XIII.

XIII.Mr. Craigfryn Hughes has sent me another tale about the fairies: it has to do with the parish of Ỻanfabon, near the eastern border of Glamorganshire. Many traditions cluster round the church of Ỻanfabon, beginning with its supposed building by Saint Mabon, but which of the Mabons of Welsh legend he was, is not very certain. Not very far is a place called Pant y Dawns, or the Dance Hollow, in allusion to the visits paid to the spot byBendith y Mamau, as the fairies are there called. In the same neighbourhood stand also the ruins of Casteỻ y Nos, or the Castle of the Night22, which tradition represents as uninhabitable because it had been built of stones from Ỻanfabon Church, and on account of the ghosts that used to haunt it. However, one small portion of it was usually tenanted formerly by a ‘wise man’ or by a witch. In fact, the whole country round Ỻanfabon Church teemed with fairies, ghosts, and all kinds of uncanny creatures:—Mewn amaethdy ag syđ yn aros yn y plwyf a elwir y Berth Gron, trigiannai gweđw ieuanc a’i phlentynbychan. Yr oeđ wedi coỻi ei gwr, a’i hunig gysur yn ei hamđifadrwyđ a’i hunigrwyđ oeđ Gruff, ei mab. Yr oeđ ef yr amser hwn ođeutu tair blwyđ oed, ac yn blentyn braf ar ei oedran. Yr oeđ y plwyf, ar y pryd, yn orlawn o ‘Fendith y Mamau’; ac, ar amser ỻawn ỻoer, byđent yn cadw dynion yn effro a’u cerđoriaeth hyd doriad gwawr. Rhai hynod ar gyfrif eu hagrwch oeđ ‘Bendith’ Ỻanfabon, ac yr un mor hynod ar gyfrif eu castiau. Ỻadrata plant o’r caweỻau yn absenoldeb eu mamau, a denu dynion trwy eu swyno a cherđoriaeth i ryw gors afiach a diffaith, a ymđangosai yn gryn đifyrrwch iđynt. Nid rhyfeđ fod y mamau beunyđ ar eu gwyliadwriaeth rhag ofn coỻi eu plant. Yr oeđ y weđw o dan sylw yn hynod ofalus am ei mab, gymaint nes tynnu rhai o’r cymydogion i đywedyd wrthi ei bod yn rhy orofalus, ac y byđai i ryw anlwc orđiwes ei mab. Ond ni thalai unrhyw sylw i’w dywediadau. Ymđangosai fod ei hoỻ hyfrydwch a’i chysur ynghyd a’i gobeithion yn cydgyfarfod yn ei mab. Mođ bynnag, un diwrnod, clywođ ryw lais cwynfannus yn codi o gymydogaeth y beudy; a rhag bod rhywbeth wedi digwyđ i un o’r gwartheg rhedođ yn orwyỻt tuag yno, gan adael y drws heb ei gau, a’i mab bychan yn y ty. Ond pwy a fedr đesgrifio ei gofid ar ei gwaith yn dyfod i’r ty wrth weled eisiau ei mab? Chwiliođ bob man am dano, ond yn aflwyđiannus. Ođeutu machlud haul, wele lencyn bychan yn gwneuthur ei ymđangosiad o’i blaen, ac yn dywedyd, yn groyw, ‘Mam!’ Edrychođ y fam yn fanwl arno, a dywedođ o’r diweđ, ‘Nid fy mhlentyn i wyt ti!’ ‘Ië, yn sicr,’ atebai y bychan.Nid ymđangosai y fam yn fođlon, na’i bod yn credu mai ei phlentyn hi ydoeđ. Yr oeđ rhywbeth yn sisial yn barhaus wrthi mai nid ei mab hi ydoeđ. Ond beth bynnag, bu gyda hi am flwyđyn gyfan, ac nid ymđangosai ei fod yn cynyđu dim, tra yr oeđ Gruff, ei mab hi, ynblentyn cynyđfawr iawn. Yr oeđ gwr bychan yn myned yn fwy hagr bob dyđ hefyd. O’r diweđ penderfynođ fyned at y ‘dyn hysbys,’ er cael rhyw wybodaeth a goleuni ar y mater. Yr oeđ yn digwyđ bod ar y pryd yn trigfannu yn Nghasteỻ y Nos, wr ag oeđ yn hynod ar gyfrif ei ymwybyđiaeth drwyadl o ‘gyfrinion y faỻ.’ Ar ol iđi osod ei hachos ger ei fron, ac yntau ei holi, sylwođ, ‘Crimbil ydyw, ac y mae dy blentyn di gyd a’r hen Fendith yn rhywle; ond i ti đilyn fy nghyfarwyđiadau i yn ffyđlon a manwl, fe adferir dy blentyn i ti yn fuan. Yn awr, ođeutu canol dyđ y foru, tor ŵy yn y canol, a thafl un hanner ymaith ođiwrthyt, a chadw y ỻaỻ yn dy law, a dechreu gymysg ei gynwysiad yn ol a blaen. Cofia fod y gwr bychan gerỻaw yn gwneuthur sylw o’r hyn ag a fyđi yn ei wneuthur. Ond cofia di a pheidio galw ei sylw—rhaid enniỻ ei sylw at y weithred heb ei alw: ac odid fawr na ofynna i ti beth fyđi yn ei wneuthur. A dywed wrtho mai cymysg pastai’r fedel yr wyt. A rho wybod i mi beth fyđ ei ateb.’Dychwelođ y wraig, a thrannoeth dilynođ gyfarwyđyd y ‘dyn cynnil’ i’r ỻythyren. Yr oeđ y gwr bychan yn sefyỻ yn ei hymyl, ac yn sylwi arni yn fanwl. Ym mhen ychydig, gofynnođ, ‘Mam, beth ’i ch’i ’neuthur?’ ‘Cymysg pastai’r fedel, machgen i.’ ‘O feỻy. Mi glywais gan fy nhad, fe glywođ hwnnw gan ei dad, a hwnnw gan ei dad yntau, fod mesen cyn derwen, a derwen mewn dâr23; ond ni chlywais i na gweled neb yn un man yn cymysg pastai’r fedel mewn masgal ŵy iar.’ Sylwođ y wraig ei fod yn edrych yn hynod o sarug arni pan yn siarad, ac yr oeđ hynny yn ychwanegu at ei hagrwch, nes ei wneuthur yn wrthun i’r pen.Y prydnawn hwnnw aeth y wraig at y ‘dyn cynnil’er ei hysbysu o’r hyn a lefarwyd gan y còr. ‘O,’ ebai hwnnw, ‘un o’r hen frid ydyw!’ ‘Yn awr, byđ y ỻawn ỻoer nesaf ym mhen pedwar diwrnod; mae yn rhaid i ti fyned i ben y pedair heol syđ yn cydgyfarfod wrth ben Rhyd y Gloch; am đeuđeg o’r gloch y nos y byđ y ỻeuad yn ỻawn. Cofia guđio dy hun mewn man ag y cei lawn olwg ar bennau y croesffyrđ, ac os gweli rywbeth a bair i ti gynhyrfu, cofia fod yn ỻonyđ, ac ymatal rhag rhođi ffrwyn i’th deimladau, neu fe đistrywir y cynỻun, ac ni chei dy fab yn ol byth.’Nis gwyđai y fam anffodus beth oeđ i’w đeaỻ wrth ystori ryfeđ y ‘dyn cynnil.’ Yr oeđ mewn cymaint o dywyỻwch ag erioed. O’r diweđ daeth yr amser i ben; ac ar yr awr apwyntiedig yr oeđ yn ymguđio yn ofalus tu cefn i lwyn mawr yn ymyl, o ba le y caffai olwg ar bob peth o gylch. Bu am hir amser yno yn gwylio heb đim i’w glywed na’i weled—dim ond distawrwyđ dwfn a phruđglwyfus yr hanner nos yn teyrnasu. O’r diweđ clywai sain cerđoriaeth yn dynesu ati o hirbeỻ. Nês, nês yr oeđ y sain felusber yn dyfod o hyd; a gwrandawai hithai gyda dyđordeb arni. Cyn hir yr oeđ yn ei hymyl, a deaỻođ mai gorymdaith o ‘Fendith y Mamau’ oeđynt yn myned i rywle. Yr oeđynt yn gannoeđ mewn rhif. Tua chanol yr orymdaith canfyđođ olygfa ag a drywanođ ei chalon, ac a berođ i’w gwaed sefyỻ yn ei rhedwelïau. Yn cerđed rhwng pedwar o’r ‘Bendith’ yr oeđ ei phlentyn bychan anwyl ei hun. Bu bron a ỻwyr anghofio ei hun, a ỻamu tuag ato er ei gipio ymaith ođiarnynt trwy drais os gaỻai. Ond pan ar neidio aỻan o’i hymguđfan i’r diben hwnnw međyliođ am gynghor y ‘dyn cynnil,’ sef y byđai i unrhyw gynhyrfiad o’i heiđo đistrywio y cwbl, ac na byđai iđi gael ei phlentyn yn ol byth.Ar ol i’r orymdaith đirwyn i’r pen, ac i sain eu cerđoriaeth đistewi yn y peỻder, daeth aỻan o’i hymguđfan,gan gyfeirio ei chamrau tua ’i chartref. Os oeđ yn hiraethol o’r blaen ar ol ei mab, yr oeđ yn ỻawer mwy erbyn hyn; a’i hadgasrwyđ at y còr bychan oeđ yn hawlio ei fod yn fab iđi wedi cynyđu yn fawr iawn, waith yr oeđ yn sicr yn awr yn ei međwl mai un o’r hen frid ydoeđ. Nis gwyđai pa fođ i’w ođef am fynud yn hwy yn yr un ty a hi, chwaithach gođef iđo alw ‘mam’ arni hi. Ond beth bynnag, cafođ đigon o ras ataliol i ymđwyn yn weđaiđ at y gwr bychan hagr oeđ gyda hi yn y tŷ. Drannoeth aeth ar ei hunion at y ‘dyn cynnil’ i adrođ yr hyn yr oeđ wedi bod yn ỻygad dyst o hono y noson gynt, ac i ofyn am gyfarwyđyd peỻach. Yr oedd y ‘gwr cynnil’ yn ei disgwyl, ac ar ei gwaith yn dyfod i’r ty adnabyđođ wrthi ei bod wedi gweled rhywbeth oeđ wedi ei chyffroi. Adrođođ wrtho yr hyn ag oeđ wedi ei ganfod ar ben y croesffyrđ; ac wedi iđo glywed hynny, agorođ lyfr mawr ag oeđ ganđo, ac wedi hir syỻu arno hysbysođ hi ‘fod yn angenrheidiol iđi cyn cael ei phlentyn yn ol gael iâr đu heb un plufyn gwyn nac o un ỻiw araỻ arni, a’i ỻađ; ac ar ol ei ỻadd, ei gosod o flaen tan coed, pluf a chwbl, er ei phobi. Mor gynted ag y buasai yn ei gosod o flaen y tan, iđi gau pob twỻ a mynedfa yn yr adeilad ond un, a pheidio a dal sylw manwl ar ol y ‘crimbil,’ hyd nes byđai y iâr yn đigon, a’r pluf i syrthio ymaith oddiarni bob un, ac yna i edrych ym mha le yr oeđ ef.Er mor rhyfeđ oeđ cyfarwyđyd y ‘gwr,’ penderfynođ ei gynnyg; a thrannoeth aeth i chwilio ym mhlith y ieir oeđ yno am un o’r desgrifiad angenrheidiol; ond er ei siomedigaeth methođ a chael yr un. Aeth o’r naiỻ ffermdy i’r ỻaỻ i chwilio, ond ymđangosai ffawd fel yn gwgu arni—waith methođ a chael yr un. Pan ym mron digaloni gan ei haflwyđiant daeth ar draws un mewn amaethdy yng nghwr y plwyf a phrynođ hi yn đioedi. Ar ol dychwelyd adref gosodođ y tan mewn trefn, aỻađođ yr iâr, gan ei gosod o flaen y tan disglaer a losgai ar yr alch. Pan yn edrych arni yn pobi, anghofiođ y ‘crimbil’ yn hoỻol, ac yr oeđ wedi syrthio i rywfath o bruđlewyg, pryd y synnwyd hi gan sain cerđoriaeth y tu aỻan i’r ty, yn debyg i’r hyn a glywođ ychydig nosweithiau cyn hynny ar ben y croesffyrđ. Yr oeđ y pluf erbyn hyn wedi syrthio ymaith ođiar y iâr, ac erbyn edrych yr oeđ y ‘crimbil’ wedi diflannu. Edrychai y fam yn wyỻt o’i deutu, ac er ei ỻawenyđ clywai lais ei mab coỻedig yn galw arni y tu aỻan. Rhedođ i’w gyfarfod, gan ei gofleidio yn wresog; a phan ofynođ ym mha le yr oeđ wedi bod cyhyd, nid oeđ ganđo gyfrif yn y byd i’w rođi ond mai yn gwrando ar ganu hyfryd yr oeđ wedi bod. Yr oeđ yn deneu a threuliedig iawn ei weđ pan adferwyd ef. Dyna ystori ‘Y Plentyn Coỻedig.’