The Juniper Tree

A dark tale that I first told as a nested tale in a Sir Gawain and the Green Knight framed winter tales set. A useful bit of colour, not present in the stories as written, is to mention the striking blue berries of the juniper tree. An interesting English variant was also collected by Sabine Baring Gould in Devonshire, and first published in 1865.

I quite like the Grimm version as a Christmas tale, with a few minor tweaks. The sister’s name works better for me as Marlene (mar-layn-uh) For the bird’s repeated refrain when asked to sing the song again, I prefer a begging bowl line along the lines of ‘If you like my song so much’, said the bird, ‘give me something in exchange for it’. And for the song, My stepmother killed me, out of spite; my father ate me up that night; my sister Marlene buried me, Under the spreading Juniper Tree, Oh what a pretty bird am I..

The Juniper Tree, Grimm, transl. Hunt, 1888

https://archive.org/details/grimmshouseholdt01grim/page/180/mode/2up In Jacob & Wilhelm Grimm, Grimm’s household tales: with the author’s notes, transl. Margaret Hunt, introduction by Andrew Lang, vol. I, 1884.

p181-90

47.— THE JUNIPER-TREE. [It is difficult to know how to translate Machandelbaum. It would seem natural to regard it as the popular pronunciation of Mandelbaum, Almond-tree, and thus render it; but in Pritzel and Tessen's "Deutsclien Volksnamen der Pfianzen," Macliandel-bom is given as "Common Juniper," and so it is in other dictionaries. The Brothers Grimm themselves say in tiieir notes to this story, "Machandel, nicht etwa Mandel. sondern Wacholder und zwar bedeutend, weil es ein verjiingender Baum ist und wach so viel als queck, rege, vi\ js, lebendig, heisst; an andern Orten heisst es Queckholder, Reckholder, Juniperus (von junior, jiinger), angelsachs. quicbeam." Quicbeam or cwicbt-am is, however, not the Juniper, but the wild or mountain-ash, a tree much better known in folk-lore. Its berries also were said to have possessed rejuvenating power, and all who ate of them were glad of heart. — Tb.]

It is now long ago, quite two thousand years, since there was a rich man who had a beautiful and pious wife, and they loved each other dearly. They had, however, no children, though they wished for them very much, and the woman prayed for them day and night, but still they had none. Now there was a court-yard in front of their house in which was a juniper-tree, and one day in winter the woman was standing beneath it, paring herself an apple, and while she was paring herself the apple she cut her finger, and the blood fell on the snow. “Ah,” said the woman, and sighed right heavily, and looked at the blood before her, and was most unhappy, “ah, if I had but a child as red as blood and as white as snow!” [The simile here used occurs likewise in the "Ballad of the Gay Goshawk," in the Border minstrelsy: "The red that's on my true love's cheek, Is like blood-drops upon the snow; The white that is on her breast so bare, Like the down o' the white sea-maw." — Tr.] And while she thus spake, she became quite happy in her mind, and felt just as if that were going to happen. Then she went into the house, and a month went by and the snow was gone, and two months, and then everything was green, and three months, and then all the flowers came out of the earth, and four months, and then all the trees in the wood grew thicker, and the green branches were all closely entwined, and the birds sang until the wood resounded and the blossoms fell from the trees, then the fifth month passed away and she stood under the juniper-tree, which smelt so sweetly that her heart leapt, and she fell on her knees and was beside herself with joy, and when the sixth month was over the fruit was large and fine, and then she was quite still, and the seventh month she snatched at the juniper-berries and ate them greedily, then she grew sick and sorrowful, then the eighth month passed, and she called her husband to her, and wept and said, “If I die, then bury me beneath the juniper-tree.” Then she was quite comforted and happy until the next month was over, and then she had a child as white as snow and as red as blood, and when she beheld it she was so delighted that she died.

Then her husband buried her beneath the juniper-tree, and he began to weep sore; after some time he was more at ease, and though he still wept he could bear it, and after some time longer he took another wife.

By the second wife he had a daughter, but the first wife’s child was a little son, and he was as red as blood and as white as snow. When the woman looked at her daughter she loved her very much, but then she looked at the little boy and it seemed to cut her to the heart, for the thought came into her mind that he would always stand in her way, and she was for ever thinking how she could get all the fortune for her daughter, and the Evil One filled her mind with this till she was quite wroth with the little boy, and slapped him here and cuffed him there, until the unhappy child was in continual terror, for when he came out of school he had no peace in any place.

