Long, long ago, ere the acorns were sown which have since furnished timber for the oldest vessels of the port of Brest, there lived in the parish of Guirek a poor widow called Ninorc’h Madek. Her father, who was very wealthy and of noble race, had left at his death a manor-house, with a farm, a mill, and a forge, twelve horses and twice as many oxen, twelve cows and ten times as many sheep, to say nothing of corn and flax.

But Ninorc’h was a helpless widow, and her brothers took the whole for themselves. Perrik, the eldest, kept the house, the farm, and the horses; Fanche, the second, took the mill and the cows; whilst the third, whose name was Riwal, had the oxen, the forge, and the sheep. Nothing was left for Ninorc’h but a doorless shed on the open heath, which had served to shelter the sick cattle.

However, as she was getting together her little matter of furniture, in order to take possession of her new abode, Fanche pretended to take pity upon her, and said,

“Come, I will deal with you like a brother and a Christian. Here is a black cow; she has never come to much good, and, indeed, gives scarce milk enough to feed a new-born babe; but you may take her with you, if you will, and May-flower can look after her upon the common.”

May-flower1 was the widow’s daughter, now in her eleventh year, and had been called after the colourless blossom of the thickets from her unusually pale complexion.

So Ninorc’h went away with her pallid little girl, who led the poor lean cow by an old cord, and she sent them out upon the common together.

There May-flower stayed all day, watching her black cow, which with much ado contrived to pick a little grass between the stones. She spent her time in making little crosses with blossoms of the broom,2 or in repeating aloud her Rosary and her favourite hymns.

One day, as she was singing the “Ave Maris Stella,” as she had heard it at Vespers in the church of Guirek, all at once she noticed a little bird perched upon one of the flower-crosses she had set in the earth. He was warbling sweetly, and turned his head from side to side, looking at her as if he longed to speak. Not a little surprised, she gently drew near and listened, but without being able to distinguish any meaning in his song. In vain he sang louder, flapped his wings, and fluttered about before May-flower. Not a whit the wiser was she for all this; and yet such pleasure did she take in watching and listening to him, that night came on without her being able to think of any thing else. At last the bird flew away; and when she looked up to see what had become of him, she saw the stars twinkling in the sky.

With all speed she started off to look for her cow, but to her dismay it was nowhere to be found upon the common. In vain she called aloud, in vain she beat the bushes, in vain she went down into each hollow where the rainwater had formed a pool. At last she heard her mother’s voice, calling her, as if some great misfortune had happened. All in a fright, she ran up to her, and there, at the edge of the heath, on the way homeward, she found the widow beside all that remained of the poor cow,—her horns, that is, and her bones, the latter well picked by the wolves, which had sallied forth from the neighbouring woods and made a meal of her.

At this sight May-flower felt her blood run cold. She burst into tears, for she loved the black cow she had tended so long, and falling on her knees exclaimed,

“Blessed Virgin, why did you not let me see the wolf? I would have scared him away with the sign of the cross; I would have repeated the charm that is taught to shepherd-boys who keep their flocks upon the mountains,—

The widow, who was a very saint for piety and resignation, seeing the sorrow of the little girl, sought to comfort her, saying,

“It is not well to weep for the cow as for a fellow-creature, my poor child; if the wolves and wicked men conspire against us, the Lord God will be on our side. Come, then, help me up with my bundle of heath, and let us go home.”

May-flower did as she said, but sighed at every step, and the big tears trickled down her cheeks.

“My poor cow!” said she to herself, “my poor, good, gentle cow! and just, too, as she was beginning to fatten a little.”

The little girl had no heart for supper, and many times awakened in the night, fancying that she heard the black cow lowing at the door. With very restlessness she rose before the dawn, and ran out upon the common, barefooted and but half-dressed. There, at the selfsame spot, appeared the little bird again, perched as before on her broom-flower cross. Again he sang, and seemed to call her. But, alas, she was as little able as on the preceding evening to understand him, and was turning away in vexation, when she thought she saw a piece of gold glittering on the ground. To try what it really was, she moved it with her foot; but, lo, it was the gold-herb; and no sooner had she touched it than she distinctly understood the language of the little bird,5 saying in his warbling,

“May-flower, I wish thee well. May-flower, listen to me.”

