Fittletetot.

There was a good woman of Kittleroopit, but where Kittleroopit is exactly I cannot tell you; so it’s of no use pretending to more than one knows. Her husband was a vagabondizing sort of a body, and he went to a fair one day, from which he not only never returned, but never was anything more heard of him.

Some said that he enlisted, and others that he had fallen into the hands of the press-gang; certain it is, anyhow, that the press-gang was about the country ready to snap up anyone, for our good dame’s eldest brother, Sandy, was all but smothered in the meal-tub, hiding from these man-stealers; and after they had gone he was pulled out from the meal wheezing and sneezing, and was as white as any ghost. His mother had to pick the meal out of his mouth with the handle of a spoon.

Well, when her husband was gone the good woman of Kittleroopit had little left but her baby, and there was not much of that; for it was only a wee thing of a few weeks old. Everybody said they were sorry for her, but no one helped her, which is a case of constant occurrence, as you know. The good woman, however, had still something left, which was a sow; and it was, moreover, near littering time.

But we all know that fortune is uncertain; for one day, when the dame went into the sty to fill the trough, what should she find but the sow lying on her back groaning and grunting, and ready to give up the ghost.

This was a blow to the poor woman, so she sat down with the child on her knee and fretted more sorely than ever she had done for the loss of her husband.

I must tell you that the cottage of Kittleroopit was built on the slope of a hill, with a small fir-wood behind it; and as the good woman happened to look down the hill she saw an old woman coming up the footpath, dressed almost like a lady. She had on a green dress, and wore a black velvet hood and steeple-crowned hat. She carried a staff in her hand as long as herself—the sort of staff that old men and old women used to help themselves along with long ago. They seem to be out of fashion now.

Well, when the good woman saw the green lady near her she rose up and began courtesying, and said, “Madam, I am one of the most misfortunate women alive, for I have lost—” But the green woman interrupted her, saying—

“I don’t wish to hear piper’s news and fiddler’s tales, my good woman. I know that you have lost the good man of the house, but that is no such great loss; and I know that your sow is very ill, which is worse; but that can be remedied. Now, what will you give me if I cure your sow?”

“Anything your good Ladyship likes,” answered the good Woman, for she little knew whom she had to deal with.

“Let’s shake hands on that bargain,” said the green Lady; so they shook hands, and madam then marched into the sty.

She looked peeringly at the sow, and then began to mutter something which the good woman could not well understand, but she said it sounded like—

Then she took a little bottle out of her pocket, with something like oil in it, and rubbed the sow about the snout and on the tip of the tail. “Get up, beast,” said the green woman; and no sooner said than done, for up jumps the sow with a grunt and goes off to the trough for her breakfast.

The good woman of Kittleroopit was now as happy as need be, and would have kissed the very hem of the green madam’s gown-tail, but she wouldn’t let her, and said, “I’m not fond of any such nonsense; but now that I have set your sick beast on its legs again let us settle our agreement. You’ll not find me over unreasonable. I like to do a good turn for a small reward. Now all I ask, and will have, is the baby at your breast!”

The good woman of Kittleroopit, who now knew her customer, gave a scream like a screech-owl, and falls to begging and praying, but it wouldn’t do. “You may spare yourself all this trouble and screeching as if I were as deaf as a door-post; but this I’ll tell you, by our laws I cannot take your child till the third day from this day, and not then if you can tell me my right name.” Hereupon the green lady goes her way, round the back of the pig-sty, and the good woman fell down in a swoon where she stood.

That night she could not sleep for fretting, and the next day she could do nothing but hug her baby, that she nearly squeezed the breath out of it; but the second day she thought a walk would do her good, so she went into the fir-wood I told you of. She walked on far among the trees, with her baby in her arms, till she came to an old quarry hole all over-grown with grass. Before she came close up to it she heard the “bizzing” of a spinning-wheel and a voice singing, so she crept quietly among the bushes and peeped down into the hole.

What should she see, but the green Fairy spinning away as fast as possible and singing awhile—

“Ah, ha!” laughed our good Woman, and she was fit to jump for joy, when she thought how the green old Fairy would be cheated.

She was a merry woman when there was nothing to weigh too heavily on her heart, so she determined to have some sport with the Fairy when she came the next day, as she little doubted she would. That night she slept well, and found herself laughing in the morning when she woke.

When she saw the green Fairy coming up the hill, neither lazy nor lame this time, she put the baby under her stool on which she sat so as to hide it, and turning one leg over the other she put her elbow on her knee, resting her head in her hand as if she were fretting.

Up came the old Fairy, and said, “You know what I have come for, so let us waste no time.” The good woman pretends to grieve more than ever, and wringing her hands as she fell on her knees, “Good, kind Madam,” she cried, “spare my only child, and take the old sow.”

“The foul fiend take the sow,” the Fairy said; “I came not here for swine flesh. Now don’t be troublesome, but give me the child at once.”

“Oh! my good Lady,” the good Woman again said, “leave my dear child and take myself.”

“What does the old jade mean?” the Fairy cried, this time in a passion. “Why, you old fool, who do you think would have anything to do with the like of you, you ugly old cat?”

This, I promise you, put the good dame’s back up; for though she had blear eyes, and a long red nose, she thought herself no less engaging than the vainest; so up she jumped, and making a courtesy down to the ground, she said—

“We cannot all be as beautiful as your own sweet self, and I might have known that I should not be thought fit to tie even the shoes of the high and mighty Princess Fittletetot.”

The old Fairy could not have jumped higher if she had been blown up; but down she came again, and roaring with rage ran down the hill, followed by the laughter of the good dame of Kittleroopit.