‘At a farm house still remaining in the parish of Ỻanfabon, which is called the Berth Gron, there lived once upon a time a young widow and her infant child. After losing her husband her only comfort in her bereavement and solitary state was young Griff, her son. He was about three years old and a fine child for his age. The parish was then crammed full ofBendith y Mamau, and when the moon was bright and full they were wont to keep people awake with their music till the break of day. The fairies of Ỻanfabon were remarkable on account of their ugliness, and they were equally remarkable on account of the tricks they played. Stealing children from their cradles during the absence of their mothers, and luring men by means of their music into some pestilential and desolate bog, were things that seemed to afford them considerable amusement. It was no wonder then that mothers used to be daily on the watch lest they should lose their children. The widow alluded to was remarkably careful about her son, so much so, that it made some of the neighbours say that she wastoo anxious about him and that some misfortune would overtake her child. But she paid no attention to their words, as all her joy, her comfort, and her hopes appeared to meet together in her child. However, one day she heard a moaning voice ascending from near the cow-house, and lest anything had happened to the cattle, she ran there in a fright, leaving the door of the house open and her little son in the cradle. Who can describe her grief on her coming in and seeing that her son was missing? She searched everywhere for him, but it was in vain. About sunset, behold a little lad made his appearance before her and said to her quite distinctly, “Mother.” She looked minutely at him, and said at last, “Thou art not my child.” “I am truly,” said the little one. But the mother did not seem satisfied about it, nor did she believe it was her child. Something whispered to her constantly, as it were, that it was not her son. However, he remained with her a whole year, but he did not seem to grow at all, whereas Griff, her son, was a very growing child. Besides, the little fellow was getting uglier every day. At last she resolved to go to the “wise man,” in order to have information and light on the matter. There happened then to be living at Casteỻ y Nos, “Castle of the Night,” a man who was remarkable for his thorough acquaintance with the secrets of the evil one. When she had laid her business before him and he had examined her, he addressed the following remark to her: “It is acrimbil24, and thy own child is with those oldBendithsomewhere or other: if thou wilt follow my directions faithfully and minutely thy child will be restored to thee soon. Now, about noon to-morrow cut an egg through the middle; throw the one half away from thee, but keep the other in thy hand, and proceed to mix it backwards and forwards.See that the little fellow be present paying attention to what thou art doing, but take care not to call his attention to it—his attention must be drawn to it without calling to him—and very probably he will ask what thou wouldst be doing. Thou art to say that it is mixing a pasty for the reapers that thou art. Let me know what he will then say.” The woman returned, and on the next day she followed the cunning man’s25advice to the letter: the little fellow stood by her and watched her minutely; presently he asked, “Mother, what are you doing?” “Mixing a pasty for the reapers, my boy.” “Oh, that is it. I heard from my father—he had heard it from his father and that one from his father—that an acorn was before the oak, and that the oak was in the earth; but I have neither heard nor seen anybodymixing the pasty for the reapers in an egg-shell.” The woman observed that he looked very cross as he spoke, and that it so added to his ugliness that it made him highly repulsive.‘That afternoon the woman went to the cunning man in order to inform him of what the dwarf had said. “Oh,” said he, “he is of that old breed; now the next full moon will be in four days—thou must go where the four roads meet above Rhyd y Gloch26, at twelve o’clock the night the moon is full. Take care to hide thyself at a spot where thou canst see the ends of the cross-roads; and shouldst thou see anything that would excite thee take care to be still and to restrain thyself from giving way to thy feelings, otherwise the scheme will be frustrated and thou wilt never have thy son back.” The unfortunate mother knew not what to make of the strange story of the cunning man; she was in the dark as much as ever. At last the time came, and by the appointed hour she had concealed herself carefully behind a large bush close by, whence she could see everything around. She remained there a long time watching; but nothing was to be seen or heard, while the profound and melancholy silence of midnight dominated over all. At last she began to hear the sound of music approaching from afar; nearer and nearer the sweet sound continued to come, and she listened to it with rapt attention. Ere long it was close at hand, and she perceived that it was a procession ofBendith yMamaugoing somewhere or other. They were hundreds in point of number, and about the middle of the procession she beheld a sight that pierced her heart and made the blood stop in her veins—walking between four of theBendithshe saw her own dear little child. She nearly forgot herself altogether, and was on the point of springing into the midst of them violently to snatch him from them if she could; but when she was on the point of leaping out of her hiding place for that purpose, she thought of the warning of the cunning man, that any disturbance on her part would frustrate all, so that she would never get her child back. When the procession had wound itself past, and the sound of the music had died away in the distance, she issued from her concealment and directed her steps homewards. Full of longing as she was for her son before, she was much more so now; and her disgust at the little dwarf who claimed to be her son had very considerably grown, for she was now certain in her mind that he was one of the old breed. She knew not how to endure him for a moment longer under the same roof with her, much less his addressing her as “mother.” However, she had enough restraining grace to behave becomingly towards the ugly little fellow that was with her in the house. On the morrow she went without delay to the “wise man” to relate what she had witnessed the previous night, and to seek further advice. The cunning man expected her, and as she entered he perceived by her looks that she had seen something that had disturbed her. She told him what she had beheld at the cross-roads, and when he had heard it he opened a big book which he had; then, after he had long pored over it, he told her, that before she could get her child back, it was necessary for her to find a black hen without a single white feather, or one of any othercolour than black: this she was to place to bake before a wood27fire with its feathers and all intact. Moreover, as soon as she placed it before the fire, she was to close every hole and passage in the walls except one, and not to look very intently after thecrimbiluntil the hen was done enough and the feathers had fallen off it every one: then she might look where he was.‘Strange as the advice of the wise man sounded, she resolved to try it; so she went the next day to search among the hens for one of the requisite description; but to her disappointment she failed to find one. She then walked from one farm house to another in her search; but fortune appeared to scowl at her, as she seemed to fail in her object. When, however, she was nearly disheartened, she came across the kind of hen she wanted at a farm at the end of the parish. She bought it, and after returning home she arranged the fire and killed the hen, which she placed in front of the bright fire burning on the hearth. Whilst watching the hen baking she altogether forgot thecrimbil; and she fell into a sort of swoon, when she was astonished by the sound of music outside the house, similar to the music she had heard a few nights before at the cross-roads. The feathers had by this time fallen off the hen, and when she came to look for thecrimbilhe had disappeared. The mother cast wild looks about the house, and to her joy she heard the voice of her lost son calling to her from outside. She ran to meet him, and embraced him fervently. But when she asked him where he had been so long, he had no account in the world to give but that he had been listening to pleasant music. He was very thin and worn in appearance when he was restored. Such is the story of the Lost Child.’Let me remark as to the urchin’s exclamation concerningthe cooking done in the egg-shell, that Mr. Hughes, as the result of further inquiry, has given me what he considers a more correct version; but it is no less inconsequent, as will be seen:—Mi glywais gan fy nhad ac yntau gan ei dad, a hwnnw gan ei dad yntau,Fod mesen cyn derwen a’i phlannu mwn dár:Ni chlywais yn unman am gymysg y bastai yn masgal wy iâr.I heard from my father and he from his father, and that one fromhisfather,That the acorn exists before the oak and the planting of it in the ground:Never anywhere have I heard of mixing the pasty in the shell of a hen’s egg.In Dewi Glan Ffrydlas’ story from the Ogwen Valley, in Carnarvonshire, p. 62 above, it is not the cooking of a pasty but the brewing of beer in an egg-shell. However what is most remarkable is that the egg-shell is similarly used in stories from other lands. Mr. Hartland cites one from Mecklenburg and another from Scandinavia. He also mentions stories in which the imp measures his own age by the number of forests which he has seen growing successively on the same soil, the formula being of the following kind: ‘I have seen the Forest of Ardennes burnt seven times,’ ‘Seven times have I seen the wood fall in Lessö Forest,’ or ‘I am so old, I was already in the world before the Kamschtschen Wood (in Lithuania) was planted, wherein great trees grew, andthatis now laid waste again28.’ From these and the like instances it is clear that the Welsh versions here in question are partially blurred, as the fairy child’s words should have been to the effect that he was old enough to remember the oak when it was yet but an acorn; and an instance of this explicit kind is given by Howells—it comes from Ỻandrygarn in Anglesey—see p. 139, where his words run thus: ‘I can remember yon oak an acorn, but I never saw in my life people brewing in an egg-shell before.’ I may addthat I have been recently fortunate enough to obtain from Mr. Ỻywarch Reynolds another kind of estimate of the fairy urchin’s age. He writes that his mother remembers a very old Merthyr woman who used to tell the story of the egg-shell cookery, but in words differing from all the other versions known to him, thus:—Wy’n hén y dyđ heđy,Ag yn byw cyn ’y ngeni:Eriôd ni welas i ferwiBwyd i’r fedal mwn cwcwỻ29wy iâr.I call myself old this day,And living before my birth:Never have I seen food boiledFor the reapers in an egg-shell.As to the urchin’s statement that he was old and had lived before, it is part of a creed of which we may have something to say in a later chapter. At this point let it suffice to call attention to the same idea in theBook of Taliessin, poem ix:—Hynaf uyd dyn pan anherA ieu ieu pop amser.A man is wont to be oldest when born,And younger and younger all the time.