“Who are you?” said May-flower, wondering within herself that she could understand the language of an unbaptised creature.

“I am Robin Redbreast,” returned the bird. “It was I that followed the Saviour on His way to Calvary, and broke a thorn from the crown that was tearing His brow.6 To recompense this act, it was granted to me by God the Father that I should live until the day of judgment, and that every year I might bestow a fortune upon one poor girl. This year I have chosen you.”

“Can this be true, Robin Redbreast?” cried May-flower, in a transport of delight. “And shall I have a silver cross for my neck, and be able to wear wooden shoes?”

“A cross of gold shall you have, and silken slippers shall you wear, like a noble damsel,” replied Robin Redbreast.

“But what must I do, dear kind Robin?” said the little maid.

“Only follow me.”

It may well be supposed that May-flower had no objection to make; so Robin Redbreast flew before, and she ran after him.

On they went; across the heath, through the copses, and over the fields of rye, till at last they came to the open downs over against the Seven Isles. There Robin stopped, and said to the little girl,

“Seest thou aught on the sands down there?”

“I see,” replied May-flower, “a great pair of beechen shoes that the fire has never scorched, and a holly-staff that has not been hacked by the sickle.”

“Put on the shoes, and take up the staff.”

It was done.

“Now walk upon the sea to the first island, and go round it till thou shalt come to a rock on which grow sea-green rushes.”

“What then?”

“Gather some of the rushes, and twist them into a cord.”

“Well, and then?”

“Then strike the rock with the holly-staff, and there will come forth from it a cow. Make a halter of the rushen cord, and lead her home to console thy mother for the one just lost.”

All that Robin Redbreast had told her, May-flower did. She walked upon the sea; she made the cord of rushes; she struck the rock, and there came out from it a cow, with eyes as soft as a stag-hound’s, and a skin sleek as that of the mole that burrows in the meadows. May-flower led her home to her poor mother, whose joy now was almost greater than her former sorrow.

But what were her sensations when she began to milk Mor Vyoc’h!7 (for so had Robin Redbreast named the creature). Behold, the milk flowed on and on beneath her fingers like water from a spring!

Ninorc’h had soon filled all the earthen vessels in the house, and then all those of wood, but still the milk flowed on.

“Now, holy Mother save us!” cried the widow, “certainly this beast has drunk of the waters of Languengar.”8

In fact, the milk of Mor Vyoc’h was inexhaustible; she had already yielded enough to satisfy every babe in Cornouaille.

In a little time nothing was talked of throughout the country but the widow’s cow, and people crowded from all parts to see it. The rector of Peros-Guirek came among the rest, to see whether it were not a snare of the evil one; but after he had laid his stole upon Mor Vyoc’h’s head, he pronounced her clear of all suspicion.

Before long all the richest farmers were persuading Ninorc’h to sell her cow, each one bidding against the other for so invaluable a beast; her brother Perrik among the rest.

“Come,” said he, “I am your brother; as a good Christian you must give me the preference. Let me have Mor Vyoc’h, and I will give you in exchange as many cows as it takes tailors to make a man.”9

“Is that your Christian dealing?” answered the widow. “Nine cows for Mor Vyoc’h! She is worth all the cows in the country, far and near. With her milk I could supply all the markets in the bishoprics of TrÉguier and Cornouaille, from Dinan to Carhaix.”

“Well, sister, only let me have her,” replied Perrik, “and I will give up to you our father’s farm, on which you were born, with all the fields, ploughs, and horses.”

This proposal Ninorc’h accepted, and was forthwith put in possession, turning up a sod in the meadows, taking a draught of water from the well, and kindling a fire on the hearth; besides cutting a tuft of hair from the horses’ tails in token of ownership.10 She then delivered Mor Vyoc’h to Perrik, who led her away to a house which he had at some distance, towards Menez-BrÉe.

