Showing posts with label English folktale. Show all posts
Showing posts with label English folktale. Show all posts

Saturday, 26 July 2025

Saturday's Good Reading: “The Three Little Pigs” retold by Andrew Lang (in English)

 

There was once upon a time a pig who lived with her three children on a large, comfortable, old-fashioned farmyard. The eldest of the little pigs was called Browny, the second Whitey, and the youngest and best looking Blacky. Now Browny was a very dirty little pig, and, I am sorry to say, spent most of his time rolling and wallowing about in the mud. He was never so happy as on a wet day, when the mud in the farmyard got soft, and thick, and slab. Then he would steal away from his mother's side, and finding the muddiest place in the yard, would roll about in it and thoroughly enjoy himself.

His mother often found fault with him for this, and would shake her head sadly and say, "Ah, Browny! Some day you will be sorry that you did not obey your old mother."

But no words of advice or warning could cure Browny of his bad habits.

Whitey was quite a clever little pig, but she was greedy. She was always thinking of her food, and looking forward to her dinner. And when the farm girl was seen carrying the pails across the yard, she would rise up on her hind legs and dance and caper with excitement. As soon as the food was poured into the trough she jostled Blacky and Browny out of the way in her eagerness to get the best and biggest bits for herself. Her mother often scolded her for her selfishness, and told her that someday she would suffer for being so greedy and grabbing.

Blacky was a good, nice little pig, neither dirty nor greedy. He had nice dainty ways (for a pig), and his skin was always as smooth and shining as black satin. He was much cleverer than Browny and Whitey, and his mother's heart used to swell with pride when she heard the farmer's friends say to each other that someday the little black fellow would be a prize pig.

Now the time came when the mother pig felt old and feeble and near her end. One day she called the three little pigs round her and said, "My children, I feel that I am growing old and weak, and that I shall not live long. Before I die I should like to build a house for each of you, as this dear old sty in which we have lived so happily will be given to a new family of pigs, and you will have to turn out. Now, Browny, what sort of a house would you like to have?"

"A house of mud," replied Browny, looking longingly at a wet puddle in the corner of the yard.

"And you, Whitey?" said the mother pig in rather a sad voice, for she was disappointed that Browny had made so foolish a choice.

"A house of cabbage," answered Whitey, with a mouth full, and scarcely raising her snout out of the trough in which she was grubbing for some potato parings.

"Foolish, foolish child!" said the mother pig, looking quite distressed. "And you, Blacky?" turning to her youngest son. "What sort of a house shall I order for you?"

"A house of brick, please mother, as it will be warm in winter and cool in summer, and safe all the year round."

"That is a sensible little pig," replied his mother, looking fondly at him. "I will see that the three houses are got ready at once. And now one last piece of advice. You have heard me talk of our old enemy the fox. When he hears that I am dead, he is sure to try and get hold of you, to carry you off to his den. He is very sly and will no doubt disguise himself, and pretend to be a friend, but you must promise me not to let him enter your houses on any pretext whatever."

And the little pigs readily promised, for they had always had a great fear of the fox, of whom they had heard many terrible tales.

A short time afterwards the old pig died, and the little pigs went to live in their own houses.

Browny was quite delighted with his soft mud walls and with the clay floor, which soon looked like nothing but a big mud pie. But that was what Browny enjoyed, and he was as happy as possible, rolling about all day and making himself in such a mess.

One day, as he was lying half asleep in the mud, he heard a soft knock at his door, and a gentle voice said, "May I come in, Master Browny? I want to see your beautiful new house."

"Who are you?" said Browny, starting up in great fright, for though the voice sounded gentle, he felt sure it was a feigned voice, and he feared it was the fox.

"I am a friend come to call on you," answered the voice.

"No, no," replied Browny, "I don't believe you are a friend. You are the wicked fox, against whom our mother warned us. I won't let you in."

"Oho! Is that the way you answer me?" said the fox, speaking very roughly in his natural voice. "We shall soon see who is master here," and with his paws he set to work and scraped a large hole in the soft mud walls. A moment later he had jumped through it, and catching Browny by the neck, flung him on his shoulders and trotted off with him to his den.

