ENGLISH-GYPSY STORIES
by Francis Hindes Groome · from Gypsy folk-tales
Adapted Version
Once upon a time, Lily was a kind girl. She lived near a big, green forest. One day, something very important happened. Lily played by an old tree. A rich man came. His name was Squire John. He liked Lily very much. He asked Lily to marry him. So they got married. Squire John took Lily to his big house. His mother was there. She was the Mean Mother. She did not like Lily. Lily was a poor girl. The Mean Mother was not happy. She did not like this marriage.
The Mean Mother was very angry. She talked to her son, Squire John. "You must take Lily away," she said. "Take her to the big forest. Make her go away forever. Do not let her come back. Bring me a special sign. This sign will show she is gone. Bring me her clothes too." Squire John felt scared. He did not want to do this. But he listened to his mother. He got his horse ready. Lily got on the horse behind him. They rode into the big, dark forest. The forest was very scary.
Lily was scared. She saw a big bird. It was an eagle. Lily had an idea. She talked to Squire John. "Do not hurt me," she said. "Take the eagle's special sign. Take my nice clothes too." Squire John looked at the eagle. He took the eagle's special sign. Lily gave him her nice clothes. He took them. Lily was left in thin, old clothes.
Squire John rode home. He showed the Mean Mother the eagle's sign. "Lily is gone," he said. The Mean Mother was happy. She thought Lily was gone forever.
Lily was alone. She walked in the big forest. It was cold. She was sad. Her clothes were thin. She walked and walked. Then a man came. He rode a horse. He was a Kind Gentleman. He saw Lily.
The Kind Gentleman was kind. He gave Lily his warm coat. He took her to his big house. They became friends. They fell in love. They got married.
One day, there was a big party. Many people came. Squire John came. His Mean Mother came too. Everyone told stories. Everyone sang songs.
It was Lily's turn. She started a story. It was her own story. Squire John heard it. He knew it was true. He tried to stop her. "Stop!" he said.
But Lily's husband smiled. "Tell your story," he said. So Lily told everything. She told about the forest. She told about the eagle. She told about her clothes. She told about Squire John. She told about his Mean Mother.
Everyone listened. They were very angry. "Squire John is bad!" they said. "His mother is bad!" They took Squire John away. They took his Mean Mother away. They were punished.
Lily was safe. She was loved. She lived with her kind husband. They were very happy. They lived happily ever after. And everyone knew that being kind is the best thing of all, and mean people get what they deserve.
Original Story
ENGLISH-GYPSY STORIES
No. 51.—Bobby Rag
Yeahs an’ yeahs an’ double yeahs ago, deah wuz a nice young Gypsy gal playin’ round an ole oak tree. An’ up comed a squire as she wur a-playin’, an’ he falled in love wid her, an’ asked her ef she’d go to his hall an’ marry him. An’ she says, ‘No, sir, you wouldn’t have a pooah Gypsy gal like me.’ But he meaned so, an’ stoled her away an’ married her.
Now when he bring’d her home, his mother warn’t ’greeable to let hisself down so low as to marry a Gypsy gal. So she says, ‘You’ll hev to go an’ ’stry her in de Hundert Mile Wood, an’ strip her star’-mother-naked, an’ bring back her clothes and her heart and pluck wid you.’
And he took’d his hoss, and she jumped up behint him, and rid behint him into de wood. You’ll be shuah it wor a wood, an ole-fashioned wood we know it should be, wid bears an’ eagles an’ sneks an’ wolfs into it. And when he took’d her in de wood he says, ‘Now, I’ll ha’ to kill you here, an’ strip you star’-mother-naked and tek back your clothes an’ your heart an’ pluck wid me, and show dem to my mammy.’
But she begged hard for herself, an’ she says, ‘Deah’s an eagle into dat wood, an’ he’s gat de same heart an’ pluck as a Christ’n; take dat home an’ show it to your mammy, an’ I’ll gin you my clothes as well.’
So he stript her clothes affer her, an’ he kilt de eagle, an’ took’d his heart an’ pluck home, an’ showed it to his mammy, an’ said as he’d kilt her.
And she heared him rode aff, an’ she wents an, an’ she wents an, an’ she wents an, an’ she crep an’ crep an her poor hens and knees, tell she fun’ a way troo de long wood. You’ah shuah she’d have hard work to fin’ a way troo it; an’ long an’ by last she got to de hedge anear de road, so as she’d hear any one go by.
Now, in de marnin’ deah wuz a young genleman comed by an hoss-back, an’ he couldn’t get his hoss by for love nor money; an’ she hed herself in under de hedge, for she wur afrightened ’twor de same man come back to kill her agin, an’ besides you’ah shuah she wor ashamed of bein’ naked.
An’ he calls out, ‘Ef you’ah a ghost, go way; but ef you’ah a livin’ Christ’n, speak to me.’
