“Oh, you fool, I meant make good the path for the sheep’s feet.”
“It’s a pity you didn’t say so, master. Hand me out one pound thirteen and fourpence if you don’t like me to finish my job.”
“Divel do you good with your one pound thirteen and fourpence!”
“It’s better pray than curse, master. Maybe you’re sorry for your bargain?”
“And to be sure I am–not yet, any way.”
The next night the master was going to a wedding; and says he to Jack, before he set out: “I’ll leave at midnight, and I wish you, to come and be with me home, for fear I might be overtaken with the drink. If you’re there before, you may throw a sheep’s eye at me, and I’ll be sure to see that they’ll give you something for yourself.”
About eleven o’clock, while the master was in great spirits, he felt something clammy hit him on the cheek. It fell beside his tumbler, and when he looked at it what was it but the eye of a sheep. Well, he couldn’t imagine who threw it at him, or why it was thrown at him. After a little he got a blow on the other cheek, and still it was by another sheep’s eye. Well, he was very vexed, but he thought better to say nothing. In two minutes more, when he was opening his mouth to take a sup, another sheep’s eye was slapped into it. He sputtered it out, and cried, “Man o’ the house, isn’t it a great shame for you to have any one in the room that would do such a nasty thing?”
“Master,” says Jack, “don’t blame the honest man. Sure it’s only myself that was thrown’ them sheep’s eyes at you, to remind you I was here, and that I wanted to drink the bride and bridegroom’s health. You know yourself bade me.”
“I know that you are a great rascal; and where did you get the eyes?”
“An’ where would I get em’ but in the heads of your own sheep? Would you have me meddle with the bastes of any neighbour, who might put me in the Stone Jug for it?”
“Sorrow on me that ever I had the bad luck to meet with you.”
“You’re all witness,” said Jack, “that my master says he is sorry for having met with me. My time is up. Master, hand me over double wages, and come into the next room, and lay yourself out like a man that has some decency in him, till I take a strip of skin an inch broad from your shoulder to your hip.”
Every one shouted out against that; but, says Jack, “You didn’t hinder him when he took the same strips from the backs of my two brothers, and sent them home in that state, and penniless, to their poor mother.”
When the company heard the rights of the business, they were only too eager to see the job done. The master bawled and roared, but there was no help at hand. He was stripped to his hips, and laid on the floor in the next room, and Jack had the carving knife in his hand ready to begin.
“Now you cruel old villain,” said he, giving the knife a couple of scrapes along the floor, “I’ll make you an offer. Give me, along with my double wages, two hundred guineas to support my poor brothers, and I’ll do without the strap.”
“No!” said he, “I’d let you skin me from head to foot first.”
“Here goes then,” said Jack with a grin, but the first little scar he gave, Churl roared out, “Stop your hand; I’ll give the money.”
“Now, neighbours,” said Jack, “you mustn’t think worse of me than I deserve. I wouldn’t have the heart to take an eye out of a rat itself; I got half a dozen of them from the butcher, and only used three of them.”
So all came again into the other room, and Jack was made sit down, and everybody drank his health, and he drank everybody’s health at one offer. And six stout fellows saw himself and the master home, and waited in the parlour while he went up and brought down the two hundred guineas, and double wages for Jack himself. When he got home, he brought the summer along with him to the poor mother and the disabled brothers; and he was no more Jack the Fool in the people’s mouths, but “Skin Churl Jack.”
Beth Gellert
Print Llewelyn had a favourite greyhound named Gellert that had been given to him by his father-in-law, King John. He was as gentle as a lamb at home but a lion in the chase. One day Llewelyn went to the chase and blew his horn in front of his castle. All his other dogs came to the call but Gellert never answered it. So he blew a louder blast on his horn and called Gellert by name, but still the greyhound did not come. At last Prince Llewelyn could wait no longer and went off to the hunt without Gellert. He had little sport that day because Gellert was not there, the swiftest and boldest of his hounds.
He turned back in a rage to his castle, and as he came to the gate, who should he see but Gellert come bounding out to meet him. But when the hound came near him, the Prince was startled to see that his lips and fangs were dripping with blood. Llewelyn started back and the greyhound crouched down at his feet as if surprised or afraid at the way his master greeted him.
Now Prince Llewelyn had a little son a year old with whom Gellert used to play, and a terrible thought crossed the Prince’s mind that made him rush towards the child’s nursery. And the nearer he came the more blood and disorder he found about the rooms. He rushed into it and found the child’s cradle overturned and daubed with blood.
Prince Llewelyn grew more and more terrified, and sought for his little son everywhere. He could find him nowhere but only signs of some terrible conflict in which much blood had been shed. At last he felt sure the dog had destroyed his child, and shouting to Gellert, "Monster, thou hast devoured my child,” he drew out his sword and plunged it in the greyhound’s side, who fell with a deep yell and still gazing in his master’s eyes.
As Gellert raised his dying yell, a little child’s cry answered it from beneath the cradle, and there Llewelyn found his child unharmed and just awakened from sleep. But just beside him lay the body of a great gaunt wolf all torn to pieces and covered with blood. Too late, Llewelyn learned what had happened while he was away. Gellert had stayed behind to guard the child and had fought and slain the wolf that had tried to destroy Llewelyn’s heir.
In vain was all Llewelyn’s grief; he could not bring his faithful dog to life again. So he buried him outside the castle walls within sight of the great mountain of Snowdon, where every passer-by might see his grave, and raised over it a great cairn of stones. And to this day the place is called Beth Gellert, or the Grave of Gellert.
The Tale of Ivan
There were formerly a man and a woman living in the parish of Llanlavan, in the place which is called Hwrdh. And work became scarce, so the man said to his wife, “I will go search for work, and you may live here.” So he took fair leave, and travelled far toward the East, and at last came to the house of a farmer and asked for work.
“What work can ye do?” said the farmer. “I can do all kinds of work,” said Ivan. Then they agreed upon three pounds for the year’s wages.
When the end of the year came his master showed him the three pounds. “See, Ivan,” said he, “here’s your wage; but if you will give it me back I’ll give you a piece of advice instead.”
“Give me my wage,” said Ivan.
“No, I’ll not,” said the master; “I’ll explain my advice.”
“Tell it me, then,” said Ivan.
Then said the master, “Never leave the old road for the sake of a new one.”
After that they agreed for another year at the old wages, and at the end of it Ivan took instead a piece of advice, and this was it: "Never lodge where an old man is married to a young woman.”