One day the woman had gone upstairs to her room, and her little daughter went up too, and said, “Mother, give me an apple.” “Yes, my child,” said the woman, and gave her a fine apple out of the chest, but the chest had a great heavy lid with a great sharp iron lock. “Mother,” said the little daughter, “is brother not to have one too?” This made the woman angry, but she said, “Yes, when he comes out of school.” And when she saw from the window that he was coming, it was just as if the Devil entered into her, and she snatched at the apple and took it away again from her daughter, and said, “Thou shalt not have one before thy brother.” Then she threw the apple into the chest, and shut it. Then the little boy came in at the door, and the Devil made her say to him kindly, “My son, wilt thou have an apple?” and she looked so wickedly at him. “Mother,” said the little boy, “how dreadful you look! Yes, give me an apple.” Then it seemed to her as if she were forced to say to him, “Come with me,” and she opened the lid of the chest and said, “Take out an apple for thyself,” and while the little boy was stooping inside, the Devil prompted her, and crash! she shut the lid down, and his head flew off” and fell among the red apples. Then she was overwhelmed with terror, and thought, “If I could but make them think that it was not done by me!” So she went upstairs to her room to her chest of drawers, and took a white handkerchief out of the top drawer, and set the head on the neck again, and folded the handkerchief so that nothing could be seen, and she set him on a chair in front of the door, and put the apple in his hand.

After this Marlinchen came into the kitchen to her mother, who was standing by the fire with a pan of hot water before her which she was constantly stirring round. “Mother,” said Marlinchen, “brother is sitting at the door, and he looks quite white, and has an apple in his hand. I asked him to give me the apple, but he did not answer me, and I was quite frightened.” “Go back to him,” said her mother, “and if he will not answer thee, give him a box on the ear.” So Marlinchen went to him and said, “Brother, give me the apple.” But he was silent, and she gave him a box on the ear, on which his head fell down. Marlinchen was terrified, and began crying and screaming, and ran to her mother, and said, “Alas, mother, I have knocked my brother’s head off!” and she wept and wept and could not be comforted. “Marlinchen,” said the mother, “what hast thou done? but be quiet and let no one know it; it cannot be helped now, we will make him into black-puddings.” Then the mother took the little boy and chopped him in pieces, put him into the pan and made him into black-puddings; but Marlinchen stood by weeping and weeping, and all her tears fell into the pan and there was no need of any salt.

Then the father came home, and sat down to dinner and said, “But where is my son?” And the mother served up a great dish of black-puddings, and Marlinchen wept and could not leave off. Then the father again said, “But where is my son?” “Ah,” said the mother, “he has gone across the country to his mother’s great uncle; he will stay there awhile.” “And what is he going to do there? He did not even say good-bye to me.”

“Oh, he wanted to go, and asked me if he might stay six weeks, he is well taken care of there.” “Ah,” said the man, “I feel so unhappy lest all should not be right. He ought to have said good-bye to me.” With that he began to eat and said, “Marlinchen, why art thou crying? Thy brother will certainly come back.” Then he said, “Ah, wife, how delicious this food is, give me some more.” And the more he ate the more he wanted to have, and he said, “Give me some more, you shall have none of it. It seems to me as if it were all mine.” And he ate and ate and threw all the bones under the table, until he had finished the whole. But Marlinchen went away to her chest of drawers, and took her best silk handkerchief out of the bottom drawer, and got all the bones from beneath the table, and tied them up in her silk handkerchief, and carried them outside the door, weeping tears of blood. Then the juniper-tree began to stir itself, and the branches parted asunder, and moved together again, just as if some one was rejoicing and clapping his hands. At the same time a mist seemed to arise from the tree, and in the centre of this mist it burned like a fire, and a beautiful bird flew out of the fire singing magnificently, and he flew high up in the air, and when he was gone, the juniper-tree was just as it had been before, and the handkerchief with the bones was no longer there. Marlinchen, however, was as gay and happy as if her brother were still alive. And she went merrily into the house, and sat down to dinner and ate.

But the bird flew away and lighted on a goldsmith’s house, and began to sing,

“My mother she killed me,
My father he ate me,
My sister, little Marlinchen,
Gathered together all my bones.
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,
Laid them beneath the juniper-tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!*

The goldsmith was sitting in his workshop making a gold chain, when he heard the bird which was sitting singing on his roof, and very beautiful the song seemed to him. He stood up, but as he crossed the threshold he lost one of his slippers. But he went away right up the middle of the street with one shoe on and one sock; he had his apron on, and in one hand he had the gold chain and in the other the pincers, and the sun was shining brightly on the street. Then he went right on and stood still, and said to the bird, “Bird,” said he then, “how beautifully thou canst sing! Sing me that piece again.” “No,” said the bird, “I’ll not sing it twice for nothing! Give me the golden chain, and then I will sing it again for thee.” “There,” said the goldsmith, “there is the golden chain for thee, now sing me that song again.” Then the bird came and took the golden chain in his right claw, and went and sat in front of the goldsmith, and sang,

“My mother she killed me,
My father he ate me,
My sister, little Marlinchen,
Gathered together all my bones,
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,
Laid them beneath the juniper-tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!”