An’ she med answer direc’ly, ‘I’m as good a Christ’n as you are, but not in parable.’1
An’ when he sin her, he pull’t his deah beautiful topcoat affer him, an’ put it an her. An’ he says, ‘Jump behint me.’ An’ she jumped behint him, an’ he rid wi’ her to his own gret hall. An’ deah wuz no speakin’ tell dey gat home. He knowed she wuz deah to be kilt, an’ he galloped as hard as he could an his blood-hoss, tell he got to his own hall. An’ when he bring’d her in, dey wur all struck stunt to see a woman naked, wid her beautiful black hair hangin down her back in long rinklets. Deh asked her what she wuz deah fur, an’ she tell’d dem, an’ she tell’d dem. An’ you’ah shuah dey soon put clothes an her; an’ when she wuz dressed up, deah warn’t a lady in de land more han’some nor her. An’ his folks wor in delight av her.
‘Now,’ dey says, ‘we’ll have a supper for goers an’ comers an’ all gentry to come at.’
You’ah shuah it should be a ’spensible supper an’ no savation of no money. And deah wuz to be tales tell’d an’ songs sing’d. An’ every wan dat didn’t sing’t a song had to tell’t a tale. An’ every door wuz bolted for fear any wan would mek a skip out. An’ it kem to pass to dis’ Gypsy gal to sing a song; an’ de gentleman dat fun’ her says, ‘Now, my pretty Gypsy gal, tell a tale.’
An’ de gentleman dat wuz her husband knowed her, an’ didn’t want her to tell a tale. And he says, ‘Sing a song, my pretty Gypsy gal.’
An’ she says, ‘I won’t sing a song, but I’ll tell a tale. An’ she says—
‘Bobby rag! Bobby rag!
Roun’ de oak tree——’
‘Pooh! pooh!’ says her husband, ‘dat tale won’t do.’ (Now de ole mother an’ de son, dey knowed what wuz comin’ out.)
‘Go on, my pretty Gypsy gal,’ says de oder young genleman. ‘A werry nice tale indeed.’
So she goes on—
‘Bobby rag! Bobby rag!
Roun’ de oak tree.
A Gypsy I wuz born’d,
A lady I wuz bred;
Dey made me a coffin
Afore I wuz dead.’
‘An’ dat’s de rogue deah.’
An’ she tell’t all de tale into de party, how he wur agoin’ to kill her an’ tek her heart an’ pluck home. An’ all de gentry took’t an’ gibbeted him alive, both him an’ his mother. An’ dis young squire married her, an’ med her a lady for life. Ah! ef we could know her name, an’ what breed she wur, what a beautiful ting dat would be. But de tale doan’ say.
I can offer no exact parallel for this story, though it presents such commonplaces of folklore as the marriage of a poor girl by a rich man, his mother’s jealousy, her order to take the bride into a forest and kill her, and bring back her heart or something as a token,2 the substitution of some other creature’s heart, and the ultimate retribution. The husband, however, is nearly always guiltless. The close of our story is reminiscent of ‘Laula’ or ‘Mr. Fox’ (pp. 174–5).
No. 52.—De Little Fox
In ole formel times, when deh used to be kings an’ queens, deah wuz a king an’ queen hed on’y one darter. And dey stored dis darter like de eyes in deir head, an’ dey hardly would let de wind blow an her. Dey lived in a ’menjus big park, an’ one way of de park wuz a lodge-house, an’ de oder en’ deah wuz a great moat of water. Now dis queen died an’ lef’ dis darter. An’ she wur a werry han’some gal—you ’ah sure she mus’ be, bein’ a queen’s darter.
In dis heah lodge-house deah wuz an ole woman lived. And in dem days deah wur witchcraft. An’ de ole king used to sont fur her to go up to de palast to work, an’ she consated herself an’ him a bit. So one day dis heah ole genleman wuz a-talking to dis ole woman, an’ de darter gat a bit jealous, an’ dis ole woman fun’ out dat de darter wuz angry, an’ she didn’t come anigh de house fur a long time.
Now de ole witch wuz larnin’ de young lady to sew. So she sont fur her to come down to de lodge-house afore she hed her breakfast. An’ de fust day she wents, she picked up a kernel of wheat as she wuz coming along, an’ eat it.
An’ de witch said to her, ‘Have you hed your breakfast?’
An’ she says, ‘No.’
‘Have you hed nothin’?’ she says.
‘No,’ she says, ‘on’y a kernel of wheat.’
She wents two marnin’s like dat, an’ picked up a kernel of wheat every marnin’, so dat de witch would have no powah over her—God’s grain, you know, sir. But de third marnin’ she on’y picked up a bit av arange peel, an’ den dis ole wise woman witchered her, an’ after dat she never sont fur her to come no more. Now dis young lady got to be big. An’ de witch wuz glad. So she goned to de king an’ she says, ‘Your darter is dat way. Now, you know, she’ll hev to be ’stry’d.’
