My Own Self

In a tiny house in the North Countrie, far away from any town or
village, there lived not long ago, a poor widow all alone with her
little son, a six-year-old boy.

The house-door opened straight on to the hill-side and all round about
were moorlands and huge stones, and swampy hollows; never a house nor a
sign of life wherever you might look, for their nearest neighbours were
the "ferlies" in the glen below, and the "will-o'-the-wisps" in the long
grass along the pathside.

And many a tale she could tell of the "good folk" calling to each other
in the oak-trees, and the twinkling lights hopping on to the very window
sill, on dark nights; but in spite of the loneliness, she lived on from
year to year in the little house, perhaps because she was never asked to
pay any rent for it.

But she did not care to sit up late, when the fire burnt low, and no one
knew what might be about; so, when they had had their supper she would
make up a good fire and go off to bed, so that if anything terrible
_did_ happen, she could always hide her head under the bed-clothes.

This, however, was far too early to please her little son; so when she
called him to bed, he would go on playing beside the fire, as if he did
not hear her.

He had always been bad to do with since the day he was born, and his
mother did not often care to cross him; indeed, the more she tried to
make him obey her, the less heed he paid to anything she said, so it
usually ended by his taking his own way.

But one night, just at the fore-end of winter, the widow could not make
up her mind to go off to bed, and leave him playing by the fireside; for
the wind was tugging at the door, and rattling the window-panes, and
well she knew that on such a night, fairies and such like were bound to
be out and about, and bent on mischief. So she tried to coax the boy
into going at once to bed:

"The safest bed to bide in, such a night as this!" she said: but no, he
wouldn't.

Then she threatened to "give him the stick," but it was no use.

The more she begged and scolded, the more he shook his head; and when at
last she lost patience and cried that the fairies would surely come and
fetch him away, he only laughed and said he wished they _would_, for he
would like one to play with.

At that his mother burst into tears, and went off to bed in despair,
certain that after such words something dreadful would happen; while her
naughty little son sat on his stool by the fire, not at all put out by
her crying.

But he had not long been sitting there alone, when he heard a
fluttering sound near him in the chimney and presently down by his side
dropped the tiniest wee girl you could think of; she was not a span
high, and had hair like spun silver, eyes as green as grass, and cheeks
red as June roses. The little boy looked at her with surprise.

"Oh!" said he; "what do they call ye?"

"My own self," she said in a shrill but sweet little voice, and she
looked at him too. "And what do they call ye?"

"Just my own self too!" he answered cautiously; and with that they began
to play together.

She certainly showed him some fine games. She made animals out of the
ashes that looked and moved like life; and trees with green leaves
waving over tiny houses, with men and women an inch high in them, who,
when she breathed on them, fell to walking and talking quite properly.

But the fire was getting low, and the light dim, and presently the
little boy stirred the coals with a stick to make them blaze; when out
jumped a red-hot cinder, and where should it fall, but on the fairy
child's tiny foot.

Thereupon she set up such a squeal, that the boy dropped the stick, and
clapped his hands to his ears but it grew to so shrill a screech, that
it was like all the wind in the world whistling through one tiny
keyhole.

There was a sound in the chimney again, but this time the little boy did
not wait to see what it was, but bolted off to bed, where he hid under
the blankets and listened in fear and trembling to what went on.

A voice came from the chimney speaking sharply:

"Who's there, and what's wrong?" it said.

"It's my own self," sobbed the fairy-child; "and my foot's burnt sore.
O-o-h!"

"Who did it?" said the voice angrily; this time it sounded nearer, and
the boy, peeping from under the clothes, could see a white face looking
out from the chimney-opening.

"Just my own self too!" said the fairy-child again.

"Then if ye did it your own self," cried the elf-mother shrilly, "what's
the use o' making all this fash about it?"--and with that she
stretched out a long thin arm, and caught the creature by its ear, and,
shaking it roughly, pulled it after her, out of sight up the chimney.

The little boy lay awake a long time, listening, in case the
fairy-mother should come back after all; and next evening after supper,
his mother was surprised to find that he was willing to go to bed
whenever she liked.

"He's taking a turn for the better at last!" she said to herself; but he
was thinking just then that, when next a fairy came to play with him, he
might not get off quite so easily as he had done this time.