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Welsh Fairy Tales

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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Cam Venezuela and PG Distributed Proofreaders




Welsh Fairy Tales

By

WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS

1921



A PREFACE-LETTER TO MY GRANDFATHER

DEAR CAPTAIN JOHN GRIFFIS:

Although I never saw you, since you died in 1804, I am glad you were
one of those Welshmen who opposed the policy of King George III and
that you, after coming to America in 1783, were among the first sea
captains to carry the American flag around the world. That you knew
many of the Free Quakers and other patriots of the Revolution and that
they buried you among them, near Benjamin Franklin, is a matter of
pride to your descendants. That you were born in Wales and spoke
Welsh, as did also those three great prophets of spiritual liberty,
Roger Williams, William Penn, and Thomas Jefferson, is still further
ground for pride in one's ancestry. Now, in the perspective of history
we see that our Washington and his compeers and Wilkes, Barre, Burke
and the friends of America in Parliament were fighting the same battle
of Freedom. Though our debt to Wales for many things is great, we
count not least those inheritances from the world of imagination, for
which the Cymric Land was famous, even before the days of either
Anglo-Saxon or Norman.

W. E. G.

Saint David's and the day of the Daffodil, March 1, 1921.




CONTENTS

I. WELSH RABBIT AND HUNTED HARES

II. THE MIGHTY MONSTER AFANG

III. THE TWO CAT WITCHES

IV. HOW THE CYMRY LAND BECAME INHABITED

V. THE BOY THAT WAS NAMED TROUBLE

VI. THE GOLDEN HARP

VII. THE GREAT RED DRAGON OF WALES

VIII. THE TOUCH OF CLAY

IX. THE TOUCH OF IRON

X. THE MAIDEN OF THE GREEN FOREST

XI. THE TREASURE STONE OF THE FAIRIES

XII. GIANT TOM AND GIANT BLUBB

XIII. A BOY THAT VISITED FAIRYLAND

XIV. THE WELSHERY AND THE NORMANS

XV. THE WELSH FAIRIES HOLD A MEETING

XVI. KING ARTHUR'S CAVE

XVII. THE LADY OF THE LAKE

XVIII. THE KING'S FOOT HOLDER

XIX. POWELL, PRINCE OF DYFED

XX. POWELL AND HIS BRIDE

XXI. WHY THE BACK DOOR WAS FRONT

XXII. THE RED BANDITS OF MONTGOMERY

XXIII. THE FAIRY CONGRESS

XXIV. THE SWORD OF AVALON




I


WELSH RABBIT AND HUNTED HARES


Long, long ago, there was a good saint named David, who taught the
early Cymric or Welsh people better manners and many good things to
eat and ways of enjoying themselves.

Now the Welsh folks in speaking of their good teacher pronounced his
name Tafid and affectionately Taffy, and this came to be the usual
name for a person born in Wales. In our nurseries we all learned that
"Taffy was a Welshman," but it was their enemies who made a bad rhyme
about Taffy.

Wherever there were cows or goats, people could get milk. So they
always had what was necessary for a good meal, whether it were
breakfast, dinner or supper. Milk, cream, curds, whey and cheese
enriched the family table. Were not these enough?

But Saint David taught the people how to make a still more delicious
food out of cheese, and that this could be done without taking the
life of any creature.

Saint David showed the girls how to take cheese, slice and toast it
over the coals, or melt it in a skillet and pour it hot over toast or
biscuit. This gave the cheese a new and sweeter flavor. When spread on
bread, either plain, or browned over the fire, the result, in
combination, was a delicacy fit for a king, and equal to anything
known.

The fame of this new addition to the British bill of fare spread near
and far. The English people, who had always been fond of rabbit pie,
and still eat thousands of Molly Cotton Tails every day, named it
"Welsh Rabbit," and thought it one of the best things to eat. In fact,
there are many people, who do not easily see a joke, who misunderstand
the fun, or who suppose the name to be either slang, or vulgar, or a
mistake, and who call it "rarebit." It is like "Cape Cod turkey"
(codfish), or "Bombay ducks" (dried fish), or "Irish plums" (potatoes)
and such funny cookery with fancy names.

Now up to this time, the rabbits and hares had been so hunted with the
aid of dogs, that there was hardly a chance of any of them surviving
the cruel slaughter.