‘What! my beautiful han’some darter to be in de fambaley way! Oh! no, no, no, et couldn’t be.’
‘But it can be so, an’ et es so,’ said de ole witch.
Well, it wuz so, an’ de ole king fun’ it out and was well-nigh crazy. An’ when he fun’ it out, for shuah dem days when any young woman had a misforchant, she used to be burnt. An’ he ordered a man to go an’ get an iron chair an’ a cartload of faggots; an’ she hed to be put in dis iron chair, an’ dese faggots set of a light rount her, an’ she burnt to death. As dey had her in dis chair, and a-goin’ to set it of alight, deah wur an old gentleman come up—dat was my ole Dubel3 to be shuah—an’ he says, ‘My noble leech,4 don’t burn her, nor don’t hurt her, nor don’t ’stry her, for dere’s an ole wessel into de bottom of dat park. Put her in dere, an’ let her go where God d’rect her to.’
So dey did do so, an’ nevah think’d no more about her.
Durin’ time dis young lady wuz confined of a little fox. And d’rectly as he was bornt he says, ‘My mammy, you mus’ be werry weak an’ low bein’ confined of me, an’ nothin’ to eat or drink; but I must go somewheres, an’ get you somethin’.’
‘O my deah little fox, don’t leave me. What ever shall I do without you? I shall die broken-hearted.’
‘I’m a-goin’ to my gran’father, as I suspose,’ says de little fox.
‘My deah, you mustn’t go, you’ll be worried by de dogs.’
‘Oh! no dogs won’t hurt me, my mammy.’
Away he goned, trittin’ an’ trottin’ tell he got to his gran’fader’s hall. When he got up to de gret boarden gates, dey wuz closed, an’ deah wuz two or tree dogs tied down, an’ when he goned in de dogs never looked at him. One of de women corned outer de hall, an’ who should it be but dis ole witch!
He says, ‘Call youah dogs in, missis, an’ don’t let ’em bite me. I wants to see de noble leech belonging to dis hall.’
‘What do you want to see him fur?’
‘I wants to see him for somethin’ to eat an’ drink fur my mammy, she’s werry poorly.’
‘And who are youah mammy?’
‘Let him come out, he’ll know.’
So de noble leech comed out, an’ he says, ‘What do you want, my little fox?’
He put his hen’ up to his head (such manners he had!): ‘I wants somethin’ to eat an’ drink fur my mammy, she’s werry poorly.’
So de noble leech tole de cook to fill a basket wid wine an’ wittles. So de cook done so, and bring’d it to him.
De noble leech says, ‘My little fox, you can never carry it. I will sen’ some one to carry it.’
But he says, ‘No, thank you, my noble leech’; an’ he chucked it on his little back, an’ wents tritting an’ trotting to his mammy.
When he got to his mammy, she says, ‘O my deah little fox, I’ve bin crazy about you. I thought de dogs had eaten you.’
‘No, my mammy, dey turn’t deir heads de oder way.’
An’ she took’d him an’ kissed him an’ rejoiced over him.
‘Now, my mammy, have somethin’ to eat an’ drink,’ says de little fox, ‘I got dem from my gran’father as I suspose it is.’
So he went tree times. An’ de secon’ time he wents, de ole witch began smellin’ a rat, an’ she says to the servants, ‘Don’t let dat little fox come heah no more; he’ll get worried.’
But he says, ‘I wants to see de noble leech,’ says de little fox.
‘You’ah werry plaguesome to de noble leech, my little fox.’
‘Oh! no, I’m not,’ he says.
De las’ time he comes, his moder dressed him in a beautiful robe of fine needlework. Now de noble leech comes up again to de little fox, an’ he says, ‘Who is youah mammy, my little fox?’
‘You wouldn’t know p’raps ef I wuz to tell you.’
An’ he says, ‘Who med you dat robe, my little fox?’
‘My mammy, to be shuah! who else should make it?’
An’ de ole king wept an cried bitterly when he seed dis robe he had on, fur he think’d his deah child wur dead.
‘Could I have a word wi’ you, my noble leech?’ says de little fox. ‘Could you call a party dis afternoon up at your hall?’
He says, ‘What fur, my little fox?’
‘Well, ef you call a party, I’ll tell you whose robe dat is, but you mus’ let my mammy come as well.’
‘No, no, my little fox; I couldn’t have youah mammy to come.’
Well, de ole king agreed, an’ de little fox tell’d him, ‘Now deah mus’ be tales to be tell’d, an’ songs to be sing’d, an’ dem as don’t sing a song hez to tell a tale. An’ after we have dinner let’s go an’ walk about in de garden. But you mus’ ’quaint as many ladies an’ genlemen as you can to dis party, an’ be shuah to bring de ole lady what live at de lodge.’
