There is at least one spot in the world where Fairies are still believed in, and where, if you look in the right places, they may still be found, and that is the little island from which these stories come—Ellan Vannin, the Isle of Mann. But I have used a word which should not be mentioned here—they are never called Fairies by the Manx, but Themselves, or the Little People, or the Little Fellows, or the Little Ones, or sometimes even the Lil’ Boys. These Little People are not the tiny creatures with wings who flutter about in many English Fairy tales, but they are small persons from two to three feet in height, otherwise very like mortals. They wear red caps and green jackets and are very fond of hunting—indeed they are most often seen on horseback followed by packs of little hounds of all the colours of the rainbow. They are rather inclined to be mischievous and spiteful, and that is why they are called by such good names, in case they should be listening!
Besides these red-capped Little Fellows there are other more alarming folk. There is the Fynoderee, who is large, ugly, hairy and enormously strong, but not so bad as he looks, for often he helps on the farm during the night by thrashing corn. He does not like to be seen, so if a farmer wants work done by him, he must take care to keep out of the Fynoderee’s way. Then, far uglier than Fynoderee, are the Bugganes, who are horrible and cruel creatures. They can appear in any shape they please—as ogres with huge heads and great fiery eyes, or without any heads at all; as small dogs who grow larger and larger as you watch them until they are larger than elephants, when perhaps they turn into the shape of men or disappear into nothing; as horned monsters or anything they choose. Each Buggane has his own particular dwelling-place—a dark sea-cave, a lonely hill, or a ruined Keeill, or Church. There are many others too, but these are the chief.
Most of the stories are traditional and have been handed down by word of mouth from father to son. I owe hearty thanks to those from whose lips I have heard them—Messrs. J. R. Moore, William Cashen, Joe Moore, Ned Quayle and others. Of the four stories which have not been told to me personally—Teeval, Kitterland, The Wizard’s Palace, and Smereree—the three first have been printed in various folk-lore books, and the Manx of the last appeared in ‘Yn Lioar Manninagh’ some years ago. Lastly I must thank my friend Miss Alice Williams for her kind help and valuable assistance in many ways.
SOPHIA MORRISON.
Peel, Isle of Mann,
October 1911.
There was a man once in the Isle of Mann who met one of the Little Fellows, and the Little Fellow told him that if he would go to London Bridge and dig, he would find a fortune. So he went, and when he got there he began to dig, and another man came to him and said:
‘What are you doing?’
‘One of Themselves told me to come to London Bridge and I would get a fortune,’ says he. And the other man said:
‘I dreamed that I was back in the lil’ islan’ an’ I was at a house with a thorn-tree at the chimley of it, and if I would dig there I would find a fortune. But I wouldn’ go, for it was only foolishness.’
Then he told him so plainly about the house that the first man knew it was his own, so he went back to the Island. When he got home he dug under the little thorn-tree by the chimney and he found an iron box. He opened the box and it was full of gold, and there was a letter in it, but he could not read the letter because it was in a foreign language. So he put it in the smithy window and challenged any scholar who went by to read it. None of them could, but at last one big boy said it was Latin and it meant:
‘Dig again and you’ll find another.’
So the man dug again under the thorn-tree, and what did he find but another iron box full of gold!
And from that day till the day of his death, that man used to open the front door before going to bed, and call out: ‘My blessing with the Little Fellows!’
Here is a true story that was told me by a man named James Moore when I was sitting with him by the fire one evening. He said:
‘I’m not much of a believer in most of the stories some ones is telling, but after all a body can’t help believing a thing they happen to see for themselves.
‘I remember one winter’s night—we were living in a house at the time that was pulled down for the building of the Big Wheel. It was a thatched house with two rooms, and a wall about six foot high dividing them, and from that it was open to the scrahs, or turfs, that were laid across the rafters. My Mother was sitting at the fire busy spinning, and my Father was sitting in the big chair at the end of the table taking a chapter for us out of the Manx Bible. My brother was busy winding a spool and I was working with a bunch of ling, trying to make two or three pegs.
‘“There’s a terrible glisther on to-night,” my Mother said, looking at the fire. “An’ the rain comin’ peltin’ down the chimley!”
‘“Yes,” said my Father, shutting the Bible; “an’ we better get to bed middlin’ soon and let the Lil’ Ones in to a bit of shelter.”
‘So we all got ready and went to bed.
‘Some time in the night my brother wakened me with a:
‘“Sh—ish! Listen boy, an’ look at the big light tha’s in the kitchen!” Then he rubbed his eyes a bit and whispered:
‘“What’s mother doin’ now at all?”
‘“Listen!” I said. “An’ you’ll hear mother in bed, it’s not her at all; it must be the Little Ones that’s agate of the wheel!”
‘And both of us got frightened, and down with our heads under the clothes and fell asleep. In the morning when we got up we told them what we had seen, first thing.
‘“Aw, like enough, like enough,” my Father said, looking at the wheel. “It seems your mother forgot to take the band off last night, a thing people should be careful about, for it’s givin’ Themselves power over the wheel, an’ though their meanin’s well enough, the spinnin’ they’re doin’ is nothin’ to brag about. The weaver is always shoutin’ about their work an’ the bad joinin’ they’re makin’ in the rolls.”
‘“I remember it as well as yesterday—the big light that was at them, and the whirring that was going on. And let anybody say what they like, that’s a thing I’ve seen and heard for myself.”’
One evening a young man who was serving his time as a weaver was walking home late from Douglas to Glen Meay. He had often been boasting that he had never seen any of the Little People. Well, this night he was coming along the St. John’s Road, and when he got near to the river a big, big bull stood across the road before him. He took his stick and gave it one big knock. It went into the river and he never saw it any more.