In the year 604, the Prince of Powys was out hunting. The dogs started
a hare, and pursued it into a dense thicket. When the hunter with the
horn came up, a strange sight met his eyes. There he saw a lovely
maiden. She was kneeling on the ground and devoutly praying. Though
surprised at this, the prince was anxious to secure his game. He
hissed on the hounds and ordered the horn to be blown, for the dogs to
charge on their prey, expecting them to bring him the game at once.
Instead of this, though they were trained dogs and would fight even a
wolf, they slunk away howling, and frightened, as if in pain, while
the horn stuck fast to the lips of the blower and he was silent.
Meanwhile, the hare nestled under the maiden's dress and seemed not in
the least disturbed.

Amazed at this, the prince turned to the fair lady and asked:

"Who are you?"

She answered, "My mother named me Monacella. I have fled from Ireland,
where my father wished to marry me to one of his chief men, whom I did
not love. Under God's guidance, I came to this secret desert place,
where I have lived for fifteen years, without seeing the face of man."

To this, the prince in admiration replied: "O most worthy Melangell
[which is the way the Welsh pronounce Monacella], because, on account
of thy merits, it has pleased God to shelter and save this little,
wild hare, I, on my part, herewith present thee with this land, to be
for the service of God and an asylum for all men and women, who seek
thy protection. So long as they do not pollute this sanctuary, let
none, not even prince or chieftain, drag them forth."

The beautiful saint passed the rest of her life in this place. At
night, she slept on the bare rock. Many were the wonders wrought for
those who with pure hearts sought her refuge. The little wild hares
were under her special protection, and they are still called
"Melangell's Lambs."




II


THE MIGHTY MONSTER AFANG


After the Cymric folk, that is, the people we call Welsh, had come up
from Cornwall into their new land, they began to cut down the trees,
to build towns, and to have fields and gardens. Soon they made the
landscape smile with pleasant homes, rich farms and playing children.

They trained vines and made flowers grow. The young folks made pets of
the wild animals' cubs, which their fathers and big brothers brought
home from hunting. Old men took rushes and reeds and wove them into
cages for song birds to live in.

While they were draining the swamps and bogs, they drove out the
monsters, that had made their lair in these wet places. These terrible
creatures liked to poison people with their bad breath, and even ate
up very little boys and girls, when they strayed away from home.

So all the face of the open country between the forests became very
pretty to look at. The whole of Cymric land, which then extended from
the northern Grampian Hills to Cornwall, and from the Irish Sea, past
their big fort, afterward called London, even to the edge of the
German Ocean, became a delightful place to live in.

The lowlands and the rivers, in which the tide rose and fell daily,
were especially attractive. This was chiefly because of the many
bright flowers growing there; while the yellow gorse and the pink
heather made the hills look as lovely as a young girl's face. Besides
this, the Cymric maidens were the prettiest ever, and the lads were
all brave and healthy; while both of these knew how to sing often and
well.

Now there was a great monster named the Afang, that lived in a big
bog, hidden among the high hills and inside of a dark, rough forest.

This ugly creature had an iron-clad back and a long tail that could
wrap itself around a mountain. It had four front legs, with big knees
that were bent up like a grasshopper's, but were covered with scales
like armor. These were as hard as steel, and bulged out at the thighs.
Along its back, was a ridge of horns, like spines, and higher than an
alligator's. Against such a tough hide, when the hunters shot their
darts and hurled their javelins, these weapons fell down to the
ground, like harmless pins.

On this monster's head, were big ears, half way between those of a
jackass and an elephant. Its eyes were as green as leeks, and were
round, but scalloped on the edges, like squashes, while they were as
big as pumpkins.

The Afang's face was much like a monkey's, or a gorilla's, with long
straggling gray hairs around its cheeks like those of a walrus. It
always looked as if a napkin, as big as a bath towel, would be
necessary to keep its mouth clean. Yet even then, it slobbered a good
deal, so that no nice fairy liked to be near the monster.

When the Afang growled, the bushes shook and the oak leaves trembled
on the branches, as if a strong wind was blowing.

But after its dinner, when it had swallowed down a man, or two calves,
or four sheep, or a fat heifer, or three goats, its body swelled up
like a balloon. Then it usually rolled over, lay along the ground, or
in the soft mud, and felt very stupid and sleepy, for a long while.

All around its lair, lay wagon loads of bones of the creatures, girls,
women, men, boys, cows, and occasionally a donkey, which it had
devoured.