Well, dis dinner was called, an’ dey all had ’nuff to eat; an’ after dat wur ovah, de noble leech stood up in de middlt an’ called for a song or tale. Deah wus all songs sing’t and tales tell’t, tell it camed to dis young lady’s tu’n. An’ she says, ‘I can’t sing a song or tell a tale, but my little fox can.’
‘Pooydorda!’ says de ole witch, ‘tu’n out de little fox, he stinks.’
But dey all called an de little fox, an’ he stoods up an’ says, ‘Once ont a time,’ he says, ‘deah wuz an ole-fashn’t king an’ queen lived togeder; an’ dey only had one darter, an’ dey stored dis darter like de eyes into deir head, an’ dey ’ardly would let de wint blow an her.’
‘Pooydorda!’ says de old witch, ‘tu’n out de little fox, it stinks.’
But deah wuz all de ladies an’ genlemen clappin’ an’ sayin’, ‘Speak an, my little fox!’ ‘Well tole, my little fox!’ ‘Werry good tale, indeed!’
So de little fox speak’d an, and tell’t dem all about de ole witch, an’ how she wanted to ’stry de king’s darter, an’ he says, ‘Dis heah ole lady she fried my mammy a egg an’ a sliced of bacon; an’ ef she wur to eat it all, she’d be in de fambaley way wid some bad animal; but she on’y eat half on it, an’ den she wor so wid me. An’ dat’s de ole witch deah,’ he says, showin’ de party wid his little paw.
An’ den, after dis wuz done, an’ dey all walked togeder in de garden, de little fox says, ‘Now, my mammy, I’ve done all de good I can for you, an’ now I’m a-goin’ to leave you.’ An’ he strip’t aff his little skin, an’ he flewed away in de beautifulest white angel you ever seed in your life.
An’ de ole witch was burnt in de same chair dat wuz meant fur de young lady.
In the Bukowina-Gypsy story of ‘The Winged Hero,’ No. 26, the emperor’s daughter, for being ‘that way,’ is to be burnt with her lover; and just as the mother of the little fox is sent adrift in an ‘ole wessel,’ so in the Celtic legend is St. Thenew or Enoch, having miraculously conceived St. Kentigern, exposed in a coracle on the Firth of Forth. In her Variants of Cinderella (Folklore Soc., 1893, pp. 307, 507), Miss Cox gives an interesting parallel for this husk-myth, whose close recalls ‘Bobby Rag’ (No. 51). From Matthew Wood Mr. Sampson has heard a variant of ‘De Little Fox,’ but very different in details.
No. 53.—De Little Bull-calf
Centers of yeahs ago, when all de most part of de country wur a wilderness place, deah wuz a little boy lived in a pooah bit of a poverty5 house. An’ dis boy’s father guv him a deah little bull-calf. De boy used to tink de wurl’ of dis bull-calf, an’ his father gived him everyting he wanted fur it.
Afterward dat his father died, an’ his mother got married agin; an’ dis wuz a werry wicious stepfather, an’ he couldn’t abide dis little boy. An’ at last he said, if de boy bring’d de bull-calf home agin, he wur a-goin’ to kill it. Dis father should be a willint to dis deah little boy, shouldn’t he, my Sampson?
He used to gon out tentin’ his bull-calf every day wid barley bread. An’ arter dat deah wus an ole man comed to him, an’ we have a deal of thought who Dat wuz, eh? An’ he d’rected de little boy, ‘You an’ youah bull-calf had better go away an’ seek youah forchants.’
So he wents an, an’ wents an, as fur as I can tell you to-morrow night,6 an’ he wents up to a farmhouse an’ begged a crust of bread, an’ when he comed back he broked it in two, and guv half an it to his little bull-calf.
An’ he wents an to another house, an’ begs a bit of cheese crud, an’ when he comed back, he wants to gin half an it to his bull-calf.
‘No,’ de little bull-calf says, ‘I’m a-goin’ acrost dis field into de wild wood wilderness country, where dere’ll be tigers, lepers, wolfs, monkeys, an’ a fiery dragin. An’ I shall kill dem every one excep’ de fiery dragin, an’ he’ll kill me’. (De Lord could make any animal speak dose days. You know trees could speak wonst. Our blessed Lord He hid in de eldon bush, an’ it tell’t an Him, an’ He says, ‘You shall always stink,’ and so it always do. But de ivy let Him hide into it, and He says, It should be green both winter an’ summer.)7
An’ dis little boy did cry, you’ah shuah; and he says, ‘O my little bull-calf, I hope he won’t kill you.’