XIII.

Mr. Craigfryn Hughes has sent me another tale about the fairies: it has to do with the parish of Ỻanfabon, near the eastern border of Glamorganshire. Many traditions cluster round the church of Ỻanfabon, beginning with its supposed building by Saint Mabon, but which of the Mabons of Welsh legend he was, is not very certain. Not very far is a place called Pant y Dawns, or the Dance Hollow, in allusion to the visits paid to the spot byBendith y Mamau, as the fairies are there called. In the same neighbourhood stand also the ruins of Casteỻ y Nos, or the Castle of the Night22, which tradition represents as uninhabitable because it had been built of stones from Ỻanfabon Church, and on account of the ghosts that used to haunt it. However, one small portion of it was usually tenanted formerly by a ‘wise man’ or by a witch. In fact, the whole country round Ỻanfabon Church teemed with fairies, ghosts, and all kinds of uncanny creatures:—Mewn amaethdy ag syđ yn aros yn y plwyf a elwir y Berth Gron, trigiannai gweđw ieuanc a’i phlentynbychan. Yr oeđ wedi coỻi ei gwr, a’i hunig gysur yn ei hamđifadrwyđ a’i hunigrwyđ oeđ Gruff, ei mab. Yr oeđ ef yr amser hwn ođeutu tair blwyđ oed, ac yn blentyn braf ar ei oedran. Yr oeđ y plwyf, ar y pryd, yn orlawn o ‘Fendith y Mamau’; ac, ar amser ỻawn ỻoer, byđent yn cadw dynion yn effro a’u cerđoriaeth hyd doriad gwawr. Rhai hynod ar gyfrif eu hagrwch oeđ ‘Bendith’ Ỻanfabon, ac yr un mor hynod ar gyfrif eu castiau. Ỻadrata plant o’r caweỻau yn absenoldeb eu mamau, a denu dynion trwy eu swyno a cherđoriaeth i ryw gors afiach a diffaith, a ymđangosai yn gryn đifyrrwch iđynt. Nid rhyfeđ fod y mamau beunyđ ar eu gwyliadwriaeth rhag ofn coỻi eu plant. Yr oeđ y weđw o dan sylw yn hynod ofalus am ei mab, gymaint nes tynnu rhai o’r cymydogion i đywedyd wrthi ei bod yn rhy orofalus, ac y byđai i ryw anlwc orđiwes ei mab. Ond ni thalai unrhyw sylw i’w dywediadau. Ymđangosai fod ei hoỻ hyfrydwch a’i chysur ynghyd a’i gobeithion yn cydgyfarfod yn ei mab. Mođ bynnag, un diwrnod, clywođ ryw lais cwynfannus yn codi o gymydogaeth y beudy; a rhag bod rhywbeth wedi digwyđ i un o’r gwartheg rhedođ yn orwyỻt tuag yno, gan adael y drws heb ei gau, a’i mab bychan yn y ty. Ond pwy a fedr đesgrifio ei gofid ar ei gwaith yn dyfod i’r ty wrth weled eisiau ei mab? Chwiliođ bob man am dano, ond yn aflwyđiannus. Ođeutu machlud haul, wele lencyn bychan yn gwneuthur ei ymđangosiad o’i blaen, ac yn dywedyd, yn groyw, ‘Mam!’ Edrychođ y fam yn fanwl arno, a dywedođ o’r diweđ, ‘Nid fy mhlentyn i wyt ti!’ ‘Ië, yn sicr,’ atebai y bychan.Nid ymđangosai y fam yn fođlon, na’i bod yn credu mai ei phlentyn hi ydoeđ. Yr oeđ rhywbeth yn sisial yn barhaus wrthi mai nid ei mab hi ydoeđ. Ond beth bynnag, bu gyda hi am flwyđyn gyfan, ac nid ymđangosai ei fod yn cynyđu dim, tra yr oeđ Gruff, ei mab hi, ynblentyn cynyđfawr iawn. Yr oeđ gwr bychan yn myned yn fwy hagr bob dyđ hefyd. O’r diweđ penderfynođ fyned at y ‘dyn hysbys,’ er cael rhyw wybodaeth a goleuni ar y mater. Yr oeđ yn digwyđ bod ar y pryd yn trigfannu yn Nghasteỻ y Nos, wr ag oeđ yn hynod ar gyfrif ei ymwybyđiaeth drwyadl o ‘gyfrinion y faỻ.’ Ar ol iđi osod ei hachos ger ei fron, ac yntau ei holi, sylwođ, ‘Crimbil ydyw, ac y mae dy blentyn di gyd a’r hen Fendith yn rhywle; ond i ti đilyn fy nghyfarwyđiadau i yn ffyđlon a manwl, fe adferir dy blentyn i ti yn fuan. Yn awr, ođeutu canol dyđ y foru, tor ŵy yn y canol, a thafl un hanner ymaith ođiwrthyt, a chadw y ỻaỻ yn dy law, a dechreu gymysg ei gynwysiad yn ol a blaen. Cofia fod y gwr bychan gerỻaw yn gwneuthur sylw o’r hyn ag a fyđi yn ei wneuthur. Ond cofia di a pheidio galw ei sylw—rhaid enniỻ ei sylw at y weithred heb ei alw: ac odid fawr na ofynna i ti beth fyđi yn ei wneuthur. A dywed wrtho mai cymysg pastai’r fedel yr wyt. A rho wybod i mi beth fyđ ei ateb.’Dychwelođ y wraig, a thrannoeth dilynođ gyfarwyđyd y ‘dyn cynnil’ i’r ỻythyren. Yr oeđ y gwr bychan yn sefyỻ yn ei hymyl, ac yn sylwi arni yn fanwl. Ym mhen ychydig, gofynnođ, ‘Mam, beth ’i ch’i ’neuthur?’ ‘Cymysg pastai’r fedel, machgen i.’ ‘O feỻy. Mi glywais gan fy nhad, fe glywođ hwnnw gan ei dad, a hwnnw gan ei dad yntau, fod mesen cyn derwen, a derwen mewn dâr23; ond ni chlywais i na gweled neb yn un man yn cymysg pastai’r fedel mewn masgal ŵy iar.’ Sylwođ y wraig ei fod yn edrych yn hynod o sarug arni pan yn siarad, ac yr oeđ hynny yn ychwanegu at ei hagrwch, nes ei wneuthur yn wrthun i’r pen.Y prydnawn hwnnw aeth y wraig at y ‘dyn cynnil’er ei hysbysu o’r hyn a lefarwyd gan y còr. ‘O,’ ebai hwnnw, ‘un o’r hen frid ydyw!’ ‘Yn awr, byđ y ỻawn ỻoer nesaf ym mhen pedwar diwrnod; mae yn rhaid i ti fyned i ben y pedair heol syđ yn cydgyfarfod wrth ben Rhyd y Gloch; am đeuđeg o’r gloch y nos y byđ y ỻeuad yn ỻawn. Cofia guđio dy hun mewn man ag y cei lawn olwg ar bennau y croesffyrđ, ac os gweli rywbeth a bair i ti gynhyrfu, cofia fod yn ỻonyđ, ac ymatal rhag rhođi ffrwyn i’th deimladau, neu fe đistrywir y cynỻun, ac ni chei dy fab yn ol byth.’Nis gwyđai y fam anffodus beth oeđ i’w đeaỻ wrth ystori ryfeđ y ‘dyn cynnil.’ Yr oeđ mewn cymaint o dywyỻwch ag erioed. O’r diweđ daeth yr amser i ben; ac ar yr awr apwyntiedig yr oeđ yn ymguđio yn ofalus tu cefn i lwyn mawr yn ymyl, o ba le y caffai olwg ar bob peth o gylch. Bu am hir amser yno yn gwylio heb đim i’w glywed na’i weled—dim ond distawrwyđ dwfn a phruđglwyfus yr hanner nos yn teyrnasu. O’r diweđ clywai sain cerđoriaeth yn dynesu ati o hirbeỻ. Nês, nês yr oeđ y sain felusber yn dyfod o hyd; a gwrandawai hithai gyda dyđordeb arni. Cyn hir yr oeđ yn ei hymyl, a deaỻođ mai gorymdaith o ‘Fendith y Mamau’ oeđynt yn myned i rywle. Yr oeđynt yn gannoeđ mewn rhif. Tua chanol yr orymdaith canfyđođ olygfa ag a drywanođ ei chalon, ac a berođ i’w gwaed sefyỻ yn ei rhedwelïau. Yn cerđed rhwng pedwar o’r ‘Bendith’ yr oeđ ei phlentyn bychan anwyl ei hun. Bu bron a ỻwyr anghofio ei hun, a ỻamu tuag ato er ei gipio ymaith ođiarnynt trwy drais os gaỻai. Ond pan ar neidio aỻan o’i hymguđfan i’r diben hwnnw međyliođ am gynghor y ‘dyn cynnil,’ sef y byđai i unrhyw gynhyrfiad o’i heiđo đistrywio y cwbl, ac na byđai iđi gael ei phlentyn yn ol byth.Ar ol i’r orymdaith đirwyn i’r pen, ac i sain eu cerđoriaeth đistewi yn y peỻder, daeth aỻan o’i hymguđfan,gan gyfeirio ei chamrau tua ’i chartref. Os oeđ yn hiraethol o’r blaen ar ol ei mab, yr oeđ yn ỻawer mwy erbyn hyn; a’i hadgasrwyđ at y còr bychan oeđ yn hawlio ei fod yn fab iđi wedi cynyđu yn fawr iawn, waith yr oeđ yn sicr yn awr yn ei međwl mai un o’r hen frid ydoeđ. Nis gwyđai pa fođ i’w ođef am fynud yn hwy yn yr un ty a hi, chwaithach gođef iđo alw ‘mam’ arni hi. Ond beth bynnag, cafođ đigon o ras ataliol i ymđwyn yn weđaiđ at y gwr bychan hagr oeđ gyda hi yn y tŷ. Drannoeth aeth ar ei hunion at y ‘dyn cynnil’ i adrođ yr hyn yr oeđ wedi bod yn ỻygad dyst o hono y noson gynt, ac i ofyn am gyfarwyđyd peỻach. Yr oedd y ‘gwr cynnil’ yn ei disgwyl, ac ar ei gwaith yn dyfod i’r ty adnabyđođ wrthi ei bod wedi gweled rhywbeth oeđ wedi ei chyffroi. Adrođođ wrtho yr hyn ag oeđ wedi ei ganfod ar ben y croesffyrđ; ac wedi iđo glywed hynny, agorođ lyfr mawr ag oeđ ganđo, ac wedi hir syỻu arno hysbysođ hi ‘fod yn angenrheidiol iđi cyn cael ei phlentyn yn ol gael iâr đu heb un plufyn gwyn nac o un ỻiw araỻ arni, a’i ỻađ; ac ar ol ei ỻadd, ei gosod o flaen tan coed, pluf a chwbl, er ei phobi. Mor gynted ag y buasai yn ei gosod o flaen y tan, iđi gau pob twỻ a mynedfa yn yr adeilad ond un, a pheidio a dal sylw manwl ar ol y ‘crimbil,’ hyd nes byđai y iâr yn đigon, a’r pluf i syrthio ymaith oddiarni bob un, ac yna i edrych ym mha le yr oeđ ef.Er mor rhyfeđ oeđ cyfarwyđyd y ‘gwr,’ penderfynođ ei gynnyg; a thrannoeth aeth i chwilio ym mhlith y ieir oeđ yno am un o’r desgrifiad angenrheidiol; ond er ei siomedigaeth methođ a chael yr un. Aeth o’r naiỻ ffermdy i’r ỻaỻ i chwilio, ond ymđangosai ffawd fel yn gwgu arni—waith methođ a chael yr un. Pan ym mron digaloni gan ei haflwyđiant daeth ar draws un mewn amaethdy yng nghwr y plwyf a phrynođ hi yn đioedi. Ar ol dychwelyd adref gosodođ y tan mewn trefn, aỻađođ yr iâr, gan ei gosod o flaen y tan disglaer a losgai ar yr alch. Pan yn edrych arni yn pobi, anghofiođ y ‘crimbil’ yn hoỻol, ac yr oeđ wedi syrthio i rywfath o bruđlewyg, pryd y synnwyd hi gan sain cerđoriaeth y tu aỻan i’r ty, yn debyg i’r hyn a glywođ ychydig nosweithiau cyn hynny ar ben y croesffyrđ. Yr oeđ y pluf erbyn hyn wedi syrthio ymaith ođiar y iâr, ac erbyn edrych yr oeđ y ‘crimbil’ wedi diflannu. Edrychai y fam yn wyỻt o’i deutu, ac er ei ỻawenyđ clywai lais ei mab coỻedig yn galw arni y tu aỻan. Rhedođ i’w gyfarfod, gan ei gofleidio yn wresog; a phan ofynođ ym mha le yr oeđ wedi bod cyhyd, nid oeđ ganđo gyfrif yn y byd i’w rođi ond mai yn gwrando ar ganu hyfryd yr oeđ wedi bod. Yr oeđ yn deneu a threuliedig iawn ei weđ pan adferwyd ef. Dyna ystori ‘Y Plentyn Coỻedig.’