But when the Afang was ravenously hungry and could not get these
animals and when fat girls and careless boys were scarce, it would
live on birds, beasts and fishes. Although it was very fond of cows
and sheep, yet the wool and hair of these animals stuck in its big
teeth, it often felt very miserable and its usually bad temper grew
worse.

Then, like a beaver, it would cut down a tree, sharpen it to a point
and pick its teeth until its mouth was clean. Yet it seemed all the
more hungry and eager for fresh human victims to eat, especially juicy
maidens; just as children like cake more than bread.

The Cymric men were not surprised at this, for they knew that girls
were very sweet and they almost worshiped women. So they learned to
guard their daughters and wives. They saw that to do such things as
eating up people was in the nature of the beast, which could never be
taught good manners.

But what made them mad beyond measure was the trick which the monster
often played upon them by breaking the river banks, and the dykes
which with great toil they had built to protect their crops. Then the
waters overflowed all their farms, ruined their gardens and spoiled
their cow houses and stables.

This sort of mischief the Afang liked to play, especially about the
time when the oat and barley crops were ripe and ready to be gathered
to make cakes and flummery; that is sour oat-jelly, or pap. So it
often happened that the children had to do without their cookies and
porridge during the winter. Sometimes the floods rose so high as to
wash away the houses and float the cradles. Even those with little
babies in them were often seen on the raging waters, and sent dancing
on the waves down the river, to the sea.

Once in a while, a mother cat and all her kittens were seen mewing for
help, or a lady dog howling piteously. Often it happened that both
puppies and kittens were drowned.

So, whether for men or mothers, pussies or puppies, the Cymric men
thought the time had come to stop this monster's mischief. It was bad
enough that people should be eaten up, but to have all their crops
ruined and animals drowned, so that they had to go hungry all winter,
with only a little fried fish, and no turnips, was too much for human
patience. There were too many weeping mothers and sorrowful fathers,
and squalling brats and animals whining for something to eat.

Besides, if all the oats were washed away, how could their wives make
flummery, without which, no Cymric man is ever happy? And where would
they get seed for another year's sowing? And if there were no cows,
how could the babies or kitties live, or any grown-up persons get
buttermilk?

Someone may ask, why did not some brave man shoot the Afang, with a
poisoned arrow, or drive a spear into him under the arms, where the
flesh was tender, or cut off his head with a sharp sword?

The trouble was just here. There were plenty of brave fellows, ready
to fight the monster, but nothing made of iron could pierce that hide
of his. This was like armor, or one of the steel battleships of our
day, and the Afang always spit out fire or poison breath down the
road, up which a man was coming, long before the brave fellow could
get near him. Nothing would do, but to go up into his lair, and drag
him out.

But what man or company of men was strong enough to do this, when a
dozen giants in a gang, with ropes as thick as a ship's hawser, could
hardly tackle the job?

Nevertheless, in what neither man nor giant could do, a pretty maiden
might succeed. True, she must be brave also, for how could she know,
but if hungry, the Afang might eat her up?

However, one valiant damsel, of great beauty, who had lots of
perfumery and plenty of pretty clothes, volunteered to bind the
monster in his lair. She said, "I'm not afraid." Her sweetheart was
named Gadern, and he was a young and strong hunter. He talked over the
matter with her and they two resolved to act together.

Gadern went all over the country, summoning the farmers to bring their
ox teams and log chains. Then he set the blacksmiths to work, forging
new and especially heavy ones, made of the best native iron, from the
mines, for which Wales is still famous.

Meanwhile, the lovely maiden arrayed herself in her prettiest clothes,
dressed her hair in the most enticing way, hanging a white blossom on
each side, over her ears, with one flower also at her neck.

When she had perfumed her garments, she sallied forth and up the lake
where the big bog and the waters were and where the monster hid
himself.

While the maiden was still quite a distance away, the terrible Afang,
scenting his visitor from afar, came rushing out of his lair. When
very near, he reared his head high in the air, expecting to pounce on
her, with his iron clad claws and at one swallow make a breakfast of
the girl.

But the odors of her perfumes were so sweet, that he forgot what he
had thought to do. Moreover, when he looked at her, he was so taken
with unusual beauty, that he flopped at once on his forefeet. Then he
behaved just like a lovelorn beau, when his best girl comes near. He
ties his necktie and pulls down his coat and brushes off the collar.

So the Afang began to spruce up. It was real fun to see how a monster
behaves when smitten with love for a pretty girl. He had no idea how
funny he was.