The next day, as Whitey was munching a few leaves of cabbage out of the corner of her house, the fox stole up to her door, determined to carry her off to join her brother in his den. He began speaking to her in the same feigned gentle voice in which he had spoken to Browny. But it frightend her very much when he said, "I am a friend come to visit you, and to have some of your good cabbage for my dinner."

"Please don't touch it," cried Whitey in great distress. "The cabbages are the walls of my house, and if you eat them you will make a hole, and the wind and rain will come in and give me a cold. Do go away. I am sure you are not a friend, but our wicked enemy the fox."

And poor Whitey began to whine and to whimper, and to wish that she had not been such a greedy little pig, and had chosen a more solid material than cabbages for her house. But it was too late now, and in another minute the fox had eaten his way through the cabbage walls, and had caught the trembling, shivering Whitey and carried her off to his den.

The next day the fox started off for Blacky's house, because he had made up his mind that he would get the three little pigs together in his den, and then kill them, and invite all his friends to a feast. But when he reached the brick house, he found that the door was bolted and barred, so in his sly manner he began, "Do let me in, dear Blacky. I have brought you a present of some eggs that I picked up in a farmyard on my way here."

"No, no, Mister Fox," replied Blacky. "I am not gong to open my door to you. I know your cunning ways. You have carried off poor Browny and Whitey, but you are not going to get me."

At this the fox was so angry that he dashed with all his force against the wall, and tried to knock it down. But it was too strong and well built. And though the fox scraped and tore at the bricks with his paws, he only hurt himself, and at last he had to give it up, and limp away with his forepaws all bleeding and sore.

"Never mind!" he cried angrily as he went off. "I'll catch you another day, see if I don't, and won't I grind your bones to powder when I have got you in my den!" And he snarled fiercely and showed his teeth.

Next day Blacky had to go into the neighboring town to do some marketing and to buy a big kettle. As he was walking home with it slung over his shoulder, he heard a sound of steps stealthily creeping after him. For a moment his heart stood still with fear, and then a happy thought came to him. He had just reached the top of a hill, and could see his own little house nestling at the foot of it among the trees. In a moment he had snatched the lid off the kettle and had jumped in himself. Coiling himself round, he lay quite snug in the bottom of the kettle, while with his foreleg he managed to put the lid on, so that he was entirely hidden. With a little kick from the inside, he started the kettle off, and down the hill it rolled full tilt. And when the fox came up, all that he saw was a large black kettle spinning over the ground at a great pace. Very much disappointed, he was just going to turn away, when he saw the kettle stop close to the little brick house, and a moment later, Blacky jumped out of it and escaped with the kettle into the housed, when he barred and bolted the door, and put the shutter up over the window.

"Oho!" exclaimed the fox to himself. "You think you will escape me that way, do you? We shall soon see about that, my friend." And very quietly and stealthily he prowled round the house looking for some way to climb onto the roof.

In the meantime Blacky had filled the kettle with water, and having put it on the fire, sat down quietly waiting for it to boil. Just as the kettle was beginning to sing, and steam to come out of the spout, he heard a sound like a soft, muffled step, patter, patter, patter overhead, and the next moment the fox's head and forepaws were seen coming down the chimney. But Blacky very wisely had not put the lid on the kettle, and, with a yelp of pain, the fox fell into the boiling water, and before he could escape, Blacky had popped the lid on, and the fox was scalded to death.

As soon as he was sure that their wicked enemy was really dead, and could do them no further harm, Blacky started off to rescue Browny and Whitey. As he approached the den he heard piteous grunts and squeals from his poor little brother and sister who lived in constant terror of the fox killing and eating them. But when they saw Blacky appear at the entrance to the den, their joy knew no bounds. He quickly found a sharp stone and cut the cords by which they were tied to a stake in the ground, and then all three started off together for Blacky's house, where they lived happily ever after. And Browny quite gave up rolling in the mud, and Whitey ceased to be greedy, for they never forgot how nearly these faults had brought them to an untimely end.

Saturday, 14 June 2025

Saturday's Good Reading: an untitled English folk tale (in English)

in English Forests and Forest Trees: Historical, Legendary, and Descriptive (London: Ingram, Cooke, and Company, 1853), pp. 189-90. 

 

Another singular story is told on Dartmoor:

There was once a fox, who, prowling by night in search of prey, came unexpectedly on a colony of pixies. Each pixy had a separate house. The first he came to was a wooden house.