Then the bird flew away to a shoemaker, and lighted on his roof, and sang,

“My mother she killed me,
My father he ate me,
My sister, little Marlinchen,
Gathered together all my bones.
Tied them in a silken handkerchief.
Laid them beneath the juniper-tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!”

The shoemaker heard that and ran out of doors in his shirt sleeves, and looked np at his roof, and was forced to hold his hand before his eyes lest the sun should blind him. “Bird,” said he, “how beautifully thou canst sing!” Then he called in at his door, “Wife, just come outside, there is a bird, look at that bird, he just can sing well.” Then he called his daughter and children, and apprentices, boys and girls, and they all came up the street and looked at the bird and how beautiful he was, and what fine red and green feathers he had, and how like real gold his neck was, and how the eyes in his head shone like stars. “Bird,” said the shoemaker, “now sing me that song again.” “Nay,” said the bird, “I do not sing twice for nothing; thou must give me something.” “Wife,” said the man, “go to the garret, upon the top shelf there stands a pair of red shoes, bring them down.” Then the wife went and brought the shoes. “There, bird,” said the man, “now sing me that piece again.” Then the bird came and took the shoes in his left claw, and flew back on the roof, and sang,

“My mother she killed me,
My father he ate me.
My sister, little Marlinchen,
Gathered together all my bones,
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,
Laid them beneath the juniper-tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!”

And when he had sung the whole he flew away. In his right claw he had the chain and the shoes in his left, and he flew far away to a mill, and the mill went “klipp klapp, klipp klapp, klipp klapp,” and in the mill sat twenty miller’s men hewing a stone, and cutting, hick hack, hick hack, hick hack, and the mill went klipp klapp, klipp klapp, klipp klapp. Then the bird went and sat on a lime-tree which stood in front of the mill, and sang,

“My mother she killed me,”

Then one of them stopped working,

“My father he ate me.”

Then two more stopped working and listened to that,

“My sister, little Marlinchen,”

Then four more stopped,

“Gathered together all my bones.
Tied them in a silken handkerchief.”

Now eight only were hewing,

“Laid them beneath.”

Now only five,

“The juniper-tree,” And now only one,

“Ky witt, ky witt, what a beautiful bird am I!”

Then the last stopped also, and heard the last words. “Bird,” said he, “how beautifully thou singest! Let me, too, hear that. Sing that once more for me.”

“Nay,” said the bird, “I will not sing twice for nothing. Give me the millstone, and then I will sing it again.”

“Yes,” said he, “if it belonged to me only, thou shouldst have it.”

“Yes,” said the others, “if he sings again he shall have it.” Then the bird came down, and the twenty millers all set to work with a beam and raised the stone up. And the bird stuck his neck through the hole, and put the stone on as if it were a collar, and flew on to the tree again, and sang,

“My mother she killed me,
My father he ate me,
My sister, little Marlinchen,
Gathered together all my bones.
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,
Laid them beneath the juniper-tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!”

And when he had done singing, he spread his wings, and in his right claw he had the chain, and in his left the shoes, and round his neck the millstone, and he flew far away to his father’s house.

In the room sat the father, the mother, and Marlinchen at dinner, and the father said, “How light-hearted I feel, how happy I am!” “Nay,” said the mother, “I feel so uneasy, just as if a heavy storm were coming.” Marlinchen, however, sat weeping and weeping, and then came the bird flying, and as it seated itself on the roof the father said, “Ah, I feel so truly happy, and the sun is shining so beautifully outside, I feel just as if I were about to see some old friend again.” “Nay,” said the woman, “I feel so anxious, my teeth chatter, and I seem to have fire in my veins.” And she tore her stays open, but Marlinchen sat in a corner crying, and held her plate before her eyes and cried till it was quite wet. Then the bird sat on the juniper-tree, and sang,

“My mother she killed me,”

Then the mother stopped her ears, and shut her eyes, and would not see or hear, but there was a roaring in her ears like the most violent storm, and her eyes burnt and flashed like lightning,

“My father he ate me,”

“Ah, mother,” says the man, “that is a beautiful bird! He sings so splendidly, and the sun shines so warm, and there is a smell just like cinnamon.”

