LITMIR.BIZ

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It happened that there was at the time a large caldron of boiling water suspended over the fire, and this caldron the enraged wife overturned in Clashnichd’s bosom!

      Scalded beyond recovery, she fled up the wilds of Craig-Aulnaic, uttering the most melancholy lamentations, nor has she been ever heard of since.

      THE DOOMED RIDER

      “The Conan is as bonny a river as we hae in a’ the north country.  There’s mony a sweet sunny spot on its banks, an’ mony a time an’ aft hae I waded through its shallows, whan a boy, to set my little scautling-line for the trouts an’ the eels, or to gather the big pearl-mussels that lie sae thick in the fords.  But its bonny wooded banks are places for enjoying the day in—no for passing the nicht.  I kenna how it is; it’s nane o’ your wild streams that wander desolate through a desert country, like the Aven, or that come rushing down in foam and thunder, ower broken rocks, like the Foyers, or that wallow in darkness, deep, deep in the bowels o’ the earth, like the fearfu’ Auldgraunt; an’ yet no ane o’ these rivers has mair or frightfuller stories connected wi’ it than the Conan.  Ane can hardly saunter ower half-a-mile in its course, frae where it leaves Coutin till where it enters the sea, without passing ower the scene o’ some frightful auld legend o’ the kelpie or the waterwraith.  And ane o’ the most frightful looking o’ these places is to be found among the woods of Conan House.  Ye enter a swampy meadow that waves wi’ flags an’ rushes like a corn-field in harvest, an’ see a hillock covered wi’ willows rising like an island in the midst.  There are thick mirk-woods on ilka side; the river, dark an’ awesome, an’ whirling round an’ round in mossy eddies, sweeps away behind it; an’ there is an auld burying-ground, wi’ the broken ruins o’ an auld Papist kirk, on the tap.  Ane can see amang the rougher stanes the rose-wrought mullions of an arched window, an’ the trough that ance held the holy water.  About twa hunder years ago—a wee mair maybe, or a wee less, for ane canna be very sure o’ the date o’ thae old stories—the building was entire; an’ a spot near it, whar the wood now grows thickest, was laid out in a corn-field.  The marks o’ the furrows may still be seen amang the trees.

      “A party o’ Highlanders were busily engaged, ae day in harvest, in cutting down the corn o’ that field; an’ just aboot noon, when the sun shone brightest an’ they were busiest in the work, they heard a voice frae the river exclaim:—‘The hour but not the man has come.’  Sure enough, on looking round, there was the kelpie stan’in’ in what they ca’ a fause ford, just fornent the auld kirk.  There is a deep black pool baith aboon an’ below, but i’ the ford there’s a bonny ripple, that shows, as ane might think, but little depth o’ water; an’ just i’ the middle o’ that, in a place where a horse might swim, stood the kelpie.  An’ it again repeated its words:—‘The hour but not the man has come,’ an’ then flashing through the water like a drake, it disappeared in the lower pool.  When the folk stood wondering what the creature might mean, they saw a man on horseback come spurring down the hill in hot haste, making straight for the fause ford.  They could then understand her words at ance; an’ four o’ the stoutest o’ them sprang oot frae amang the corn to warn him o’ his danger, an’ keep him back.  An’ sae they tauld him what they had seen an’ heard, an’ urged him either to turn back an’ tak’ anither road, or stay for an hour or sae where he was.  But he just wadna hear them, for he was baith unbelieving an’ in haste, an’ wauld hae taen the ford for a’ they could say, hadna the Highlanders, determined on saving him whether he would or no, gathered round him an’ pulled him frae his horse, an’ then, to mak’ sure o’ him, locked him up in the auld kirk.  Weel, when the hour had gone by—the fatal hour o’ the kelpie—they flung open the door, an’ cried to him that he might noo gang on his journey.  Ah! but there was nae answer, though; an’ sae they cried a second time, an’ there was nae answer still; an’ then they went in, an’ found him lying stiff an’ cauld on the floor, wi’ his face buried in the water o’ the very stone trough that we may still see amang the ruins.  His hour had come, an’ he had fallen in a fit, as ’twould seem, head-foremost amang the water o’ the trough, where he had been smothered,—an’ sae ye see, the prophecy o’ the kelpie availed naething.”

      WHIPPETY STOURIE

      There was once a gentleman that lived in a very grand house, and he married a young lady that had been delicately brought up.  In her husband’s house she found everything that was fine—fine tables and chairs, fine looking-glasses, and fine curtains; but then her husband expected her to be able to spin twelve hanks o’ thread every day, besides attending to her house; and, to tell the even-down truth, the lady could not spin a bit.  This made her husband glunchy with her, and, before a month had passed, she found hersel’ very unhappy.

      One day the husband gaed away upon a journey, after telling her that he expected her, before his return, to have not only learned to spin, but to have spun a hundred hanks o’ thread.  Quite downcast, she took a walk along the hillside, till she cam’ to a big flat stane, and there she sat down and grat.  By and by she heard a strain o’ fine sma’ music, coming as it were frae aneath the stane, and, on turning it up, she saw a cave below, where there were sitting six wee ladies in green gowns, ilk ane o’ them spinning on a little wheel, and singing,

      “Little kens my dame at hame

      That Whippety Stourie is my name.”

      The lady walked into the cave, and was kindly asked by the wee bodies to take a chair and sit down, while they still continued their spinning.  She observed that ilk ane’s mouth was thrawn away to ae side, but she didna venture to speer the reason.  They asked why she looked so unhappy, and she telt them that it was she was expected by her husband to be a good spinner, when the plain truth was that she could not spin at all, and found herself quite unable for it, having been so delicately brought up; neither was there any need for it, as her husband was a rich man.

      “Oh, is that a’?” said the little wifies, speaking out of their cheeks alike.

      “Yes, and is it not a very good a’ too?” said the lady, her heart like to burst wi’ distress.

      “We could easily quit ye o’ that trouble,” said the wee women.  “Just ask us a’ to dinner for the day when your husband is to come back.  We’ll then let you see how we’ll manage him.”

      So the lady asked them all to dine with herself and her husband, on the day when he was to come back.

      When the gudeman came hame, he found the house so occupied with preparations for dinner, that he had nae time to ask his wife about her thread; and, before ever he had ance spoken to her on the subject, the company was announced at the hall door.  The six ladies all came in a coach-and-six, and were as fine as princesses, but still wore their gowns of green.  The gentleman was very polite, and showed them up the stair with a pair of wax candles in his hand.  And so they all sat down to dinner, and conversation went on very pleasantly, till at length the husband, becoming familiar with them, said—

      “Ladies, if it be not an uncivil question, I should like to know how it happens that all your mouths are turned away to one side?”

      “Oh,” said ilk ane at ance, “it’s with our constant spin-spin-spinning

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