‘At a farm house still remaining in the parish of Ỻanfabon, which is called the Berth Gron, there lived once upon a time a young widow and her infant child. After losing her husband her only comfort in her bereavement and solitary state was young Griff, her son. He was about three years old and a fine child for his age. The parish was then crammed full ofBendith y Mamau, and when the moon was bright and full they were wont to keep people awake with their music till the break of day. The fairies of Ỻanfabon were remarkable on account of their ugliness, and they were equally remarkable on account of the tricks they played. Stealing children from their cradles during the absence of their mothers, and luring men by means of their music into some pestilential and desolate bog, were things that seemed to afford them considerable amusement. It was no wonder then that mothers used to be daily on the watch lest they should lose their children. The widow alluded to was remarkably careful about her son, so much so, that it made some of the neighbours say that she wastoo anxious about him and that some misfortune would overtake her child. But she paid no attention to their words, as all her joy, her comfort, and her hopes appeared to meet together in her child. However, one day she heard a moaning voice ascending from near the cow-house, and lest anything had happened to the cattle, she ran there in a fright, leaving the door of the house open and her little son in the cradle. Who can describe her grief on her coming in and seeing that her son was missing? She searched everywhere for him, but it was in vain. About sunset, behold a little lad made his appearance before her and said to her quite distinctly, “Mother.” She looked minutely at him, and said at last, “Thou art not my child.” “I am truly,” said the little one. But the mother did not seem satisfied about it, nor did she believe it was her child. Something whispered to her constantly, as it were, that it was not her son. However, he remained with her a whole year, but he did not seem to grow at all, whereas Griff, her son, was a very growing child. Besides, the little fellow was getting uglier every day. At last she resolved to go to the “wise man,” in order to have information and light on the matter. There happened then to be living at Casteỻ y Nos, “Castle of the Night,” a man who was remarkable for his thorough acquaintance with the secrets of the evil one. When she had laid her business before him and he had examined her, he addressed the following remark to her: “It is acrimbil24, and thy own child is with those oldBendithsomewhere or other: if thou wilt follow my directions faithfully and minutely thy child will be restored to thee soon. Now, about noon to-morrow cut an egg through the middle; throw the one half away from thee, but keep the other in thy hand, and proceed to mix it backwards and forwards.See that the little fellow be present paying attention to what thou art doing, but take care not to call his attention to it—his attention must be drawn to it without calling to him—and very probably he will ask what thou wouldst be doing. Thou art to say that it is mixing a pasty for the reapers that thou art. Let me know what he will then say.” The woman returned, and on the next day she followed the cunning man’s25advice to the letter: the little fellow stood by her and watched her minutely; presently he asked, “Mother, what are you doing?” “Mixing a pasty for the reapers, my boy.” “Oh, that is it. I heard from my father—he had heard it from his father and that one from his father—that an acorn was before the oak, and that the oak was in the earth; but I have neither heard nor seen anybodymixing the pasty for the reapers in an egg-shell.” The woman observed that he looked very cross as he spoke, and that it so added to his ugliness that it made him highly repulsive.‘That afternoon the woman went to the cunning man in order to inform him of what the dwarf had said. “Oh,” said he, “he is of that old breed; now the next full moon will be in four days—thou must go where the four roads meet above Rhyd y Gloch26, at twelve o’clock the night the moon is full. Take care to hide thyself at a spot where thou canst see the ends of the cross-roads; and shouldst thou see anything that would excite thee take care to be still and to restrain thyself from giving way to thy feelings, otherwise the scheme will be frustrated and thou wilt never have thy son back.” The unfortunate mother knew not what to make of the strange story of the cunning man; she was in the dark as much as ever. At last the time came, and by the appointed hour she had concealed herself carefully behind a large bush close by, whence she could see everything around. She remained there a long time watching; but nothing was to be seen or heard, while the profound and melancholy silence of midnight dominated over all. At last she began to hear the sound of music approaching from afar; nearer and nearer the sweet sound continued to come, and she listened to it with rapt attention. Ere long it was close at hand, and she perceived that it was a procession ofBendith yMamaugoing somewhere or other. They were hundreds in point of number, and about the middle of the procession she beheld a sight that pierced her heart and made the blood stop in her veins—walking between four of theBendithshe saw her own dear little child. She nearly forgot herself altogether, and was on the point of springing into the midst of them violently to snatch him from them if she could; but when she was on the point of leaping out of her hiding place for that purpose, she thought of the warning of the cunning man, that any disturbance on her part would frustrate all, so that she would never get her child back. When the procession had wound itself past, and the sound of the music had died away in the distance, she issued from her concealment and directed her steps homewards. Full of longing as she was for her son before, she was much more so now; and her disgust at the little dwarf who claimed to be her son had very considerably grown, for she was now certain in her mind that he was one of the old breed. She knew not how to endure him for a moment longer under the same roof with her, much less his addressing her as “mother.” However, she had enough restraining grace to behave becomingly towards the ugly little fellow that was with her in the house. On the morrow she went without delay to the “wise man” to relate what she had witnessed the previous night, and to seek further advice. The cunning man expected her, and as she entered he perceived by her looks that she had seen something that had disturbed her. She told him what she had beheld at the cross-roads, and when he had heard it he opened a big book which he had; then, after he had long pored over it, he told her, that before she could get her child back, it was necessary for her to find a black hen without a single white feather, or one of any othercolour than black: this she was to place to bake before a wood27fire with its feathers and all intact. Moreover, as soon as she placed it before the fire, she was to close every hole and passage in the walls except one, and not to look very intently after thecrimbiluntil the hen was done enough and the feathers had fallen off it every one: then she might look where he was.‘Strange as the advice of the wise man sounded, she resolved to try it; so she went the next day to search among the hens for one of the requisite description; but to her disappointment she failed to find one. She then walked from one farm house to another in her search; but fortune appeared to scowl at her, as she seemed to fail in her object. When, however, she was nearly disheartened, she came across the kind of hen she wanted at a farm at the end of the parish. She bought it, and after returning home she arranged the fire and killed the hen, which she placed in front of the bright fire burning on the hearth. Whilst watching the hen baking she altogether forgot thecrimbil; and she fell into a sort of swoon, when she was astonished by the sound of music outside the house, similar to the music she had heard a few nights before at the cross-roads. The feathers had by this time fallen off the hen, and when she came to look for thecrimbilhe had disappeared. The mother cast wild looks about the house, and to her joy she heard the voice of her lost son calling to her from outside. She ran to meet him, and embraced him fervently. But when she asked him where he had been so long, he had no account in the world to give but that he had been listening to pleasant music. He was very thin and worn in appearance when he was restored. Such is the story of the Lost Child.’Let me remark as to the urchin’s exclamation concerningthe cooking done in the egg-shell, that Mr. Hughes, as the result of further inquiry, has given me what he considers a more correct version; but it is no less inconsequent, as will be seen:—Mi glywais gan fy nhad ac yntau gan ei dad, a hwnnw gan ei dad yntau,Fod mesen cyn derwen a’i phlannu mwn dár:Ni chlywais yn unman am gymysg y bastai yn masgal wy iâr.I heard from my father and he from his father, and that one fromhisfather,That the acorn exists before the oak and the planting of it in the ground:Never anywhere have I heard of mixing the pasty in the shell of a hen’s egg.In Dewi Glan Ffrydlas’ story from the Ogwen Valley, in Carnarvonshire, p. 62 above, it is not the cooking of a pasty but the brewing of beer in an egg-shell. However what is most remarkable is that the egg-shell is similarly used in stories from other lands. Mr. Hartland cites one from Mecklenburg and another from Scandinavia. He also mentions stories in which the imp measures his own age by the number of forests which he has seen growing successively on the same soil, the formula being of the following kind: ‘I have seen the Forest of Ardennes burnt seven times,’ ‘Seven times have I seen the wood fall in Lessö Forest,’ or ‘I am so old, I was already in the world before the Kamschtschen Wood (in Lithuania) was planted, wherein great trees grew, andthatis now laid waste again28.’ From these and the like instances it is clear that the Welsh versions here in question are partially blurred, as the fairy child’s words should have been to the effect that he was old enough to remember the oak when it was yet but an acorn; and an instance of this explicit kind is given by Howells—it comes from Ỻandrygarn in Anglesey—see p. 139, where his words run thus: ‘I can remember yon oak an acorn, but I never saw in my life people brewing in an egg-shell before.’ I may addthat I have been recently fortunate enough to obtain from Mr. Ỻywarch Reynolds another kind of estimate of the fairy urchin’s age. He writes that his mother remembers a very old Merthyr woman who used to tell the story of the egg-shell cookery, but in words differing from all the other versions known to him, thus:—Wy’n hén y dyđ heđy,Ag yn byw cyn ’y ngeni:Eriôd ni welas i ferwiBwyd i’r fedal mwn cwcwỻ29wy iâr.I call myself old this day,And living before my birth:Never have I seen food boiledFor the reapers in an egg-shell.As to the urchin’s statement that he was old and had lived before, it is part of a creed of which we may have something to say in a later chapter. At this point let it suffice to call attention to the same idea in theBook of Taliessin, poem ix:—Hynaf uyd dyn pan anherA ieu ieu pop amser.A man is wont to be oldest when born,And younger and younger all the time.

