Aw, then she was in the fix, and didn't know in her senses what to do to save herself. She knew she would sup sorrow if she was found out, but she could think of nothing. At last she bethought herself of the Foawr (giant) that lived in a lonesome place up the mountain, for she had heard tell he was good to work, and the woman she says to herself: "I've a mind to go my ways to him." She took the road early the next morning, she and her rolls of wool, and she walked up hills, down gills, till at last she came to the Foawr's house. "What are thou wanting here?" says the Foawr. "I'm wanting thee to help me," says she; and she up and told him about the ball of thread and everything. "I'll spin the wool for thee," says the Foawr, "if thou'll tell me my name when thou come for the balls a week from this day. Are thou satisfied?" "Why shouldn't I be satisfied?" said the woman; for she thought to herself it would be a middling queer thing if she couldn't find out his name within a week. Well, the woman she tried every way to find out the Foawr's name, but, go where she might, no one had ever heard tell of it. The time was getting over fast, and she was no nearer to the Foawr's name. At last it came to the last day but one. Now, as it happened, the husband was coming home from the mountains that day in the little everin', and as he neared the Foawr's house, he saw it all in a blaze of light, and there was a great whirling and whistling coming to his ears, and along with it came singing and laughing and shouting. So he drew near the window, and then he sees the big Foawr inside sitting at a queeyl, spinning like the wind, and his hands flying with the thread to and fro, to and fro, like the lightning, and he shouting to the whistling queeyl : "Spin, queeyl, spin faster; and sing, queeyl, sing louder." And he sings, as the queeyl whirls faster and faster : "Snieu, queeyl, snieu; 'rane, queeyl, 'rane; Dy chooilley chlea er y thie, snieu er my skyn. S'beg fys ec yn ven litcheragh (Spin, wheel, spin; sing, wheel, sing; How little she knows, the lazy wife, That Mollyndroat is my name.) When the husband got home that everin' he was late, and his wife said to him: "Where have thou been so late? Did thou hear anything new?" Then he said: "Thou are middling good to spin thyself, ven-thie (housewife); but I'm thinking there's one in that's better than thee, for all. Never in all my born days did I see such spinning, a thread as fine as a cobweb, and hear such singing as there was going on in the Foawr's house to-night." "What was he singing?" says the wife. And he sang the song to her: "Snieu, queeyl, snieu; 'rane, queeyl, 'rane; Dy chooilley chlea er y thie, snieu er my skyn. S'beg fys ec yn ven litcheragh Dy re Mollyndroat my ennym." Well, well, the joy the woman took when she heard the song! "Aw, what sweet music! Sing it again, my good man," says she. And he sang it to her again, till she knew it by heart. Early next morning, she went as fast as her feet could carry her to the Foawr's house. The road was long, and a bit lonesome under the trees, and to keep up her heart she sang to herself: "Snieu, queeyl, snieu; snieu, queeyl, snieu; Dy chooilley vangan er y villey, snieu er my skyn. (Spin, wheel, spin; spin, wheel, spin; Every branch on the tree, spin overhead. The wool is himself's, the thread is my own, For old Mollyndroat will never get it.) When she got to the house, she found the door open before her, and in she goes. "I've come again for the thread," says she. "Aisy, aisy, woman," says the Foawr; "if thou don't tell me my name thou won't get the thread, that was the bargain." And says he: "Now, what's my name?" it. "Is it Mollyrea?" says she; to let on that she didn't know "No, it is not," says he. "Are you one of the Mollyruiy ones?" says she. "I'm not one of that clan," says he. "Are they calling you Mollyvridey?" says she. "They are not," says he. "I'll warrant your name is Mollychreest?" says she. "You are wrong," says he. "Are you going by the name of Mollyvoirrey?" says she. "Deed I'm not," says he. "Maybe your name is Mollyvarten?" says she. "And maybe it's not, at all," says he. "They're saying," says she, "that there was only seven families living on