thereafter, Morveren would dress and come up to the church, to look and to listen,
staying but a few minutes and always leaving before the last note faded and in time to catch the
swell of high tide. And night by night, month by month, Mathew grew taller and his voice grew
deeper and stronger (though Morveren neither grew nor changed, for that is the way of
mermaids). And so it went for most of a year, until the evening when Morveren lingered longer
than usual. She had heard Mathew sing one verse, and then another, and begin a third. Each
refrain was lovelier than the one before, and Morveren caught her breath in a sigh.

It was just a little sigh, softer than the whisper of a wave. But it was enough for Mathew to hear,
and he looked to the back of the church and saw the mermaid. Morveren's eyes were shining, and
the net had slipped from her head and her hair was wet and gleaming, too. Mathew stopped his
singing. He was struck silent by the look of her -- and by his love for her. For these things will
happen.

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Morveren was frightened. Mathew had seen her, and her father had warned that none must look
at her. Besides, the church was warm and dry, and merpeople must be cool and wet. Morveren
felt herself shriveling, and turned in haste from the door.

"Stop!" cried Mathew boldly. "Wait!" And he ran down the aisle of the church and out the door
after her.

Then all the people turned, startled, and their hymn-books fell from their laps.

Morveren tripped, tangled in her dress, and would have fallen had not Mathew reached her side
and caught her.

"Stay!" he begged. "Whoever ye be, do not leave!"

Tears, real tears, as salty as the sea itself, rolled down Morveren's cheeks.

"I cannot stay. I am a sea creature, and must go back where I belong."

Mathew stared at her and saw the tip of her fish tail poking out from beneath the dress. But that
mattered not at all to him.

"Then I will go with ye. For with ye is where I belong."

He picked Morveren up, and she threw her arms about his neck. He hurried down the path with
her, toward the ocean's edge.

And all the people from the church saw this.

"Mathew, stop!" they shouted. "Hold back!"

"No! No, Mathew!" cried that boy's mother.

But Mathew was bewitched with love for the mermaid, and ran the faster with her toward the
sea.

Then the fishermen of Zennor gave chase, and all others, too, even Mathew's mother. But
Mathew was quick and strong and outdistanced them. And Morveren was quick and clever. She
tore the pearls and coral from her dress and flung them on the path. The fishermen were greedy,
even as men are now, and stopped in their chase to pick up the gems. Only Mathew's mother still
ran after them.

The tide was going out. Great rocks thrust up from the dark water. Already it was too shallow for
Morveren to swim. But Mathew plunged ahead into the water, stumbling in to his knees. Quickly
his mother caught hold of his fisherman's jersey. Still Mathew pushed on, until the sea rose to his
waist, and then his shoulders. Then the waters closed over Morveren and Mathew, and his
mother was left with only a bit of yarn in her hand, like a fishing line with nothing on it.

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Never again were Mathew and Morveren seen by the people of Zennor. They had gone to live in
the land of Llyr, in golden sand castles built far below the waters in a blue-green world.

But the people of Zennor heard Mathew. For he sang to Morveren both day and night, love songs
and lullabies. Nor did he sing for her ears only. Mathew learned songs that told of the sea as
well. His voice rose up soft and high if the day was to be fair, deep and low if Llyr was going to
make the waters boil. From his songs, the fishermen of Zennor knew when it was safe to put to
sea, and when it was wise to anchor snug at home.

There are some still who find meanings in the voices of the waves and understand the whispers
of the winds. These are the ones who say Mathew sings yet, to them that will listen.