In the old days, when spinning was the constant
employment of women, the spinning-wheel had its presiding genius or fairy.
Her Border name was Habitrot, and Mr. Wilkie tells the following legend
about her :—
A Selkirkshire matron had one fair daughter, who
loved play better than work, wandering in the meadows and lanes better
than the spinning-wheel and distaff. The mother was heartily vexed at this
taste, for in those days no lassie had any chance of a good husband unless
she was an industrious spinster. So she cajoled, threatened, even beat her
daughter, but all to no purpose; the girl remained what her mother called
her, "an idle cuttie."
At last, one spring morning, the
gudewife gave her seven heads of lint, saying she would take no excuse;
they must be returned in three days spun into yarn. The girl saw her
mother was in earnest, so she plied her distaff as well as she could; but
her little hands were all untaught, and by the evening of the second day a
very small part of her task was accomplished. She cried herself to sleep
that night, and in the morning, throwing aside her work in despair, she
strolled out into the fields, all sparkling with dew. At last she reached
a flowery knoll, at whose foot ran a little burn, shaded with woodbine and
wild roses; and there she sat down, burying her face in her hands. When
she looked up, she was surprised to see by the margin of the stream an old
woman, quite unknown to her, "drawing out the thread" as she basked in the
sun. There was nothing very remarkable in her appearance, except the
length and thickness of her lips, only she was seated on a self-bored
stone. The girl rose, went to the good dame, and gave her a friendly
greeting, but could not help inquiring what made her so "long lippit."
"Spinning thread, ma hinnie," said the old woman, pleased with her
friendliness, and by no means resenting the personal remark. It must be
noticed that spinners used constantly to wet their fingers with their
lips, as they drew the thread from the rock or distaff. "Ah!" said the
girl, "I should be spinning too, but it’s a’ to no purpose, I sall ne’er
do my task;" on which the old woman proposed to do it for her. Overjoyed,
the maiden ran to fetch her lint, and placed it in her new friend’s hand,
asking her name, and where she should call for the yarn in the evening;
but she received no reply; the old woman’s form passed away from her among
the trees and bushes, and disappeared. The girl, much bewildered, wandered
about a little, sat down to rest, and finally fell asleep by the little
knoll.
When she awoke she was surprised to
find that it was evening. The glories of the western sky were passing into
twilight grey. Causleen, the evening star, was beaming with silvery light,
soon to be lost in the moon’s increasing splendour. While watching these
changes, the maiden was startled by the sound of an uncouth voice, which
seemed to issue from below a self-bored stone, close beside her. She laid
her ear to the stone, and distinctly heard these words: "Little kens the
wee lassie on yon brae-head that ma name’s Habitrot." Then, looking down
the hole, she saw her friend, the old dame, walking backwards and forwards
in a deep cavern among a group of spinsters all seated on colludie stones
(a kind of white pebble found in rivers), and busy with distaff and
spindle. An unsightly company they were, with lips more or less disfigured
by their employment, as were old Habitrot’s. The same peculiarity extended
to another of the sisterhood, who sat in a distant corner reeling the
yarn; and she was marked, in addition, by grey eyes, which seemed starting
from her head, and a long hooked nose.
As she reeled, she counted thus, "Ae
cribbie, twa cribbie, haith cribbie thou’s ane; ae cribbie, twa cribbie,
haith cribbie thou’s twa," and so on. After this manner she continued till
she had counted a cut, hank, slip,—a cribbie being once round the reel, or
a measure of about three feet, the reel being about eighteen inches long.
While the girl was still watching,
she heard Habitrot address this singular being by the name of Scantlie Mab,
and tell her to bundle up the yarn, for it was time the young lassie
should give it to her mother. Delighted to hear this, our listener got up
and turned homewards, nor was she long kept in suspense. Habitrot soon
overtook her, and placed the yarn in her hands. "Oh, what can I do for ye
in return?" exclaimed she, in delight. "Naething— naething," replied the
dame; "but dinna tell yer mither whae spun the yarn."
Scarcely crediting her good fortune,
our heroine went home, where she found her mother had been busy making
sausters, or black puddings, and hanging them up in the lum to dry, and
then, tired out, had retired to rest. Finding herself very hungry after
her long day on the knoll, the girl took down pudding after pudding, fried
and ate them, and at last went to bed too. The mother was up first the
next morning, and when she came into the kitchen and found her sausters
all gone, and the seven hanks of yarn lying beautifully smooth and bright
upon the table, her mingled feelings of vexation and delight were too much
for her. She ran out of the house wildly, crying out-
Ma daughter’s spun se’en, se’en,
se’en,
Ma daughter’s eaten se’en, se’en, se’en,
And all before daylight!"
A laird, who chanced to be riding by, heard the
exclamation, but could not understand it; so he rode up and asked the
gudewife what was the matter, on which she broke out again—
Ma
daughter’s spun se’en, se’en, se’en,
Ma daughter’s eaten se’en, se’en, se’en
before daylight; and if ye dinna believe me, why
come in and see it." The laird’s curiosity was aroused; he alighted and
went into the cottage, where he saw the yarn, and admired it so much, he
begged to see the spinner.
The mother dragged in the blushing
girl. Her rustic grace soon won his heart, and he avowed he was lonely
without a wife, and had long been in search of one who was a good spinner.
So their troth was plighted, and the wedding took place soon afterwards,
the bride stifling her apprehensions that she should not prove so deft at
her spinning-wheel as her lover expected. And once more old Habitrot came
to her aid. Whether the good dame, herself so notable, was as indulgent to
all idle damsels does not appear—certainly she did not fail this little
pet of hers. "Bring your bonny bridegroom to my cell," said she to the
young bride soon after her marriage; "he shall see what comes o’ spinning,
and never will he tie you to the spinningwheel."
Accordingly the bride led her husband the next day
to the flowery knoll, and bade him look through the self-bored stone.
Great was his surprise to behold Habitrot dancing and jumping over her
rock, [spining-wheel] singing all the time this ditty to her sisterhood,
while they kept time with their spindles:-
"We who live in dreary den
Are both rank and foul to see,
Hidden frae the glorious sun
That teems the fair earth’s canopie:
Ever must our evenings lone
Be spent on the colludie stone.
Cheerless is the evening grey
When Causleen hath died away,
But ever bright and ever fair
Are they who breathe this evening air;
And lean upon the self-bored stone
Unseen by all but me alone."