"Let me in, let me in," said the fox.

"I won't," was the pixy's answer; "and the door is fastened."

Upon this the fox climbed to the top of the house; and having pawed it down, made a meal of the unfortunate pixy.

The next was a "stonen" house.

"Let me in," said the fox.

"The door is fastened," answered the pixy.

Again was the house pulled down, and its inmate eaten.

The third was an iron house. The fox again craved admittance, and was again refused.

"But I bring you good news," said the fox.

"No, no," replied the pixy; "I know what you want; you shall not come in here tonight."

That house the fox in vain attempted to destroy. It was too strong for him, and he went away in despair. But he returned the next night, and exerted all his fox-like qualities in the hope of deceiving the pixy. For some time he tried in vain ; until at last he mentioned a tempting field of turnips in the neighborhood, to which he offered to conduct his intended victim. They agreed to meet the next morning at four o'clock.

But the pixy outwitted the fox; for he found his way to the field, and returned laden with his turnips long before the fox was astir. The fox was greatly vexed, and was long unable to devise another scheme, until he bethought himself of a great fair about to be held a short way off, and proposed to the pixy that they should set off for it at three in the morning.

The pixy agreed. But the fox was again outwitted; for he was only up in time to meet the pixy returning home with his fairings: a clock, a crock, and a frying pan. The pixy, who saw the fox coming, got into the crock and rolled himself down the hill ; and the fox, unable to find him, abandoned the scent and went his way. The fox returned the next morning; and finding the door open went in, when he caught the pixy in bed, put him into a box, and locked him in.

"Let me out," said the pixy, " and I will tell you a wonderful secret."

The fox was after a time persuaded to lift the cover; and the pixy, coming out, threw such a charm upon him that he was compelled to enter the box in his turn; and there at last he died.


Saturday, 5 October 2019

Good Reading: "Robin Hood and the Monk" byunknown writer (in English)


                 In somer, when the shawes be sheyne,
                 And leves be large and long,
                 Hit is full mery in feyre foreste
                 To here the foulys song:

                 To se the dere draw to the dale,
                 And leve the hilles hee,
                 And shadow hem in the lev s grene,
                 Vnder the grene-wode tre.

                 Hit befel on Whitsontide,
                 Erly in a May mornyng,
                 The son vp feyre can shyne,
                 And the briddis mery can syng.

                 ‘This is a mery mornyng,’ seid Litull John,
                 ‘Be hym that dyed on tre;
                 A more mery man then I am one
                 Lyves not in Cristiant .

                 ‘Pluk vp thi hert, my dere mayster,’
                 Litull John can sey,
                 ‘And thynk hit is a full fayre tyme
                 In a mornyng of May.’

                 ‘Y+Oe, on thyng greves me,’ seid Robyn,
                 ‘And does my hert mych woo;
I may not no solem day
                 To mas nor matyns goo.

                 ‘Hit is a fourtnet and more,’ seid he,
                 ‘Syn I my sauyour see;
                 To day wil I to Notyngham,’ seid Robyn,
                 ‘With the myght of mylde Marye.’

                 Than spake Moche, the mylner sun,
                 Euer more wel hym betyde!
                 ‘Take twelue of thi wyght y+oemen,
                 Well weppynd, be thi side.
                 Such on wolde thi selfe slon,

                 ‘Of all my mery men,’ seid Robyn,
                 ‘Be my feith I wil non haue,
                 But Litull John shall beyre my bow,
                 Til that me list to drawe.’

                 ‘RRthou shall beyre thin own,’ seid Litull Jon,
                 ‘Maister, and I wyl beyre myne,
                 And we well shete a peny,’ seid Litull Jon,
                 ‘Vnder the grene-wode lyne.’

                 ‘I wil not shete a peny,’ seyd Robyn Hode,
                 ‘In feith, Litull John, with the,
                 But euer for on as thou shetis,’ seide Robyn,
                 ‘In feith I holde the thre.’

                 Thus shet thei forth, these y+oemen too,
                 Bothe at buske and brome,
                 Til Litull John wan of his maister
                 Fiue shillings to hose and shone.

                 A ferly strife fel them betwene,
                 As they went bi the wey;
                 Litull John seid he had won fiue shillings,
                 And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.