Mewn amaethdy ag syđ yn aros yn y plwyf a elwir y Berth Gron, trigiannai gweđw ieuanc a’i phlentynbychan. Yr oeđ wedi coỻi ei gwr, a’i hunig gysur yn ei hamđifadrwyđ a’i hunigrwyđ oeđ Gruff, ei mab. Yr oeđ ef yr amser hwn ođeutu tair blwyđ oed, ac yn blentyn braf ar ei oedran. Yr oeđ y plwyf, ar y pryd, yn orlawn o ‘Fendith y Mamau’; ac, ar amser ỻawn ỻoer, byđent yn cadw dynion yn effro a’u cerđoriaeth hyd doriad gwawr. Rhai hynod ar gyfrif eu hagrwch oeđ ‘Bendith’ Ỻanfabon, ac yr un mor hynod ar gyfrif eu castiau. Ỻadrata plant o’r caweỻau yn absenoldeb eu mamau, a denu dynion trwy eu swyno a cherđoriaeth i ryw gors afiach a diffaith, a ymđangosai yn gryn đifyrrwch iđynt. Nid rhyfeđ fod y mamau beunyđ ar eu gwyliadwriaeth rhag ofn coỻi eu plant. Yr oeđ y weđw o dan sylw yn hynod ofalus am ei mab, gymaint nes tynnu rhai o’r cymydogion i đywedyd wrthi ei bod yn rhy orofalus, ac y byđai i ryw anlwc orđiwes ei mab. Ond ni thalai unrhyw sylw i’w dywediadau. Ymđangosai fod ei hoỻ hyfrydwch a’i chysur ynghyd a’i gobeithion yn cydgyfarfod yn ei mab. Mođ bynnag, un diwrnod, clywođ ryw lais cwynfannus yn codi o gymydogaeth y beudy; a rhag bod rhywbeth wedi digwyđ i un o’r gwartheg rhedođ yn orwyỻt tuag yno, gan adael y drws heb ei gau, a’i mab bychan yn y ty. Ond pwy a fedr đesgrifio ei gofid ar ei gwaith yn dyfod i’r ty wrth weled eisiau ei mab? Chwiliođ bob man am dano, ond yn aflwyđiannus. Ođeutu machlud haul, wele lencyn bychan yn gwneuthur ei ymđangosiad o’i blaen, ac yn dywedyd, yn groyw, ‘Mam!’ Edrychođ y fam yn fanwl arno, a dywedođ o’r diweđ, ‘Nid fy mhlentyn i wyt ti!’ ‘Ië, yn sicr,’ atebai y bychan.

