And he sat and scratched his head, and thought about his own cleverness.
But all of a sudden, round the corner came the squire on horseback, full gallop, as if the boggles were after him; but the fool had to jump, even though the squire pulled his horse back on his haunches.
“What the dickens,” said the squire, “do you mean by lying in the middle of the road like that?”
“Well, master,” said the fool, “I fell into the water and got wet, so I lay down in the road to get dry; and I lay down a fool an’ got up a wise man.”
“How’s that?” said the squire.
So the fool told him about the wise woman and the coat o’ clay.
“Ah, ah!” laughed the squire, “whoever heard of a wise man lying in the middle of the highroad to be ridden over? Lad, take my word for it, you are a bigger fool than ever,” and he rode on laughing.
“Dang it!” said the fool, as he scratched his head. “I’ve not got the right sort of coat yet, then.” And he choked and spluttered in the dust that the squire’s horse had raised.
So on he went in a melancholy mood till he came to an inn, and the landlord at his door smoking.
“Well, fool,” said he, “thou ’rt fine and dirty.”
“Ay,” said the fool, “I be dirty outside an’ dusty in, but it’s not the right thing yet.”
And he told the landlord all about the wise woman and the coat o’ clay.
“Hout-tout!” said the landlord, with a wink. “I know what’s wrong. Thou ’st got a skin o’ dirt outside and all dry dust inside. Thou must moisten it, lad, with a good drink, and then thou ’lt have a real all-over coat o’ clay.”
“Hi,” said the fool, “that’s a good word.”
So down he sat and began to drink. But it was wonderful how much liquor it took to moisten so much dust; and each time he got to the bottom of the pot he found he was still dry. At last he began to feel very merry and pleased with himself.
“Hi, yi!” said he. “I’ve got a real coat o’ clay now outside and in—what a difference it do make, to be sure. I feel another man now—so smart.”
And he told the landlord he was certainly a wise man now, though he couldn’t speak over-distinctly after drinking so much. So up he got, and thought he would go home and tell his mother she hadn’t a fool for a son any more.
But just as he was trying to get through the inn-door which would scarcely keep still long enough for him to find it, up came the landlord and caught him by the sleeve.
“See here, master,” said he, “thou hasn’t paid for thy score—where’s thy money?”
“Haven’t any!” said the fool, and pulled out his pockets to show they were empty.
“What!” said the landlord, and swore; “thou ’st drunk all my liquor and haven’t got nought to pay for it with!”
“Hi!” said the fool. “You told me to drink so as to get a coat o’ clay; but as I’m a wise man now I don’t mind helping thee along in the world a bit, for though I’m a smart fellow I’m not too proud to my friends.”
“Wise man! smart fellow!” said the landlord, “and help me along, wilt thee? Dang it! thou ’rt the biggest fool I ever saw, and it’s I’ll help
And he kicked him out of the door into the road and swore at him.
“Hum,” said the fool, as he lay in the dust, “I’m not so wise as I thought. I guess I’ll go back to the wise woman and tell her there’s a screw loose somewhere.”
So up he got and went along to her house, and found her sitting at the door.
“So thou ’rt come back,” said she, with a nod. “What dost thou want with me now?”
So he sat down and told her how he’d tried to get a coat o’ clay, and he wasn’t any wiser for all of it.
“No,” said the wise woman, “thou ’rt a bigger fool than ever, my lad.”
“So they all say,” sighed the fool; “but where can I get the right sort of coat o’ clay, then, missis?”
“When thou ’rt done with this world, and thy folk put thee in the ground,” said the wise woman. “That’s the only coat o’ clay as ’ll make such as
And she went into the house and shut the door.
“Dang it,” said the fool. “I must tell my mother she was right after all, and that she’ll never have a wise man for a son!”
And he went off home.
The Three Cows
There was a farmer, and he had three cows, fine fat beauties they were. One was called Facey, the other Diamond, and the third Beauty. One morning he went into his cowshed, and there he found Facey so thin that the wind would have blown her away. Her skin hung loose about her, all her flesh was gone, and she stared out of her great eyes as though she’d seen a ghost; and what was more, the fireplace in the kitchen was one great pile of wood-ash. Well, he was bothered with it; he could not see how all this had come about.
Next morning his wife went out to the shed, and see! Diamond was for all the world as wisht a looking creature as Facey—nothing but a bag of bones, all the flesh gone, and half a rick of wood was gone too; but the fireplace was piled up three feet high with white wood-ashes. The farmer determined to watch the third night; so he hid in a closet which opened out of the parlour, and he left the door just ajar, that he might see what passed.
Tick, tick, went the clock, and the farmer was nearly tired of waiting; he had to bite his little finger to keep himself awake, when suddenly the door of his house flew open, and in rushed maybe a thousand pixies, laughing and dancing and dragging at Beauty’s halter till they had brought the cow into the middle of the room. The farmer really thought he should have died with fright, and so perhaps he would had not curiosity kept him alive.
Tick, tick, went the clock, but he did not hear it now. He was too intent staring at the pixies and his last beautiful cow. He saw them throw her down, fall on her, and kill her; then with their knives they ripped her open, and flayed her as clean as a whistle. Then out ran some of the little people and brought in firewood and made a roaring blaze on the hearth, and there they cooked the flesh of the cow—they baked and they boiled, they stewed and they fried.
“Take care,” cried one, who seemed to be the king, “let no bone be broken.”
Well, when they had all eaten, and had devoured every scrap of beef on the cow, they began playing games with the bones, tossing them one to another. One little leg-bone fell close to the closet door, and the farmer was so afraid lest the pixies should come there and find him in their search for the bone, that he put out his hand and drew it in to him. Then he saw the king stand on the table and say, “Gather the bones!”
Round and round flew the imps, picking up the bones. “Arrange them,” said the king; and they placed them all in their proper positions in the hide of the cow. Then they folded the skin over them, and the king struck the heap of bone and skin with his rod. Whisht! up sprang the cow and lowed dismally. It was alive again; but,