After that, when he got to the Parson’s Bridge, he met a little thing just like a spinning wheel and there was a little, little body sitting where the spool is. Well, he lifted his stick again and struck the little body that was sitting on the spool a hard knock with his stick. The little body said to him:
‘Ny jean shen arragh!’ which means, ‘Don’t do that again!’
He walked on then till he got to Glen Meay and told what he had seen in a house there. Then another man said he had seen the little old woman sitting on the top of the spool of the spinning wheel and coming down Raby Hill at dark. So it took her a long time, for the first man met her at six and the second at eleven, and there isn’t two miles between the two places.
So they were saying, when the cycles came in, that the Little People had been before them! And this is a true story.
There was once a woman living near Glen Meay, and she was the wife of a decent, quiet, striving man of the place. There was no one but herself and the man, and they had a nice little cottage and owned a bit of a croft on which they grazed a cow and a few sheep and grew enough potatoes to do them the winter out; and the man had a yawl and went to the fishing when things were slack on land. But for all that they were not comfortable, for work as hard as the man might at his farming and his fishing, he was kept as poor as Lazarus by a lazy wife.
For the woman was fonder of lying a-bed in the morning than sitting at her milking stool; indeed the neighbours had it to say that she wore out more blankets than shoes. Many a day her man would be going out early as hungry as a hawk, without a bite or a sup in him. One morning when he came in from work for his breakfast there was no fire—his wife was never up. Well, my poor man had nothing for it but to get his own breakfast ready and go back to his work. When he came in for dinner it happened as it had happened for breakfast.
‘Bad luck to her laziness,’ he thought; ‘this is coul comfort for a poor man, but I’ll play a trick on her for it.’
And with that he fetched a bart of straw and bunged the two windows of his house. Then he went back to his work.
The sun had not yet set when he came home in the evening. His wife was lying in bed waiting for day.
‘Aw, woman,’ he shouted, ‘make haste an’ get up to see the sun rise in the wes’.’
Up jumped the wife and ran to the door just as the sun was going down, and the sight terrified her. The whole sky looked like fire, and she thought that the end of the world had come. But next morning it all happened as it had happened before, and himself said to her:
‘Kirry, it’s the Buggane, sure enough, that’ll be having thee one of these days if thou don’t mend thy ways!’
‘What Buggane?’ said she.
‘Ax me no questions,’ said he, ‘an’ I’ll tell thee no lies. But it’s the big, black, hairy fellow that lies under the Spooyt Vooar that I’m meanin’.’
‘Aw, houl yer tongue, man; thou don’t frecken me wi’ thy Bugganes,’ shouted the woman.
In the evening the man left the house to go out to the fishing. As soon as he had gone the woman took a notion in her head to bake, as she had only the heel o’ the loaf left for breakfast. Now, Themselves can’t stand lazy ways, and baking after sunset is the one thing they won’t abide. She who does so will meet their revenge—something is sure to be taken by them, but seldom worse than some of the live stock. Well, the woman set to work to bake some barley bread and flour cake. First, she went out to get gorse to put under the griddle, slipping the bolt on the door as she came in, that none of the neighbours would catch her and cry shame on her for baking after sunset. She got some meal out of the barrel and put it on the round table, and put salt and water on it, and then she kneaded the meal and clapped a cake out as thin as sixpence with her hands. But she was only a middling poor baker, one of the sort that has to use a knife to make the cake of a right round. She had turned the cake twice, and taken it off, and brushed the griddle with a white goose wing ready for the next cake which she was busy cutting round with her knife. Just at that moment there was heard the sound of something heavy lumbering up to the door. After a few seconds SOMETHING fumbled at the sneg of the door, then SOMETHING knocked high up on the door, and a voice like the thick, gruff voice of a giant was heard saying, ‘Open, open for me.’ She made no answer. Again there was a loud knock and a big hoarse voice was heard which cried: ‘Woman of the house, open for me.’ Then the door burst open and behold ye, what should she see but a great, big ugly beast of a Buggane rushing in mad with rage. Without as much as a ‘By your leave,’ he made one grab at her, and clutched hold of her by her apron and swung her on his shoulder, and away with him. Before she knew where she was he rushed her across the fields and down the hill, till he brought her to the top of the Spooyt Vooar, the big waterfall of Glen Meay. As the Buggane tore down the hill, the woman felt the ground tremble under his feet, and the noise of the waterfall filled her ears. And, there in front of her, she saw the stream turn to white spray as it came leaping down the rocks. As the Buggane swung her in the air to throw her into the deep pool, she thought that her last hour had come. Then all at once she remembered the knife that she held in her hand! Quick as thought she cut the string of her apron and down she tumbled to the ground, rolling over and over down the hill. And before he knew where he was the Buggane, with the speed he had on him, pitched forward head first down the rushing Spooyt Vooar. As he went head over heels and down to the bottom of the pool with a souse you’d have heard half a mile away, she heard him give a roar out of him:
Rumbyl, rumbyl, sambyl,
I thought I had a lazy Dirt,
And I have but the edge of her skirt.
And that was the last that was seen of that fellow!
When Noah was calling the animals into the Ark, there was one cat who was out mousing and took no notice when he was calling to her. She was a good mouser, but this time she had trouble to find a mouse and she took a notion that she wouldn’t go into the Ark without one.
So at last, when Noah had all the animals safe inside, and he saw the rain beginning to fall, and no sign of her coming in, he said:
‘Who’s out is out, and who’s in is in!’ And with that he was just closing the door when the cat came running up, half drowned—that’s why cats hate the water—and just squeezed in, in time. But Noah had slammed the door as she ran in and it cut off her tail, so she got in without it, and that is why Manx cats have no tails to this day. That cat said:
Bee bo bend it,
My tail’s ended,
And I’ll go to Mann
And get copper nails,
And mend it.