A Bag Of Moonshine

There was a woman once in the Isle of Man, and she was scandalous lazy. She was that lazy she would do nothing but sit in the corner of the hearth, warming her shinbones red. And one day, her man gives her some wool to spin for him; and he was not what you would call bright. No; he was slow on the uptaking. But even he could see that he was badly off for clothes to wear, for she was letting them get all ragged on him. Now he’d told her to mend them; told her till he was tired; but all he got out of her was: “Time enough. There’s time enough.”

So, this day, he says to her, “Here’s some wool for you to spin,” says he. “And if it’s not done a month from now, I’ll throw you on the road side, so I will. You and your time enough’ have left me nearly bare!”

Well, the wife was too lazy to spin, even so, but she pretended to be working hard when the man was in the house; and she put the wheel out on the floor every night before the man came in from the field, to be letting on to him that she’d been spinning.

After a while of seeing the wheel so much, and with a week to go to the reckoning, the man says to the wife, “Have you enough thread spun at you now for me to take to the weaver next week, do you think?”

“I don’t know at all,” says the wife. “I’ve not had chance to count the balls, I’ve been that busy. I put them all in the loft as I spin them.”

“Well, let’s count them now,” says he.

“Very well,” says she.

Now she had only the one ball spun, and that was knotted, and rough as gorse; but she took it—and then the play began!

“Keep the count yourself,” says she, “and throw them back to me, so they don’t go rolling all over the floor.”

“I will,” says he.

She threw the ball down to him.

“That’s one,” says he; and he threw it back up to her.

“Here’s another,” says she; and she threw the ball back down to him.

“That’s two,” says he.

“It is,” says she; and he threw it back up to her.

And when they had done that between them maybe two score times, the wife’s arms were aching, and she says, “That’s all that’s in it.”

“Oh, indeed you’ve spun well, woman,” says he, “there’s plenty done for the weaver. I shall get enough for a suit of clothes in the week.”

Well, then she was in a fix, and didn’t know in her senses what to do to save herself from being thrown on the road side. She knew she would sup sorrow if she was found out.

At last, she thought there was nothing for it but to go back to ask help of the Foawr that lived up the mountain, on the other side of the dark wood. And in those days there were Foawrs to be found, if you knew how to look, but they were great goblin things that it didn’t do to meddle with; so people left them alone. They’re all gone now; or let’s hope they are.

Anyway, this woman took the road early next morning, as soon as the man was in the field, and carried the wool with her. She walked up hills, and down gills, till at last she came to the Foawr’s house.

“What are you wanting here?” says the Foawr.

“I’m wanting you to help me,” says she; and she up and told him about the ball of thread and all.

“I’ll spin the wool for you,” says the Foawr, “if you’ll tell me my name a week from this day. Or I keep the wool; and maybe eat you. Will that do?”

“Why should it not?” says the wife; and thinks: It’s a queer thing if I can’t find out a name in a week. So she left the wool with the Foawr, and went home.

Well, she was wrong. The woman tried every way, but nobody knew the Foawr’s name, had ever heard of it, or ever thought that he had one. And time was getting over fast, and she was no nearer an answer.

And then it was the last evening. She sat in the hearth, and wondered whether she was to be eaten, or be thrown in a ditch. It came on dark, and the man was late; but when he tramped in, he was laughing.