‘Yes, he will,’ de little bull-calf says. ‘An’ you climb up dat tree, an’ den no one can come anigh you but de monkeys, an’ ef dey come de cheese crud will sef you. An’ when I’m killt de dragin will go away fur a bit. An’ you come down dis tree, an’ skin me, an’ get my biggest gut out, an’ blow it up, an’ my gut will kill everyting as you hit wid it, an’ when dat fiery dragin come, you hit it wid my gut, an’ den cut its tongue out.’ (We know deah were fiery dragins dose days, like George an’ his dragin in de Bible. But deah! it aren’t de same wurl’ now. De wurl’ is tu’n’d ovah sence, like you tu’n’d it ovah wid a spade.)
In course he done as dis bull-calf tell’t him, an’ he climb’t up de tree, an’ de monkeys climb’t up de tree to him. An’ he helt de cheese crud in his hend, an’ he says, ‘I’ll squeeze youah heart like dis flint stone.’
An’ de monkey cocked his eye, much to say, ‘Ef you can squeeze a flint stone an’ mek de juice come outer it, you can squeeze me.’ An’ he never spoked, for a monkey’s cunning,8 but down he went.
An’ de little bull-calf wuz fighting all dese wild tings on de groun’; an’ de little boy wuz clappin’ his hands up de tree an’ sayin’, ‘Go an, my little bull-calf! Well fit, my little bull-calf!’ An’ he mastered everyting barrin’ de fiery dragin. An’ de fiery dragin killt de little bull-calf.
An’ he wents an, an’ saw a young lady, a king’s darter, staked down by de hair of her head. (Dey wuz werry savage dat time of day kings to deir darters if dey misbehavioured demselfs, an’ she wuz put deah fur de fiery dragin to ’stry her.)
An’ he sat down wid her several hours, an’ she says, ‘Now, my deah little boy, my time is come when I’m a-goin’ to be worried, an’ you’ll better go.’
An’ he says, ‘No,’ he says, ‘I can master it, an’ I won’t go.’
She begged an’ prayed an him as ever she could to get him away, but he wouldn’t go. An’ he could heah it comin’ far enough, roarin’ an’ doin’. An’ dis dragin come spitting fire, wid a tongue like a gret speart: an’ you could heah it roarin’ fur milts; an’ dis place wheah de king’s darter wur staked down wuz his beat wheah he used to come. And when it comed, de little boy hit dis gut about his face tell he wuz dead, but de fiery dragin bited his front finger affer him. Den de little boy cut de fiery dragin’s tongue out, an’ he says to de young lady, ‘I’ve done all dat I can, I mus’ leave you.’ An’ you’ah shuah she wuz sorry when he hed to leave her, an’ she tied a dimant ring into his hair, an’ said good-bye to him.
Now den, bime bye, de ole king comed up to de werry place where his darter wuz staked by de hair of her head, ‘mentin’ an’ doin’, an’ espectin’ to see not a bit of his darter, but de prents of de place where she wuz. An’ he wuz disprised, an’ he says to his darter, ‘How come you seft?’
‘Why, deah wuz a little boy comed heah an’ sef me, daddy.’
Den he untied her, an’ took’d her home to de palast, for you’ah shuah he wor glad, when his temper comed to him agin. Well, he put it into all de papers to want to know who seft dis gal, an’ ef de right man comed he wur to marry her, an’ have his kingdom an’ all his destate. Well, deah wuz gentlemen comed fun all an’ all parts of England, wid deir front fingers cut aff, an’ all an’ all kinds of tongues—foreign tongues, an’ beastes’ tongues, an’ wile animals’ tongues. Dey cut all sorts of tongues out, an’ dey went about shootin’ tings a-purpose, but dey never could find a dragin to shoot. Deah wuz genlemen comin’ every other day wid tongues an’ dimant rings; but when dey showed deir tongues, it warn’t de right one, an’ dey got turn’t aff.
An’ dis little ragged boy comed up a time or two werry desolated like; an’ she had an eye on him, an’ she looked at dis boy, tell her father got werry angry an’ turn’t dis boy out.
‘Daddy,’ she says, ‘I’ve got a knowledge to dat boy.’
You may say deah wuz all kinds of kings’ sons comin’ up showin’ deir parcels; an’ arter a time or two dis boy comed up agin dressed a bit better.
An’ de ole king says, ‘I see you’ve got an eye on dis boy. An’ ef it is to be him, it has to be him.’
All de oder genlemen wuz fit to kill him, an’ dey says, ‘Pooh! pooh! tu’n dat boy out; it can’t be him.’
But de ole king says, ‘Now, my boy, let’s see what you got.’
Well, he showed the dimant ring, with her name into it, an’ de fiery dragin’s tongue. Dordi! how dese genlemen were mesmerised when he showed his ’thority, and de king tole him, ‘You shall have my destate, an’ marry my darter.’