Nid ymđangosai y fam yn fođlon, na’i bod yn credu mai ei phlentyn hi ydoeđ. Yr oeđ rhywbeth yn sisial yn barhaus wrthi mai nid ei mab hi ydoeđ. Ond beth bynnag, bu gyda hi am flwyđyn gyfan, ac nid ymđangosai ei fod yn cynyđu dim, tra yr oeđ Gruff, ei mab hi, ynblentyn cynyđfawr iawn. Yr oeđ gwr bychan yn myned yn fwy hagr bob dyđ hefyd. O’r diweđ penderfynođ fyned at y ‘dyn hysbys,’ er cael rhyw wybodaeth a goleuni ar y mater. Yr oeđ yn digwyđ bod ar y pryd yn trigfannu yn Nghasteỻ y Nos, wr ag oeđ yn hynod ar gyfrif ei ymwybyđiaeth drwyadl o ‘gyfrinion y faỻ.’ Ar ol iđi osod ei hachos ger ei fron, ac yntau ei holi, sylwođ, ‘Crimbil ydyw, ac y mae dy blentyn di gyd a’r hen Fendith yn rhywle; ond i ti đilyn fy nghyfarwyđiadau i yn ffyđlon a manwl, fe adferir dy blentyn i ti yn fuan. Yn awr, ođeutu canol dyđ y foru, tor ŵy yn y canol, a thafl un hanner ymaith ođiwrthyt, a chadw y ỻaỻ yn dy law, a dechreu gymysg ei gynwysiad yn ol a blaen. Cofia fod y gwr bychan gerỻaw yn gwneuthur sylw o’r hyn ag a fyđi yn ei wneuthur. Ond cofia di a pheidio galw ei sylw—rhaid enniỻ ei sylw at y weithred heb ei alw: ac odid fawr na ofynna i ti beth fyđi yn ei wneuthur. A dywed wrtho mai cymysg pastai’r fedel yr wyt. A rho wybod i mi beth fyđ ei ateb.’

Dychwelođ y wraig, a thrannoeth dilynođ gyfarwyđyd y ‘dyn cynnil’ i’r ỻythyren. Yr oeđ y gwr bychan yn sefyỻ yn ei hymyl, ac yn sylwi arni yn fanwl. Ym mhen ychydig, gofynnođ, ‘Mam, beth ’i ch’i ’neuthur?’ ‘Cymysg pastai’r fedel, machgen i.’ ‘O feỻy. Mi glywais gan fy nhad, fe glywođ hwnnw gan ei dad, a hwnnw gan ei dad yntau, fod mesen cyn derwen, a derwen mewn dâr23; ond ni chlywais i na gweled neb yn un man yn cymysg pastai’r fedel mewn masgal ŵy iar.’ Sylwođ y wraig ei fod yn edrych yn hynod o sarug arni pan yn siarad, ac yr oeđ hynny yn ychwanegu at ei hagrwch, nes ei wneuthur yn wrthun i’r pen.

Y prydnawn hwnnw aeth y wraig at y ‘dyn cynnil’er ei hysbysu o’r hyn a lefarwyd gan y còr. ‘O,’ ebai hwnnw, ‘un o’r hen frid ydyw!’ ‘Yn awr, byđ y ỻawn ỻoer nesaf ym mhen pedwar diwrnod; mae yn rhaid i ti fyned i ben y pedair heol syđ yn cydgyfarfod wrth ben Rhyd y Gloch; am đeuđeg o’r gloch y nos y byđ y ỻeuad yn ỻawn. Cofia guđio dy hun mewn man ag y cei lawn olwg ar bennau y croesffyrđ, ac os gweli rywbeth a bair i ti gynhyrfu, cofia fod yn ỻonyđ, ac ymatal rhag rhođi ffrwyn i’th deimladau, neu fe đistrywir y cynỻun, ac ni chei dy fab yn ol byth.’