The girl was not at all afraid, but smoothed the monster's back,
stroked and played with its big moustaches and tickled its neck until
the Afang's throat actually gurgled with a laugh. Pretty soon he
guffawed, for he was so delighted.

When he did this, the people down in the valley thought it was
thunder, though the sky was clear and blue.

The maiden tickled his chin, and even put up his whiskers in curl
papers. Then she stroked his neck, so that his eyes closed. Soon she
had gently lulled him to slumber, by singing a cradle song, which her
mother had taught her. This she did so softly, and sweetly, that in a
few minutes, with its head in her lap, the monster was sound asleep
and even began to snore.

Then, quietly, from their hiding places in the bushes, Gadern and his
men crawled out. When near the dreaded Afang, they stood up and
sneaked forward, very softly on tip toe. They had wrapped the links of
the chain in grass and leaves, so that no clanking was heard. They
also held the oxen's yokes, so that nobody or anything could rattle,
or make any noise. Slowly but surely they passed the chain over its
body, in the middle, besides binding the brute securely between its
fore and hind legs.

All this time, the monster slept on, for the girl kept on crooning her
melody.

When the forty yoke of oxen were all harnessed together, the drovers
cracked all their whips at once, so that it sounded like a clap of
thunder and the whole team began to pull together.

Then the Afang woke up with a start.

The sudden jerk roused the monster to wrath, and its bellowing was
terrible. It rolled round and round, and dug its four sets of toes,
each with three claws, every one as big as a plowshare, into the
ground. It tried hard to crawl into its lair, or slip into the lake.

Finding that neither was possible, the Afang looked about, for some
big tree to wrap its tail around. But all his writhings or plungings
were of no use. The drovers plied their whips and the oxen kept on
with one long pull together and forward. They strained so hard, that
one of them dropped its eye out. This formed a pool, and to this day
they call it The Pool of the Ox's Eye. It never dries up or overflows,
though the water in it rises and falls, as regularly as the tides.

For miles over the mountains the sturdy oxen hauled the monster. The
pass over which they toiled and strained so hard is still named the
Pass of the Oxen's Slope. When going down hill, the work of dragging
the Afang was easier.

In a great hole in the ground, big enough to be a pond, they dumped
the carcass of the Afang, and soon a little lake was formed. This
uncanny bit of water is called "The Lake of the Green Well." It is
considered dangerous for man or beast to go too near it. Birds do not
like to fly over the surface, and when sheep tumble in, they sink to
the bottom at once.

If the bones of the Afang still lie at the bottom, they must have sunk
down very deep, for the monster had no more power to get out, or to
break the river banks. The farmers no longer cared anything about the
creature, and they hardly every think of the old story, except when a
sheep is lost.

As for Gadern and his brave and lovely sweetheart, they were married
and lived long and happily. Their descendants, in the thirty-seventh
generation, are proud of the grand exploit of their ancestors, while
all the farmers honor his memory and bless the name of the lovely girl
that put the monster asleep.




III


THE TWO CAT WITCHES


In old days, it was believed that the seventh son, in a family of
sons, was a conjurer by nature. That is, he could work wonders like
the fairies and excel the doctors in curing diseases.

If he were the seventh son of a seventh son, he was himself a wonder
of wonders. The story ran that he could even cure the "shingles,"
which is a very troublesome disease. It is called also by a Latin
name, which means a snake, because, as it gets worse, it coils itself
around the body.

Now the eagle can attack the serpent and conquer and kill this
poisonous creature. To secure such power, Hugh, the conjurer, ate the
flesh of eagles. When he wished to cure the serpent-disease, he
uttered words in the form of a charm which acted as a talisman and
cure. After wetting the red rash, which had broken out over the sick
person's body, he muttered:

"He-eagle, she-eagle, I send you over nine seas, and over nine
mountains, and over nine acres of moor and fen, where no dog shall
bark, no cow low, and no eagle shall higher rise."

After that, the patient was sure that he felt better.

There was always great rivalry between these conjurers and those who
made money from the Pilgrims at Holy Wells and visitors to the relic
shrines, but this fellow, named Hugh, and the monks, kept on mutually
good terms. They often ate dinner together, for Hugh was a great
traveler over the whole country and always had news to tell to the
holy brothers who lived in cells.

One night, as he was eating supper at an inn, four men came in and sat
down at the table with him. By his magical power, Hugh knew that they
were robbers and meant to kill him that night, in order to get his
money.

So, to divert their attention, Hugh made something like a horn to grow
up out of the table, and then laid a spell on the robbers, so that
they were kept gazing at the curious thing all night long, while he
went to bed and slept soundly.