An’ he got married to dis heah gal, an’ got all de ole king’s destate. An’ den de stepfather came an’ wanted to own him, but de young king didn’t know such a man.
A bull-calf helps twins in a Russian story summarised by Ralston, p. 134; the squeezing of the cheese crud can be matched from the Slovak-Gypsy story of ‘The Gypsy and the Dragon’ (No. 22, p. 84; cf. also Hahn, i. 152 and ii. 211). For the slaying of a dragon with the aid of helpful animals, and so rescuing a princess, and for the recognition of the rescuer by means of the dragon’s tongues, cf. Grimm’s No. 60, ‘The Two Brothers’ (i. 244–264 and 418–422). That story must be known to the Gypsies of Hungary, for we get a rude version of it in the latter half of Dr. Friedrich Müller’s No. 5, whose first half we have summarised on p. 34. The hero here comes to a city deprived of its water by twelve dragons, who are also going to devour the king’s daughter. He undertakes to rescue her, but falls asleep with his head on her knees. The twelve white dragons roar beneath the earth, and then emerge one by one from the fountain, but are torn in pieces by the hero’s twelve wild animals, whose lives he has spared when hunting. Thereupon the water becomes plentiful, and the hero marries the princess. Her former lover, however, poisons him. The twelve animals find his grave, and dig him up. They go in quest of the healing herb; and the hare, ‘whose eyes are always open,’ sees a snake with that herb in its mouth, robs it thereof, and is running away, but at the snake’s request gives back a bit. They then resuscitate their master, who sends a challenge to the lover by the lion. The marriage is just about to come off, but the princess reads, weeps, and breaks off the match. In comes the hero, and having packed off the lover, remarries her. ‘If they are not dead, they are still alive.’ Cf. our No. 30, ‘The Rich and the Poor Brother,’ pp. 112–117, for stopping the water9; No. 29, ‘Pretty-face,’ p. 111, for the snake-leaf; and No. 42, ‘The Dragon,’ p. 143. None of these stories, however, offers more than analogues to ‘De Little Bull-calf,’ whose humour as to the dragon’s tongue is peculiarly its own. The tongue as the test of who killed the demon occurs in ‘Kara and Guja’ (A. Campbell’s Santal Folk-tales, 1891, pp. 20–21).
2 So in the Bukowina-Gypsy story of ‘The Mother’s Chastisement,’ No. 9, p. 29. Cf. Maive Stokes’s Indian Fairy Tales, p. 245. ↑
5 Poverty = poor, possibly confused with paltry, is very common among English Gypsies. ↑
7 Cf. Noah Young’s name for elder, mi-duvel’s kandlo ruk (‘God’s stinking tree’); some other Gypsies, including Isaac Herren, call it wuzén. Oliver Lee’s name for ivy is chirikléskro ruk (‘bird’s tree’), because it was the tree brought back by the dove into the ark, and this is the reason that birds are fond of clustering round it. Holly is mi-duveléskro ruk (‘God’s tree’; cf. Cornish Aunt Mary’s Tree); and Gypsies pitching their tent against a holly-bush are under divine protection.—J. S. ↑
8 ‘As cunning as a bushel o’ monkeys’ is a favourite figure of a Gypsy friend of mine. ↑
Story DNA
Moral
Truth and innocence will ultimately prevail over deceit and cruelty.
Plot Summary
A young Gypsy girl marries a squire, but his mother, disapproving, orders him to kill her in a dangerous wood. The girl cleverly persuades him to kill an eagle instead, giving him her clothes, and escapes naked. She is found and rescued by another gentleman, who marries her. At a grand supper, attended by her first husband, she tells her story, exposing his crime. The wicked husband and his mother are executed, and she lives happily as a lady. The second story, 'De Little Fox', tells of a princess banished and giving birth to a fox-child, who grows into a boy, undertakes a heroic quest, slays a dragon, and eventually marries a princess, proving his identity through the dragon's tongue.
Themes
Emotional Arc
suffering to triumph
Writing Style
Narrative Elements
Cultural Context
Reflects social prejudices against Romani people and common folk beliefs and justice systems of pre-modern England, as interpreted through Gypsy oral tradition.
Plot Beats (11)
- A young Gypsy girl is courted and married by a squire, despite his mother's disapproval.
- The squire's mother demands he take his wife into the Hundred Mile Wood, kill her, and bring back her heart and pluck.
- In the wood, the Gypsy wife persuades her husband to kill an eagle instead, taking its heart and pluck, and her clothes, leaving her naked.
- The squire returns home, presenting the eagle's organs as proof of his wife's death.
- The naked Gypsy wife crawls through the dangerous wood and is found by another gentleman on horseback.
- The gentleman, seeing her plight, gives her his coat and takes her to his hall, where they marry.