Nis gwyđai y fam anffodus beth oeđ i’w đeaỻ wrth ystori ryfeđ y ‘dyn cynnil.’ Yr oeđ mewn cymaint o dywyỻwch ag erioed. O’r diweđ daeth yr amser i ben; ac ar yr awr apwyntiedig yr oeđ yn ymguđio yn ofalus tu cefn i lwyn mawr yn ymyl, o ba le y caffai olwg ar bob peth o gylch. Bu am hir amser yno yn gwylio heb đim i’w glywed na’i weled—dim ond distawrwyđ dwfn a phruđglwyfus yr hanner nos yn teyrnasu. O’r diweđ clywai sain cerđoriaeth yn dynesu ati o hirbeỻ. Nês, nês yr oeđ y sain felusber yn dyfod o hyd; a gwrandawai hithai gyda dyđordeb arni. Cyn hir yr oeđ yn ei hymyl, a deaỻođ mai gorymdaith o ‘Fendith y Mamau’ oeđynt yn myned i rywle. Yr oeđynt yn gannoeđ mewn rhif. Tua chanol yr orymdaith canfyđođ olygfa ag a drywanođ ei chalon, ac a berođ i’w gwaed sefyỻ yn ei rhedwelïau. Yn cerđed rhwng pedwar o’r ‘Bendith’ yr oeđ ei phlentyn bychan anwyl ei hun. Bu bron a ỻwyr anghofio ei hun, a ỻamu tuag ato er ei gipio ymaith ođiarnynt trwy drais os gaỻai. Ond pan ar neidio aỻan o’i hymguđfan i’r diben hwnnw međyliođ am gynghor y ‘dyn cynnil,’ sef y byđai i unrhyw gynhyrfiad o’i heiđo đistrywio y cwbl, ac na byđai iđi gael ei phlentyn yn ol byth.

Ar ol i’r orymdaith đirwyn i’r pen, ac i sain eu cerđoriaeth đistewi yn y peỻder, daeth aỻan o’i hymguđfan,gan gyfeirio ei chamrau tua ’i chartref. Os oeđ yn hiraethol o’r blaen ar ol ei mab, yr oeđ yn ỻawer mwy erbyn hyn; a’i hadgasrwyđ at y còr bychan oeđ yn hawlio ei fod yn fab iđi wedi cynyđu yn fawr iawn, waith yr oeđ yn sicr yn awr yn ei međwl mai un o’r hen frid ydoeđ. Nis gwyđai pa fođ i’w ođef am fynud yn hwy yn yr un ty a hi, chwaithach gođef iđo alw ‘mam’ arni hi. Ond beth bynnag, cafođ đigon o ras ataliol i ymđwyn yn weđaiđ at y gwr bychan hagr oeđ gyda hi yn y tŷ. Drannoeth aeth ar ei hunion at y ‘dyn cynnil’ i adrođ yr hyn yr oeđ wedi bod yn ỻygad dyst o hono y noson gynt, ac i ofyn am gyfarwyđyd peỻach. Yr oedd y ‘gwr cynnil’ yn ei disgwyl, ac ar ei gwaith yn dyfod i’r ty adnabyđođ wrthi ei bod wedi gweled rhywbeth oeđ wedi ei chyffroi. Adrođođ wrtho yr hyn ag oeđ wedi ei ganfod ar ben y croesffyrđ; ac wedi iđo glywed hynny, agorođ lyfr mawr ag oeđ ganđo, ac wedi hir syỻu arno hysbysođ hi ‘fod yn angenrheidiol iđi cyn cael ei phlentyn yn ol gael iâr đu heb un plufyn gwyn nac o un ỻiw araỻ arni, a’i ỻađ; ac ar ol ei ỻadd, ei gosod o flaen tan coed, pluf a chwbl, er ei phobi. Mor gynted ag y buasai yn ei gosod o flaen y tan, iđi gau pob twỻ a mynedfa yn yr adeilad ond un, a pheidio a dal sylw manwl ar ol y ‘crimbil,’ hyd nes byđai y iâr yn đigon, a’r pluf i syrthio ymaith oddiarni bob un, ac yna i edrych ym mha le yr oeđ ef.

Er mor rhyfeđ oeđ cyfarwyđyd y ‘gwr,’ penderfynođ ei gynnyg; a thrannoeth aeth i chwilio ym mhlith y ieir oeđ yno am un o’r desgrifiad angenrheidiol; ond er ei siomedigaeth methođ a chael yr un. Aeth o’r naiỻ ffermdy i’r ỻaỻ i chwilio, ond ymđangosai ffawd fel yn gwgu arni—waith methođ a chael yr un. Pan ym mron digaloni gan ei haflwyđiant daeth ar draws un mewn amaethdy yng nghwr y plwyf a phrynođ hi yn đioedi. Ar ol dychwelyd adref gosodođ y tan mewn trefn, aỻađođ yr iâr, gan ei gosod o flaen y tan disglaer a losgai ar yr alch. Pan yn edrych arni yn pobi, anghofiođ y ‘crimbil’ yn hoỻol, ac yr oeđ wedi syrthio i rywfath o bruđlewyg, pryd y synnwyd hi gan sain cerđoriaeth y tu aỻan i’r ty, yn debyg i’r hyn a glywođ ychydig nosweithiau cyn hynny ar ben y croesffyrđ. Yr oeđ y pluf erbyn hyn wedi syrthio ymaith ođiar y iâr, ac erbyn edrych yr oeđ y ‘crimbil’ wedi diflannu. Edrychai y fam yn wyỻt o’i deutu, ac er ei ỻawenyđ clywai lais ei mab coỻedig yn galw arni y tu aỻan. Rhedođ i’w gyfarfod, gan ei gofleidio yn wresog; a phan ofynođ ym mha le yr oeđ wedi bod cyhyd, nid oeđ ganđo gyfrif yn y byd i’w rođi ond mai yn gwrando ar ganu hyfryd yr oeđ wedi bod. Yr oeđ yn deneu a threuliedig iawn ei weđ pan adferwyd ef. Dyna ystori ‘Y Plentyn Coỻedig.’

‘At a farm house still remaining in the parish of Ỻanfabon, which is called the Berth Gron, there lived once upon a time a young widow and her infant child. After losing her husband her only comfort in her bereavement and solitary state was young Griff, her son. He was about three years old and a fine child for his age. The parish was then crammed full ofBendith y Mamau, and when the moon was bright and full they were wont to keep people awake with their music till the break of day. The fairies of Ỻanfabon were remarkable on account of their ugliness, and they were equally remarkable on account of the tricks they played. Stealing children from their cradles during the absence of their mothers, and luring men by means of their music into some pestilential and desolate bog, were things that seemed to afford them considerable amusement. It was no wonder then that mothers used to be daily on the watch lest they should lose their children. The widow alluded to was remarkably careful about her son, so much so, that it made some of the neighbours say that she wastoo anxious about him and that some misfortune would overtake her child. But she paid no attention to their words, as all her joy, her comfort, and her hopes appeared to meet together in her child. However, one day she heard a moaning voice ascending from near the cow-house, and lest anything had happened to the cattle, she ran there in a fright, leaving the door of the house open and her little son in the cradle. Who can describe her grief on her coming in and seeing that her son was missing? She searched everywhere for him, but it was in vain. About sunset, behold a little lad made his appearance before her and said to her quite distinctly, “Mother.” She looked minutely at him, and said at last, “Thou art not my child.” “I am truly,” said the little one. But the mother did not seem satisfied about it, nor did she believe it was her child. Something whispered to her constantly, as it were, that it was not her son. However, he remained with her a whole year, but he did not seem to grow at all, whereas Griff, her son, was a very growing child. Besides, the little fellow was getting uglier every day. At last she resolved to go to the “wise man,” in order to have information and light on the matter. There happened then to be living at Casteỻ y Nos, “Castle of the Night,” a man who was remarkable for his thorough acquaintance with the secrets of the evil one. When she had laid her business before him and he had examined her, he addressed the following remark to her: “It is acrimbil24, and thy own child is with those oldBendithsomewhere or other: if thou wilt follow my directions faithfully and minutely thy child will be restored to thee soon. Now, about noon to-morrow cut an egg through the middle; throw the one half away from thee, but keep the other in thy hand, and proceed to mix it backwards and forwards.See that the little fellow be present paying attention to what thou art doing, but take care not to call his attention to it—his attention must be drawn to it without calling to him—and very probably he will ask what thou wouldst be doing. Thou art to say that it is mixing a pasty for the reapers that thou art. Let me know what he will then say.” The woman returned, and on the next day she followed the cunning man’s25advice to the letter: the little fellow stood by her and watched her minutely; presently he asked, “Mother, what are you doing?” “Mixing a pasty for the reapers, my boy.” “Oh, that is it. I heard from my father—he had heard it from his father and that one from his father—that an acorn was before the oak, and that the oak was in the earth; but I have neither heard nor seen anybodymixing the pasty for the reapers in an egg-shell.” The woman observed that he looked very cross as he spoke, and that it so added to his ugliness that it made him highly repulsive.