the Island at one time, and their names all began with "Molly," "and so," says she, "if you're not a Mollycharaine, you're none of the rael oul' Manx ones." "I'm not," says he. "Now, be careful, woman, next guess is your last." At that she pretended to be frightened, and says she slowly, pointing her finger at him: "S'lesh hene yn ollan, as lesh my hene y snaie, Son shenn-MOLLYNDROAT cha vow eh dy braa." (The wool is himself's, the thread is my own, Well, the Foawr he was done, and he was in a red rage, and he cries: "Bad luck to you! You never would have found out my name unless you are a mummig yn aishnee" (fortune-telling witch). "Bad luck to yourself, my boy," says she, "for trying to steal a dacent woman's wool." "Go to the Jouyl (Devil), yourself and your fortune-telling," And away home with her, and her balls of thread. And if she didn't spin her own wool for ever after, that's nothing to do with you and me. (See Mr. E. Clodd in Folklore Journal, vii. 138-43.) NOTES ON SOME AMULETS OF THE THREE MAGI KINGS. THERE are issued at the present time, at the great Cathedral at Cologne, two kinds of protective amulets whose origin may be traced back to medieval times. Of these, one is formed by metallic medals, of the type commonly used in connection with holy persons or places, the other has the less usual shape of printed slips of linen. The slips, a little more than 6 inches by 3 inches, are produced in two forms, German and French, since pilgrims from far-off parts of Europe still visit the holy shrine. Each slip bears, upon its left, a design of the "Adoration of the Magi," above a view of Cologne wherein the Cathedral stands prominent, and upon its right an inscription, which, in both the forms, commences with an invocation of the "Holy Three Kings." After the invocation follows, on the German Zettel, the statement that "The Three Kings have been honoured and invoked since ancient times as types of faith and as protective patrons against the dangers of travelling, headache, fever, epilepsy, and the snares of enemies, as well as to prevent sudden death," and concludes with the remark that "This little picture has touched the relics of the Three Holy Kings in the great Cathedral at Cologne." The French slip is somewhat more limited in its claims, saying, after the invocation, that "This ticket has touched the relics of the Holy Magi Kings at Cologne, whose protection is invoked against fever, epilepsy, sudden death, and all the accidents which may happen to travellers." Besides being employed for the general purposes indicated by the inscriptions, the slips are occasionally carried by cavalrymen, "I've come again for the thread," says she. "Aisy, aisy, woman," says the Foawr; "if thou don't tell me my name thou won't get the thread, that was the bargain." And says he: "Now, what's my name?" it. "Is it Mollyrea?" says she; to let on that she didn't know "No, it is not," says he. "Are you one of the Mollyruiy ones?" says she. "I'm not one of that clan," says he. "Are they calling you Mollyvridey?" says she. "They are not," says he. "I'll warrant your name is Mollychreest?" says she. "You are wrong," says he. "Are you going by the name of Mollyvoirrey?" says she. "'Deed I'm not," says he. "Maybe your name is Mollyvarten?" says she. "And maybe it's not, at all," says he. "They're saying," says she, "that there was only seven families living on the Island at one time, and their names all began with "Molly," "and so," says she, "if you're not a Mollycharaine, you're none of the rael oul' Manx ones." "I'm not," says he. "Now, be careful, woman, next guess is your last." At that she pretended to be frightened, and says she slowly, pointing her finger at him: "S'lesh hene yn ollan, as lesh my hene y snaie, Son shenn -MOLLYNDROAT cha vow eh dy braa." (The wool is himself's, the thread is my own, -MOLLYNDROAT will never get it.) Well, the Foawr he was done, and he was in a red rage, and he cries: "Bad luck to you! You never would have found out my name unless you are a mummig yn aishnee" (fortune-telling witch). "Bad luck to yourself, my boy," says she, "for trying to steal a dacent woman's wool." "Go to the Jouyl (Devil), yourself and your fortune-telling," |