- A grand supper is held, where guests must tell tales or sing songs; the Gypsy wife's former husband is present.
- The Gypsy wife begins a tale, using a refrain that hints at her past, which her former husband tries to stop.
- Encouraged by her new husband, she continues, revealing the entire story of her betrayal and near-death.
- The gentry present, upon hearing her tale, seize the wicked squire and his mother and gibbet them alive.
- The Gypsy wife lives happily ever after as a lady with her new, kind husband.
Characters
The Gypsy Gal ★ protagonist
Slender and graceful, with a natural beauty that shines even when unadorned. Her build is lithe from a life spent outdoors. She is described as having 'beautiful black hair' and being 'more handsome' than any lady in the land once dressed.
Attire: Initially, she wears simple, practical Romani clothing suitable for playing around an oak tree. After being stripped, she is naked. Later, she is dressed in 'fine clothes' by the second gentleman's household, which would be era-appropriate English gentry attire, likely a gown of silk or brocade, perhaps in deep jewel tones, with a fitted bodice and full skirt, possibly with a lace collar or cuffs. She would also be given undergarments and shoes.
Wants: To survive her husband's plot, find safety, and ultimately seek justice for the wrong done to her.
Flaw: Her initial vulnerability due to her social status and the power imbalance with the squire.
Transforms from an innocent, vulnerable Romani girl stolen by a squire into a strong, self-possessed lady who exposes injustice and marries a truly honorable man, gaining status and security.
Resilient, resourceful, intelligent, and courageous. She is quick-witted enough to suggest the eagle's heart, and brave enough to endure her ordeal and later expose her husband's treachery.
Image Prompt & Upload
A young Romani woman standing upright, facing forward, full body visible from head to toe. She has a slender build, sun-kissed skin, and an expressive face with dark, intelligent eyes. Her long, curly black hair cascades down her back in ringlets. She wears a cream-colored linen blouse with wide sleeves, a deep red patterned skirt made of a heavy, woven fabric, and a dark green apron tied at her waist. Her feet are bare. She has a determined yet wary expression. Plain white background, full body visible head to toe, single figure, no watermark, no text, no signature.
The First Squire ⚔ antagonist
Likely of a respectable English gentry build, perhaps slightly robust or athletic from riding. He is a 'squire,' implying a certain social standing and physical presence.
Attire: Wears the typical attire of an English squire of the era, which would include fine woolen breeches, a tailored waistcoat, a linen shirt, and a riding coat, likely in muted, respectable colors like browns, greens, or blues, made of quality wool or broadcloth. He would wear polished leather riding boots.
Wants: To satisfy his mother's demands and maintain his social standing, even at the cost of his wife's life.
Flaw: His fear of his mother and lack of moral courage.
Begins as a seemingly romantic figure who 'steals' the Gypsy girl, but quickly descends into villainy by attempting to murder her. His arc ends with his public execution for his crimes.
Weak-willed, easily manipulated, cruel, and cowardly. He falls in love but lacks the conviction to protect his wife from his mother's demands, choosing to betray her instead.
Image Prompt & Upload
A young man in his late teens or early twenties with a cruel, sneering expression. He has sharp features, slicked-back dark hair, and cold, calculating eyes. He wears a black leather doublet with silver embroidery over a dark tunic, dark trousers, and polished black boots. His posture is arrogant and confrontational, one hand resting on the hilt of a sheathed sword at his hip. Plain white background, full body visible head to toe, single figure, no watermark, no text, no signature.
The First Squire's Mother ⚔ antagonist
Likely a woman of imposing presence, reflecting her authority and stern nature. Her build might be stout or rigid, indicative of her unyielding will.
Attire: Wears the formal, conservative attire of an elderly English gentlewoman of means. This would include a dark, heavy gown of wool or silk, a high-necked chemise, and possibly a lace cap or coif. Her clothing would be expensive but austere, reflecting her rigid character.
Wants: To maintain her family's social status and prevent her son from marrying a 'poor Gypsy gal,' believing it would 'let hisself down so low'.
Flaw: Her extreme prejudice and pride, which lead to her downfall.
Remains static in her cruelty, never repenting. Her arc ends with her public execution alongside her son.
Cruel, prejudiced, domineering, and unforgiving. She cannot tolerate her son marrying beneath his station and orders a heinous crime.
Image Prompt & Upload
A middle-aged woman with a stern, severe expression, her dark hair pulled back tightly into a braided crown. Her face is pale with sharp cheekbones and thin lips set in a scornful line. She wears an elegant, high-collared gown of deep burgundy velvet with black silver embroidery, a heavy brocade surcoat, and a dark fur-trimmed cloak. Her posture is rigid and proud, standing tall with her chin raised, one hand resting on her hip and the other gripping a tall, ornate wooden staff. Plain white background, full body visible head to toe, single figure, no watermark, no text, no signature.