‘That afternoon the woman went to the cunning man in order to inform him of what the dwarf had said. “Oh,” said he, “he is of that old breed; now the next full moon will be in four days—thou must go where the four roads meet above Rhyd y Gloch26, at twelve o’clock the night the moon is full. Take care to hide thyself at a spot where thou canst see the ends of the cross-roads; and shouldst thou see anything that would excite thee take care to be still and to restrain thyself from giving way to thy feelings, otherwise the scheme will be frustrated and thou wilt never have thy son back.” The unfortunate mother knew not what to make of the strange story of the cunning man; she was in the dark as much as ever. At last the time came, and by the appointed hour she had concealed herself carefully behind a large bush close by, whence she could see everything around. She remained there a long time watching; but nothing was to be seen or heard, while the profound and melancholy silence of midnight dominated over all. At last she began to hear the sound of music approaching from afar; nearer and nearer the sweet sound continued to come, and she listened to it with rapt attention. Ere long it was close at hand, and she perceived that it was a procession ofBendith yMamaugoing somewhere or other. They were hundreds in point of number, and about the middle of the procession she beheld a sight that pierced her heart and made the blood stop in her veins—walking between four of theBendithshe saw her own dear little child. She nearly forgot herself altogether, and was on the point of springing into the midst of them violently to snatch him from them if she could; but when she was on the point of leaping out of her hiding place for that purpose, she thought of the warning of the cunning man, that any disturbance on her part would frustrate all, so that she would never get her child back. When the procession had wound itself past, and the sound of the music had died away in the distance, she issued from her concealment and directed her steps homewards. Full of longing as she was for her son before, she was much more so now; and her disgust at the little dwarf who claimed to be her son had very considerably grown, for she was now certain in her mind that he was one of the old breed. She knew not how to endure him for a moment longer under the same roof with her, much less his addressing her as “mother.” However, she had enough restraining grace to behave becomingly towards the ugly little fellow that was with her in the house. On the morrow she went without delay to the “wise man” to relate what she had witnessed the previous night, and to seek further advice. The cunning man expected her, and as she entered he perceived by her looks that she had seen something that had disturbed her. She told him what she had beheld at the cross-roads, and when he had heard it he opened a big book which he had; then, after he had long pored over it, he told her, that before she could get her child back, it was necessary for her to find a black hen without a single white feather, or one of any othercolour than black: this she was to place to bake before a wood27fire with its feathers and all intact. Moreover, as soon as she placed it before the fire, she was to close every hole and passage in the walls except one, and not to look very intently after thecrimbiluntil the hen was done enough and the feathers had fallen off it every one: then she might look where he was.

‘Strange as the advice of the wise man sounded, she resolved to try it; so she went the next day to search among the hens for one of the requisite description; but to her disappointment she failed to find one. She then walked from one farm house to another in her search; but fortune appeared to scowl at her, as she seemed to fail in her object. When, however, she was nearly disheartened, she came across the kind of hen she wanted at a farm at the end of the parish. She bought it, and after returning home she arranged the fire and killed the hen, which she placed in front of the bright fire burning on the hearth. Whilst watching the hen baking she altogether forgot thecrimbil; and she fell into a sort of swoon, when she was astonished by the sound of music outside the house, similar to the music she had heard a few nights before at the cross-roads. The feathers had by this time fallen off the hen, and when she came to look for thecrimbilhe had disappeared. The mother cast wild looks about the house, and to her joy she heard the voice of her lost son calling to her from outside. She ran to meet him, and embraced him fervently. But when she asked him where he had been so long, he had no account in the world to give but that he had been listening to pleasant music. He was very thin and worn in appearance when he was restored. Such is the story of the Lost Child.’

Let me remark as to the urchin’s exclamation concerningthe cooking done in the egg-shell, that Mr. Hughes, as the result of further inquiry, has given me what he considers a more correct version; but it is no less inconsequent, as will be seen:—

Mi glywais gan fy nhad ac yntau gan ei dad, a hwnnw gan ei dad yntau,Fod mesen cyn derwen a’i phlannu mwn dár:Ni chlywais yn unman am gymysg y bastai yn masgal wy iâr.I heard from my father and he from his father, and that one fromhisfather,That the acorn exists before the oak and the planting of it in the ground:Never anywhere have I heard of mixing the pasty in the shell of a hen’s egg.

Mi glywais gan fy nhad ac yntau gan ei dad, a hwnnw gan ei dad yntau,Fod mesen cyn derwen a’i phlannu mwn dár:Ni chlywais yn unman am gymysg y bastai yn masgal wy iâr.

Mi glywais gan fy nhad ac yntau gan ei dad, a hwnnw gan ei dad yntau,

Fod mesen cyn derwen a’i phlannu mwn dár:

Ni chlywais yn unman am gymysg y bastai yn masgal wy iâr.

I heard from my father and he from his father, and that one fromhisfather,That the acorn exists before the oak and the planting of it in the ground:Never anywhere have I heard of mixing the pasty in the shell of a hen’s egg.

I heard from my father and he from his father, and that one fromhisfather,

That the acorn exists before the oak and the planting of it in the ground:

Never anywhere have I heard of mixing the pasty in the shell of a hen’s egg.

In Dewi Glan Ffrydlas’ story from the Ogwen Valley, in Carnarvonshire, p. 62 above, it is not the cooking of a pasty but the brewing of beer in an egg-shell. However what is most remarkable is that the egg-shell is similarly used in stories from other lands. Mr. Hartland cites one from Mecklenburg and another from Scandinavia. He also mentions stories in which the imp measures his own age by the number of forests which he has seen growing successively on the same soil, the formula being of the following kind: ‘I have seen the Forest of Ardennes burnt seven times,’ ‘Seven times have I seen the wood fall in Lessö Forest,’ or ‘I am so old, I was already in the world before the Kamschtschen Wood (in Lithuania) was planted, wherein great trees grew, andthatis now laid waste again28.’ From these and the like instances it is clear that the Welsh versions here in question are partially blurred, as the fairy child’s words should have been to the effect that he was old enough to remember the oak when it was yet but an acorn; and an instance of this explicit kind is given by Howells—it comes from Ỻandrygarn in Anglesey—see p. 139, where his words run thus: ‘I can remember yon oak an acorn, but I never saw in my life people brewing in an egg-shell before.’ I may addthat I have been recently fortunate enough to obtain from Mr. Ỻywarch Reynolds another kind of estimate of the fairy urchin’s age. He writes that his mother remembers a very old Merthyr woman who used to tell the story of the egg-shell cookery, but in words differing from all the other versions known to him, thus:—

Wy’n hén y dyđ heđy,Ag yn byw cyn ’y ngeni:Eriôd ni welas i ferwiBwyd i’r fedal mwn cwcwỻ29wy iâr.I call myself old this day,And living before my birth:Never have I seen food boiledFor the reapers in an egg-shell.

Wy’n hén y dyđ heđy,Ag yn byw cyn ’y ngeni:Eriôd ni welas i ferwiBwyd i’r fedal mwn cwcwỻ29wy iâr.

Wy’n hén y dyđ heđy,

Ag yn byw cyn ’y ngeni:

Eriôd ni welas i ferwi

Bwyd i’r fedal mwn cwcwỻ29wy iâr.

I call myself old this day,And living before my birth:Never have I seen food boiledFor the reapers in an egg-shell.

I call myself old this day,

And living before my birth:

Never have I seen food boiled

For the reapers in an egg-shell.

As to the urchin’s statement that he was old and had lived before, it is part of a creed of which we may have something to say in a later chapter. At this point let it suffice to call attention to the same idea in theBook of Taliessin, poem ix:—

Hynaf uyd dyn pan anherA ieu ieu pop amser.A man is wont to be oldest when born,And younger and younger all the time.

Hynaf uyd dyn pan anherA ieu ieu pop amser.

Hynaf uyd dyn pan anher

A ieu ieu pop amser.

A man is wont to be oldest when born,And younger and younger all the time.

A man is wont to be oldest when born,

And younger and younger all the time.

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