                 With that Robyn Hode lyed Litul Jon,
                 And smote hym with his hande;
                 Litul Jon waxed wroth therwith,
                 And pulled out his bright bronde.

                 ‘Were thou not my maister,’ seid Litull John,
                 ‘RRthou shuldis by hit ful sore;
                 Get the a man wher thou w[ilt],
                 For thou getis me no more.’

                 THen Robyn goes to Notyngham,
                 Hym selfe mornyng allone,
                 And Litull John to mery Scherwode,
                 The pathes he knew ilkone.

                 Whan Robyn came to Notyngham,
                 Sertenly withouten layn,
                 He prayed to God and myld Mary
                 To bryng hym out saue agayn.

                 He gos in to Seynt Mary chirch,
                 And kneled down before the rode;
                 Alle that euer were the church within
                 Beheld wel Robyn Hode.

                 Beside hym stod a gret-hedid munke,
                 I pray to God woo he be!
                 Fful sone he knew gode Robyn,
                 As sone as he hym se.

                 Out at the durre he ran,
                 Fful sone and anon;
                 Alle the y+oatis of Notyngham
                 He made to be sparred euerychon.

                 ‘Rise vp,’ he seid, ’thou prowde schereff,
                 Buske the and make the bowne;
                 I haue spyed the kynggis felon,
                 Ffor sothe he is in this town.

                 ‘I haue spyed the false felon,
                 As he stondis at his masse;
                 Hit is long of the,’ seide the munke,
                 ‘And euer he fro vs passe.

                 ‘RRthis traytur name is Robyn Hode,
                 Vnder the grene-wode lynde;
                 He robbyt me onys of a hundred pound,
                 Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde.’

                 Vp then rose this prowde shereff,
                 And radly made hym y+oare;
                 Many was the moder son
                 To the kyrk with hym can fare.

                 In at the durres thei throly thrast,
                 With staves ful gode wone;
                 ‘Alas, alas!’ seid Robyn Hode,
                 ‘Now mysse I Litull John.’

                 But Robyn toke out a too-hond sworde,
                hangit down be his kne;
                as the schereff and his men stode thyckust,
                 Thedurwarde wolde he.

                 Thryes thorowout them he ran then,
                 For sothe as I yow sey,
                 And woundyt mony a moder son,
                 And twelue he slew that day.

                 His sworde vpon the schireff hed
                 Sertanly he brake in too;
                 ‘THe smyth that the made,’ seid Robyn,
                 ‘I pray to God wyrke hym woo!

                 ‘Ffor now am I weppynlesse,’ seid Robyn,
                 ‘Alasse! agayn my wylle;
                 But if I may fle these traytors fro,
                 I wot thei wil me kyll.’

                 Robyn in to the church  ran,
                 Throout hem euerilkon,
                 * * * * *

                 Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede,
                 And lay stil as any stone;
                 Non of theym were in her mynde
                 But only Litull Jon9

                 ‘Let be your rule,’ seid Litull Jon,
                 ‘Ffor his luf that dyed on tre,
                 Y+Oe that shulde be duy+oty men;
                 Het is gret shame to se.

                 ‘Oure maister has bene hard bystode
                 And y+oet scapyd away;
                 Pluk vp your hertis, and leve this mone,
                 And harkyn what I shal say.

                 ‘He has seruyd Oure Lady many a day,
                 And y+oet wil, securly;
                I trust in hir specialy
                 No wyckud deth shal he dye.

                 ‘RRtherfor be glad,’ seid Litul John,
                 ‘And let this mournyng be;
                 And I shal be the munkis gyde,
                 With the myght of mylde Mary.

                 . . . .
                 ‘We will go but we too;
                 And I mete hym,’ seid Litul John,
                 . . .

                 ‘Loke that y+oe kepe wel owre tristil-tre,
                 Vnder the levys smale,
                 And spare non of this venyson,
                gose in thys vale.’

                 Fforthe then went these y+oemen too,
                 Litul John and Moche on fere,
                 And lokid on Moch emys hows,
                 THe hye way lay full nere.

                 Litul John stode at a wyndow in the mornyng,
                 And lokid forth at a stage;
                 He was war wher the munke came ridyng,
                 And with hym a litul page.

