Welsh Fairy Tales Part 16

For months, Taffy dug over every square foot of the hill. Neglecting his business as cattle man, he spent all the money he had made in London, but he never found that entrance to the cave. He died a poor man and all his children had to work hard to get their bread.

XVII

THE LADY OF THE LAKE

One easily gets acquainted with the Welsh fairies, for nearly all the good ones are very fond of music.

Or, they live down in the lakes, or up in the mountains. They are always ready to help kind or polite people, who treat them well or will give them a gla.s.s of milk, or a saucer of flummery.

But, oh, what tricks and mischief they do play on mean or stingy or grumpy folks with bad tempers! They tangle up the harness of the horses; milk the cows, letting the milk go to waste, on the stable floor; tie knots in their tails, or keep the dog's mouth shut, when the robbers come sneaking around. Better not offend a fairy, even though no higher than a thimble!

A favorite place for the elfin ladies of the lake is high up in one of the fresh water mountain ponds. They are cousins to the mermaids, that swim in the salt water.

They say that these lake maidens love to come up close to the sh.o.r.e, to smell the sweet gra.s.s and flowers, which the cows like so much.

Near one of these lakes dwelt a widow, with only one son, named Gwyn.

One day he took his lunch of barley bread and cheese, and went out, as usual, to tend the cows. Soon he saw rising out of the water, to dress her long and luxuriant hair, the most beautiful lady he had ever seen.

In her hand she held a golden comb, and was using the bright lake-surface as a mirror.

At once Gwyn fell in love with her, and, like an unselfish lad, held out his refreshments--barley bread and cheese--all he had--bidding her to come and take.

But though the lady glided toward him, while he still held out his hand, she shook her head, saying:

O thou of the hard baked bread, It is not easy to catch me

Sorry enough to miss such a prize, he hurried home to tell his mother.

She, wondering also, whether fairies have teeth to chew, told him to take soft dough next time. Then, perhaps, the strange lady would come again.

Not much sleep did the boy get that night, and, before the sun was up, he was down by the lake side holding out his dough.

There, hour after hour, neglecting the cows, he looked eagerly over the water, but nothing appeared, except ripples started by the breeze.

Again and again, he gazed in hope, only to be disappointed.

[Ill.u.s.tration: IN A MOMENT HE FORGOT EVERY WORD HE MEANT TO SAY]

Meanwhile he thought out a pretty speech to make to her, but he kept his dough and went hungry.

It was late in the afternoon, when the trees on the hills were casting long shadows westward, that he gave up watching, for he supposed she would come no more.

But just as he started to go back to his mother's cabin, he turned his head and there was the same lady, looking more beautiful than ever. In a moment, he forgot every word he meant to say to her. His tongue seemed to leave him, and he only held out his hand, with the dough in it.

But the lake lady, shaking her head, only laughed and said:

Thou of the soft bread I will not have thee

Though she dived under the water and left him sad and lonely, she smiled so sweetly, as she vanished, that, though again disappointed, he thought she would come again and she might yet accept his gift.

His mother told him to try her with bread half baked, that is, midway between hard crust and soft dough.

So, having packed his lunch, and much excited, though this time with bright hopes, Gwyn went to bed, though not to sleep. At dawn, he was up again and out by the lake side, with his half baked bread in his hand.

It was a day of rain and s.h.i.+ne, of sun burst and cloud, but no lady appeared.

The long hours, of watching and waiting, sped on, until it was nearly dark.

When just about to turn homewards, to ease his mother's anxiety, what should he see, but some cows walking on the surface of the water! In a few minutes, the lady herself, lovelier than ever, rose up and moved towards the sh.o.r.e.

Gwyn rushed out to meet her, with beseeching looks and holding the half baked bread in his hand. This time, she graciously took the gift, placed her other hand in his, and he led her to the sh.o.r.e.

Standing with her on land, he could not speak for many seconds. He noticed that she had sandals on her feet, and the one on the right foot was tied in a way rather unusual. Under her winsome smile, at last, he regained the use of his tongue. Then he burst out:

"Lady I love you, more than all the world besides. Will you be my wife?"

She did not seem at all willing at first, but love begets love.

Finally yielding to his pleadings, she said, rather solemnly:

"I will be your bride but only on this condition, that if you strike me three times, without cause, I will leave your house and you only will be to blame, and it will be forever."

These words stuck in his mind, and he inwardly made a vow never to give his lovely wife cause to leave him.

But not yet did happiness come, for, even while he took oath that he would rather cut off his right hand, than offend her, she darted away like an arrow, and, diving in the lake, disappeared.

At this sudden blow to his hopes and joy, Gwyn was so sorely depressed, as to wish to take his own life. Rus.h.i.+ng up to the top of a rock, overhanging the deepest part of the lake, he was just about to leap into the water and drown himself, when he heard a voice behind him, saying:

"Hold rash lad, come here!"

He looked and there down on the sh.o.r.e of the lake, stood a grand looking old man, with a long white beard. On either side of him was a lovely maiden. These were his daughters.

Trembling with fear, the lad slipped down from the rock and drew near.

Then the old man spoke comfortably to him, though in a very cracked voice.

"Mortal, do you wish to marry one of my daughters? Show me the one you love more than the other, and I will consent."

Now the two maidens were so beautiful, yet so exactly alike, that Gwyn could not note any difference. As he looked, he began to wonder whether it had been a different lady, in each case, that rose out of the water. He looked beyond the old man, to see if there were a third lady. When he saw none more, he became more distracted. He feared lest he might choose the wrong one, who had not promised to love him.

Almost in despair, he was about to run home, when he noticed that one of the maidens put forward her right foot. Then he saw that her sandal was tied in the way he had already wondered at. So he boldly went forward and took her by the hand.

"This one is mine," said he to the father.

"You are right," answered the old man. "This is my daughter Nelferch.

Take her and you shall have as many cattle, sheep, horses, hogs, and goats, as she can count, of each, without drawing in her breath. But I warn you that three blows, without cause, will send her back to me."

While the old man smiled, and Gwyn renewed his vow, the new wife began to count by fives--one, two, three, four, five.