LITMIR.BIZ

      for

      Wilfred Lancaster and for Joshua Birtles Fred Wright Tom Turnock Dafydd Rees

      IN MEMORIAM

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Dedication

Jack My Lad

Mr Vinegar

Grey Goat

Tom Poker

Jack and the Boggarts

Mollyndroat

       The Three Gowks

       A Fat Hen

       Jack and the Beekeeper

       The Salmon Cariad

       Wicked Sparrow

       Billy Bowker’s Mowing Match

       Hom Bridson

       Cocky-keeko

       Jack Hannaford and the Gold to Paradise

       Todlowery

       Johnny Whopstraw and the Hare

       Belenay of the Lake

       Alice of the Lea

       Harry-cap and the Three Brothers

       A Bag of Moonshine

       Loppy Lankin

       Also by the Author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

      “– it is in the speech of carters and housewives, in the speech of blacksmiths and old women, that one discovers the magic that sings the claim of the voice in the shadow, or that chants the rhyme of the fish in the well.”

      JOHN MARUSKIN

Jack My Lad

      Jack was boy that sold buttermilk, and one day, as he went along, he met a witch.

      “Jack, my lad,” said the witch, “sell me a bit of your buttermilk.”

      “No,” said Jack. “I shall not.”

      “If you don’t,” said the witch, “I’ll put you in my sack.”

      “No,” said Jack. “Not a drop,” said Jack. “You can’t have any; and that’s that.”

      So the witch put Jack in her sack, the sack on her back, and set off for home. After a while, she said, “Eh up. I was forgetting. I’ll want some fat to fry with.”

      “Then you’d best let me down, missis,” said Jack, “and go fetch your fat. I’m too big to carry to the shop.”

      “If I do that,” said the witch, “you’ll run away.”

      “No, I’ll never,” said Jack.

      The witch saw some men who were cutting a thorn tree; and she said to them, “Just you keep an eye on this sack for me while I go fetch some fat to fry with.”

      “Right you are, missis,” said the men. “We’ll keep an eye on your sack.”

      So the witch left the sack with the men, and off she went to fetch her fat.

      As soon as she was gone, “Now then,” said Jack. “You let us out, and I’ll give you some buttermilk.” Well, the men let Jack out, and he gave them some buttermilk, and he said, “I know what. Fill this here sack up with the thorns you’ve been cutting, and I’ll get off home.”

      So the men filled the sack with the thorns, and Jack went home. And along comes the witch with the fat, takes the sack full of thorns, sets the sack on her back, and off she goes.

      Well, it wasn’t long before those thorns began to prick her, and the witch, she said, “I reckon you’ve got pins in your pocket, Jack, my lad. I mustn’t forget to take them out when I’m frying.” But when she got to her house and opened the sack and tipped the thorns on to a clean white sheet, she said, “Well, I’ll be jiggered! Jack, my lad, I’m going to catch you, and then I’m going to boil you; and that’s a fact.”

      The next day, Jack met the witch again.

      “Jack, my lad,” said the witch, “sell me a bit of your buttermilk.”

      “No,” said Jack. “I shall not.”

      “If you don’t,” said the witch, “I’ll put you in my sack.”

      “No,” said Jack. “Not a drop,” said Jack. “You can’t have any; and that’s that.”

      So the witch put Jack in her sack, the sack on her back, and set off for home. After a while, she said, “Eh up. I was forgetting. I’ll want some salt to boil with.”

      “Then you’d best let me down, missis,” said Jack, “and go fetch your salt. I’m too big to carry to the shop.”

      “If I do that,” said the witch, “you’ll run away.”

      

Скачать книгу