                 ‘Be my feith,’ seid Litul John to Moch,
                 ‘I can the tel tithyngus gode;
                 I se wher the munke cumys rydyng,
                 I know hym be his wyde hode.’

                 They went in to the way, these y+oemen bothe,
                 As curtes men and hende;
                 THei spyrred tithyngus at the munke,
                 As they hade bene his frende.

                 ‘Ffro whens come y+oe?’ seid Litull Jon,
                 ‘Tel vs tithyngus, I yow pray,
                 Off a false owtlay, [callid Robyn Hode,]
                 Was takyn y+oisterday.

                 ‘He robbyt me and my felowes bothe
                 Of twenti marke in serten;
                 If that false owtlay be takyn,
                 Ffor sothe we wolde be fayn.’

                 ‘So did he me,’ seid the munke,
                 ‘Of a hundred pound and more;
                 I layde furst hande hym apon,
                 Y+Oe may thonke me therfore.’

                 ‘I pray God thanke you,’ seid Litull John,
                 ‘And we wil when we may;
                 We wil go with you, with your leve,
                 And bryng yow on your way.

                 ‘Ffor Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow,
                 I tell you in certen;
                 If thei wist y+oe rode this way,
                 In feith y+oe shulde be slayn.’

                 As thei went talking be the way,
                 The munke and Litull John,
                 John toke the munkis horse be the hede,
                 Fful sone and anon.

                 Johne toke the munkis horse be the hed,
                 Ffor sothe as I yow say;
                 So did Much the litull page,
                 Ffor he shulde not scape away.

                 Be the golett of the hode
                 John pulled the munke down;
                 John was nothyng of hym agast,
                 He lete hym falle on his crown.

                 Litull John was so[re] agrevyd,
                 And drew owt his swerde in hye;
                 This munke saw he shulde be ded,
                 Lowd mercy can he crye.

                 ‘He was my maister,’ seid Litull John,
                 ‘RRthat thou hase browy+ot in bale;
                 Shalle thou neuer cum at our kyng,
                 Ffor to telle hym tale.’

                 John smote of the munkis hed,
                 No longer wolde he dwell;
                 So did Moch the litull page,
                 Ffor ferd lest he wolde tell.

                 RRther thei beryed hem bothe,
                 In nouther mosse nor lyng,
                 And Litull John and Much infere
                 Bare the letturs to oure kyng.

                 . . . .
                 He knelid down vpon his kne:
                 ‘God y+oow saue, my lege lorde,
                 Ihesus yow saue and se!

                 ‘God yow saue, my lege kyng!’
                 To speke John was full bolde;
                 He gaf hym the letturs in his hond,
                 The kyng did hit vnfold.

                 THe kyng red the letturs anon,
                 And seid, So mot I the,
                was neuer y+ooman in mery Inglond
                 I longut so sore to se.

                 ‘Wher is the munke that these shuld haue brouy+ot?’
                 Oure kyng can say:
                 ‘Be my trouth,’ seid Litull John,
                 ‘He dyed after the way.’

                 THe kyng gaf Moch and Litul Jon
                 Twenti pound in sertan,
                 And made theim y+oemen of the crown,
                 And bade theim go agayn.

                 He gaf John the seel in hand,
                 The sheref for to bere,
                 To bryng Robyn hym to,
                 And no man do hym dere.

                 n toke his leve at oure kyng,
                 THe sothe as I yow say;
                 THe next way to Notyngham
                 To take, he y+oede the way.

                 Whan John came to Notyngham
                 The y+oatis were sparred ychon;
                 John callid vp the porter,
                 He answerid sone anon.

                 ‘What is the cause,’ seid Litul Jon,
                 ‘RRthou sparris the y+oates so fast?’
                 ‘Because of Robyn Hode,’ seid [the] porter,
                 ‘In depe prison is cast.

                 ‘John and Moch and Wyll Scathlok,
                 Ffor sothe as I yow say,
                 THei slew oure men vpon our wallis,
                 And sawten vs euery day.’

                 Litull John spyrred after the schereff,
                 And sone he hym fonde;
                 He oppyned the kyngus priue seell,
                 And gaf hym in his honde.

                 Whan the scheref saw the kyngus seell,
                 He did of his hode anon:
                 ‘Wher is the munke that bare the letturs?’
                 He seid to Litull John.