The Second Gentleman ◆ supporting
A kind and noble young man, likely well-built and handsome, as he is described as a 'young gentleman' who rescues the naked Gypsy girl. His physique would be that of a man accustomed to riding and a gentry lifestyle.
Attire: Wears the fine attire of a wealthy English gentleman. This would include a well-tailored broadcloth or velvet coat, a waistcoat, breeches, and a crisp linen shirt. His 'deah beautiful topcoat' is a key item, which he generously gives to the Gypsy girl. His clothing would be of high quality, in rich colors.
Wants: To help a fellow 'Christ'n' in distress and to ensure justice is served.
Flaw: None apparent; he is presented as an ideal hero.
Acts as the rescuer and eventually the new husband, bringing justice and happiness. He remains consistently good throughout the story.
Compassionate, honorable, brave, and perceptive. He shows immediate kindness to the distressed Gypsy girl, protects her, and believes her story.
Image Prompt & Upload
A distinguished gentleman in his late fifties with a kind, weathered face, silver hair swept back from his temples, and gentle blue eyes. He wears a deep green velvet doublet with gold embroidery over a white linen shirt, dark trousers, and polished brown leather boots. A heavy woolen cloak in charcoal grey is draped over his shoulders. He stands calmly with a slight, knowing smile, one hand resting on the pommel of a simple sword at his belt, the other holding a rolled parchment. Plain white background, full body visible head to toe, single figure, no watermark, no text, no signature.
Locations
Old Oak Tree
A very old, large oak tree, likely ancient and gnarled, standing in an open area, possibly near a path or edge of a settlement, where a young Gypsy girl is playing.
Mood: Initially innocent and playful, later becomes a place of betrayal and the start of a harrowing journey.
The young Gypsy girl is playing here when she is approached by the squire, leading to her abduction and forced marriage.
Image Prompt & Upload
A massive, ancient English oak tree dominates the foreground, its gnarled, thick branches reaching wide, casting dappled shadows on the short, sun-drenched grass beneath. The bark is deeply furrowed and dark, with patches of moss. In the distance, gentle rolling hills are visible under a clear, bright sky. no border, no frame, no watermark, no text, no signature, edge-to-edge illustration.
The Hundert Mile Wood
A vast, ancient, and dense forest, described as 'an ole-fashioned wood' with dangerous wild animals like bears, eagles, snakes, and wolves. It is difficult to navigate, with long stretches and thick undergrowth.
Mood: Eerie, dangerous, desolate, and terrifying, a place of intended murder and desperate survival.
The squire takes his wife here to murder her. She is stripped naked and left for dead after he kills an eagle as a substitute for her heart. She then crawls through it to escape.
Image Prompt & Upload
A deep, ancient English woodland, choked with gnarled oak and beech trees, their branches interwoven to form a dense canopy that filters sunlight into dim, shifting patterns on the forest floor. The ground is a chaotic mix of exposed roots, fallen leaves, and thick, thorny undergrowth. A faint, barely discernible deer trail winds through the dense foliage, disappearing into the oppressive shadows. no border, no frame, no watermark, no text, no signature, edge-to-edge illustration.
Hedge near the Road
A thick, concealing hedge at the edge of the dense wood, bordering a road, providing shelter and a vantage point to hear passersby.
Mood: Hopeful and vulnerable, a place of transition from danger to potential rescue.
The naked Gypsy girl hides under this hedge, ashamed and frightened, until a gentleman on horseback discovers her.
Image Prompt & Upload
A thick, untamed hedgerow of hawthorn and blackthorn, dense with leaves and thorny branches, forms a dark green barrier along the edge of a rutted, muddy dirt road. Long, dewy grass and wild nettles grow at the base of the hedge, partially obscuring a small, hidden hollow. The early morning light casts long shadows across the road, hinting at the dense woodland beyond. no border, no frame, no watermark, no text, no signature, edge-to-edge illustration.
The Second Squire's Great Hall
A grand, imposing hall, likely a manor house or country estate, belonging to the second squire. It is a place of gathering for 'goers and comers and all gentry,' suggesting a large, well-appointed space for feasts and entertainment.
Mood: Initially shocked and curious, then welcoming and celebratory, culminating in dramatic revelation and justice.
The Gypsy girl is brought here, clothed, and welcomed. Later, a grand supper is held where she tells her story, exposing her former husband and his mother, leading to their punishment.
Image Prompt & Upload
A vast, timber-framed great hall in an English manor house, with a soaring, vaulted ceiling supported by massive oak beams. A huge stone hearth dominates one wall, casting warm, flickering light across long, polished oak tables laden with food and drink. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes hang on the rough-hewn stone walls between tall, leaded-glass windows. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats and woodsmoke. no border, no frame, no watermark, no text, no signature, edge-to-edge illustration.