A day of tears and sadness was that for May-flower; and as at night she went the round of the stalls to see that all was right, she could not help again and again murmuring, as she filled the mangers,

“Alas, Mor Vyoc’h is gone! I shall never see Mor Vyoc’h again.”

With this lament still on her lips, she suddenly heard a lowing behind her, in which, as by virtue of the gold-herb her ears were now open to the language of all animals, she distinctly made out these words,

“Here I am again, my little mistress,”

May-flower turned round in astonishment, and there indeed was Mor Vyoc’h.

“Oh, can this indeed be you?” cried the little girl. “And what, then, has brought you back?”

“I cannot belong to your uncle Perrik,” said Mor Vyoc’h, “for my nature forbids me to remain with such as are not in a state of grace; so I am come back to be with you again as before.”

“But then my mother must give back the farm, the fields, and all that she has received for you.”

“Not so; for it was already hers by right, and had been unjustly taken from her by your uncle.”

“But he will come to see if you are here, and will know you again.”

“Go and gather three leaves of the cross-wort,11 and I will tell you what to do.”

May-flower went, and soon returned with the three leaves.

“Now,” said Mor Vyoc’h, “pass those leaves over me, from my horns to my tail, and say ‘St. Ronan of Ireland!’ three times.”

May-flower did so; and as she called on the saint for the third time, lo, the cow became a beautiful horse. The little girl was lost in wonder.

“Now,” said the creature to her, “your uncle Perrik cannot possibly know me again; for I am no longer Mor Vyoc’h, but Marc’h-Mor.”12

On hearing what had come to pass, the widow was greatly rejoiced; and early on the morrow proceeded to make trial of her horse with a load of corn for TrÉguier. But guess her astonishment when she found that the more sacks were laid on Marc’h-Mor’s back the longer it grew; so that he alone could carry as much wheat as all the horses in the parish.

The tale of the widow’s wonderful horse was soon noised about the neighbourhood, and among the rest her brother Fanche heard of it. He therefore lost no time in proceeding to the farm; and when he had seen Marc’h-Mor, begged his sister to part with him, which, however, she would by no means consent to do till Fanche had offered her in exchange his cows and his mill, with all the pigs that he was fattening there.

The bargain concluded, Ninorc’h took possession of her new property, as she had done at the farm; and Fanche led away Marc’h-Mor.

But in the evening there he was again; and again May-flower gathered three leaves of cross-wort, stroked him over with them three times from his ears to his tail, repeating each time St. Ronan of Ireland! as she had done before to Mor Vyoc’h. And, lo, in a moment the horse changed into a sheep covered with wool as long as hemp, as red as scarlet, and as fine as dressed flax.

Full of admiration at this new miracle, the widow came to behold it; and no sooner was she within sight than she called to May-flower,

“Run and fetch a pair of shears; for the poor creature cannot bear this weight of wool.”

But when she began to shear Mor-Vawd, she found the wool grow as fast as she cut it off; so that he alone far out-valued all the flocks of ArhÈz.

Riwal, who chanced to come by at that moment, was witness of the wonder; and then and there parted with his forge, his sheep-walks, and all his sheep, to obtain possession of the wonderful sheep.

But see! As he was leading his new purchase home along the sea-shore, the sheep suddenly plunged in the water, swam to the smallest of the seven isles, and passed into a chasm of the rocks, which opened to receive it, and straight-way closed again.

This time May-flower expected him back at the usual hour in vain. Neither that night nor on the morrow did he revisit the farm.

The little girl ran to the common. There she found Robin Redbreast, who thus spoke, before he flew away for ever:

“I have been waiting for you, my little lady. The sheep is gone, and will return no more. Your uncles have been punished after their deserts. For you, you are now a rich heiress, and may wear a cross of gold and silken slippers, as I promised you. My work here is done, and I am about to fly away far hence. Only, do you remember always, that you have been poor, and that it was one of God’s little birds that made you rich.”

To prove her gratitude, May-flower built a chapel on the heath, on that very spot where Robin Redbreast first addressed her. And the old men, from whom our fathers heard this tale, could remember lighting the altar-candles there when they were little boys.