When he rose in the morning, he paid his bill and went away, while the
robbers were still gazing at the horn. Only when the officers arrived
to take them to prison did they come to themselves.

Now at Bettws-y-Coed-that pretty place which has a name that sounds so
funny to us Americans and suggests a girl named Betty the Co-ed at
college--there was a hotel, named the "Inn of Three Kegs." The shop
sign hung out in front. It was a bunch of grapes gilded and set below
three small barrels.

This inn was kept by two respectable ladies, who were sisters.

Yet in that very hotel, several travelers, while they were asleep, had
been robbed of their money. They could not blame anyone nor tell how
the mischief was done. With the key in the keyhole, they had kept
their doors locked during the night. They were sure that no one had
entered the room. There were no signs of men's boots, or of anyone's
footsteps in the garden, while nothing was visible on the lock or
door, to show that either had been tampered with. Everything was in
order as when they went to bed.

Some people doubted their stories, but when they applied to Hugh the
conjurer, he believed them and volunteered to solve the mystery. His
motto was "Go anywhere and everywhere, but catch the thief."

When Hugh applied one night for lodging at the inn, nothing could be
more agreeable than the welcome, and fine manners of his two
hostesses.

At supper time, and during the evening, they all chatted together
merrily. Hugh, who was never at a loss for news or stories, told about
the various kinds of people and the many countries he had visited, in
imagination, just as if he had seen them all, though he had never set
foot outside of Wales.

When he was ready to go to bed, he said to the ladies:

"It is my custom to keep a light burning in my room, all night, but I
will not ask for candles, for I have enough to last me until sunrise."
So saying, he bade them good night.

Entering his room and locking the door, he undressed, but laid his
clothes near at hand. He drew his trusty sword out of its sheath and
laid it upon the bed beside him, where he could quickly grasp it. Then
he pretended to be asleep and even snored.

It was not long before, peeping between his eyelids, only half closed,
he saw two cats come stealthily down the chimney.

When in the room, the animals frisked about, and then gamboled and
romped in the most lively way. Then they chased each other around the
bed, as if they were trying to find out whether Hugh was asleep.

Meanwhile, the supposed sleeper kept perfectly motionless. Soon the
two cats came over to his clothes and one of them put her paw into the
pocket that contained his purse.

At this, with one sweep of his sword, Hugh struck at the cat's paw.
The beast howled frightfully, and both animals ran for the chimney and
disappeared. After that, everything was quiet until breakfast time.

At the table, only one of the sisters was present. Hugh politely
inquired after the other one. He was told that she was not well, for
which Hugh said he was very sorry.

After the meal, Hugh declared he must say good-by to both the sisters,
whose company he had so enjoyed the night before. In spite of the
other lady's many excuses, he was admitted to the sick lady's room.

After polite greetings and mutual compliments, Hugh offered his hand
to say "good-by." The sick lady smiled at once and put out her hand,
but it was her left one.

"Oh, no," said Hugh, with a laugh. "I never in all my life have taken
any one's left hand, and, beautiful as yours is, I won't break my
habit by beginning now and here."

Reluctantly, and as if in pain, the sick lady put out her hand. It was
bandaged.

The mystery was now cleared up. The two sisters were cats.

By the help of bad fairies they had changed their forms and were the
real robbers.

Hugh seized the hand of the other sister and made a little cut in it,
from which a few drops of blood flowed, but the spell was over.

"Henceforth," said Hugh, "you are both harmless, and I trust you will
both be honest women."

And they were. From that day they were like other women, and kept one
of the best of those inns--clean, tidy, comfortable and at modest
prices--for which Wales is, or was, noted.

Neither as cats with paws, nor landladies, with soaring bills, did
they ever rob travelers again.




IV


HOW THE CYMRY LAND BECAME INHABITED


In all Britain to-day, no wolf roams wild and the deer are all tame.

Yet in the early ages, when human beings had not yet come into the
land, the swamps and forests were full of very savage animals. There
were bears and wolves by the thousand besides lions and the woolly
rhinoceros, tigers, with terrible teeth like sabres.

Beavers built their dams over the little rivers, and the great horned
oxen were very common. Then the mountains were higher, and the woods
denser. Many of the animals lived in caves, and there were billions of
bees and a great many butterflies. In the bogs were ferns of giant
size, amid which terrible monsters hid that were always ready for a
fight or a frolic.

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