                 ‘He is so fayn of hym,’ seid Litul John,
                 ‘Ffor sothe as I yow say,
                 He has made hym abot of Westmynster,
                 A lorde of that abbay.’

                 The scheref made John gode chere,
                 And gaf hym wyne of the best;
                 At nyy+ot thei went to her bedde,
                 And euery man to his rest.

                 When the scheref was on slepe,
                 Dronken of wyne and ale,
                 Litul John and Moch for sothe
                 Toke the way vnto the jale.

                 Litul John callid vp the jayler,
                 And bade hym rise anon;
                 He seyd Robyn Hode had brokyn prison,
                 And out of hit was gon.

                 The porter rose anon sertan,
                 As sone as he herd John calle;
                 Litul John was redy with a swerd,
                 And bare hym to the walle.

                 ‘Now wil I be porter,’ seid Litul John,
                 ‘And take the keyes in honde:’
                 He toke the way to Robyn Hode,
                 And sone he hym vnbonde.

                 He gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond,
                 His hed [ther]with for to kepe,
                 And ther as the walle was lowyst
                 Anon down can thei lepe.

                 Be that the cok began to crow,
                 The day began to spryng;
                 The scheref fond the jaylier ded,
                 The comyn bell made he ryng.

                 He made a crye thoroout al the tow[n],
                 Wheder he be y+ooman or knave,
                cowthe bryng hym Robyn Hode,
                 His warison he shuld haue.

                 ‘Ffor I dar neuer,’ said the scheref,
                 ‘Cum before oure kyng;
                 Ffor if I do, I wot serten
                 Ffor sothe he wil me heng.’

                 The scheref made to seke Notyngham,
                 Bothe be strete and stye,
                 And Robyn was in mery Scherwode,
                 As liy+ot as lef on lynde.

                 Then bespake gode Litull John,
                 To Robyn Hode can he say,
                 I haue done the a gode turne for an euyll,
                 Quyte the whan thou may.

                 ‘I haue done the a gode turne,’ seid Litull John,
                 ‘Ffor sothe as I yow say;
                 I haue brouy+ot the vnder grene-wode lyne;
                 Ffare wel, and haue gode day.’

                 ‘Nay, be my trouth,’ seid Robyn Hode,
                 ‘So shall hit neuer be;
                 I make the maister,’ seid Robyn Hode,
                 ‘Off alle my men and me.’

                 ‘Nay, be my trouth,’ seid Litull John,
                 ‘So shalle hit neuer be;
                 But lat me be a felow,’ seid Litull John,
                 ‘No noder kepe I be.’

                 Thus John gate Robyn Hod out of prison,
                 Sertan withoutyn layn;
                 Whan his men saw hym hol and sounde,
                 Ffor sothe they were full fayne.

                 They filled in wyne, and made hem glad,
                 Vnder the levys smale,
                 And y+oete pastes of venyson,
                 THat gode was with ale.

                 Than worde came to oure kyng
                 How Robyn Hode was gon,
                 And how the scheref of Notyngham
                 Durst neuer loke hym vpon.

                 Then bespake oure cumly kyng,
                 In an angur hye:
                 Litull John hase begyled the schereff,
                 In faith so hase he me.

                 Litul John has begyled vs bothe,
                 And that full wel I se;
                 Or ellis the schereff of Notyngham
                 Hye hongut shulde he be.

                 ‘I made hem y+oemen of the crowne,
                 And gaf hem fee with my hond;
                 I gaf hem grith,’ seid oure kyng,
                 ‘Thorowout all mery Inglond.

                 ‘I gaf theym grith,’ then seid oure kyng;
                 ‘I say, so mot I the,
                 Ffor sothe soch a y+oeman as he is on
                 In all Inglond ar not thre.

                 ‘He is trew to his maister,’ seid our kyng;
                 ‘I sey, be swete Seynt John,
                 He louys better Robyn Hode
                 Then he dose vs ychon.

                 ‘Robyn Hode is euer bond to hym,
                 Bothe in strete and stalle;
                 Speke no more of the mater,’ seid oure kyng,
                 ‘But John has begyled vs alle.’

                 Thus endys the talkyng of the munke
                 And Robyn Hode i-wysse;
                 God, that is euer a crowned kyng,
                 Bryng vs all to his blisse!