“My sister, Marlinchen,” Then Marlinchen laid her head on her knees and wept without ceasing, but the man said, “I am going out, I must see the bird quite close.” “Oh, don’t go,” said the woman, “I feel as if the whole house were shaking and on fire.” But the man went out and looked at the bird:

“Gathered together all my bones,
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,
Laid them under the juniper-tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!’

On this the bird let the golden chain fall, and it fell exactly round the man’s neck, and so exactly round it that it fitted beautifully. Then he went in and said, “Just look what a fine bird that is, and what a handsome gold chain he has given me, and how pretty he is!” But the woman was terrified, and fell down on the floor in the room, and her cap fell off her head. Then sang the bird once more,

“My mother she killed me,”

“Would that I were a thousand feet beneath the earth so as not to hear that!”

“My father, he ate me,”

Then the woman fell down again as if dead.

“My sister, little Marlinchen.”

“Ah,” said Marlinchen, “I too will go out and see if the bird will give me anything,” and she went out.

“Gathered together all my bones,
Tied them in a silken handkerchief,”

Then he threw down the shoes to her.

“Laid them beneath the juniper-tree,
Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!”

Then she was light-hearted and joyous, and she put on the new red shoes, and danced and leaped into the house. “Ah,” said she, “I was so sad when I went out and now I am so light-hearted; that is a splendid bird, he has given me a pair of red shoes!” “Well,” said the woman, and sprang to her feet and her hair stood up like flames of fire, “I feel as if the world were coming to an end! I, too, will go out and see if my heart feels lighter.” And as she went out at the door, crash! the bird threw down the millstone on her head, and she was entirely crushed by it. The father and Marlinchen heard what had happened and went out, and smoke, flames and fire were rising from the place, and when that was over, there stood the little brother, and he took his father and Marlinchen by the hand, and all three were right glad, and they went into the house to dinner, and ate.

The Grimms’ commentary on the tale describes several other variants, from France as well as Germany, each with their own related rhymes.

Grimms’ notes to “The Juniper Tree”, 1888

https://archive.org/details/grimmshouseholdt01grim/page/396/mode/2up In Jacob & Wilhelm Grimm, Grimm’s household tales: with the author’s notes, transl. Margaret Hunt, introduction by Andrew Lang, vol. I, 1884.

Note 47, p397-400.

47. — The Juniper Tree.

Written down by Runge from oral tradition. According to a story from the Pfalz, communicated to us by Mone, the little sister is placed by the mother near the pan in which the murdered brother is to be cooked. She is strictly forbidden to look inside it, but as the pan is boiling so furiously she just uncovers it, on which the little brother stretches out his hand to her. Thereupon she is seized with terror and instantly covers it, but weeps over what she has seen. When her father’s dinner is quite cooked, she has to carry it out into the vineyard to him. She collects the bones and buries them under a wild juniper. Others relate that she threaded them and hung them up in the loft. Then the little brother is changed into a bird, and pipes

“My mother slew me, and I died,
My sister carried me outside,
My father did eat me,
And yet I’m still here,
Kiwitt, kiwitt.”

The story is likewise told in the Pfalz with another beginning; the stepmother one day sends the two children into the wood to seek strawberries, and the one who comes home first is to have an apple. Then the little boy ties the little girl to a tree and comes back first, but the mother will not give him anything until he has brought his little sister home. The story is common in Hesse, but is seldom told so circumstantially, the only addition that we derive from thence is that the little sister strings together the bones on a red silken thread. The verse runs,

‘My mother she boiled me.
My father he ate me,
My little sister sat under the table,
Picked up all my little bones.
Threw them over the pear-tree
And then a little bird came out
That sings both day and night.’

In a Swabian story, otherwise incomplete, Meier, No. 2, we find,

‘Chirp, chirp.
What a pretty little bird am I!
My mother she cooked me.
My father he ate me!’

There is a passage in Goethe’s Faust, p. 225, which our story will help to explain, and which the poet unquestionably took from ancient oral tradition.

“Meine Mutter die Hur,
die mich umgebracht hat,
mein Vater der Schelm
der mich gessen hat,
mein Schwesterlein klein
hub auf die Bein
an einem kühlen Ort,
da ward ich schönes Waldvögelein
fliege fort, fliege fort!”

The story is indigenous in the south of France, in Languedoc and Provence, and its details do not differ from the German one. The bird sings,

“ma marâtre,
pique patre,
m’a fait bouillir
et rebouillir.
mon pere
le laboureur
m’a mangé
et rongé.
ma jeune soeur
la Lisette,
m’a pleuré
et soupiré:
sous un arbre
m’a enterré,
riou, tsiou, tsiou!
je suis encore eu vie.”
Feuilleton da Globe, 1830. No. 146 by C. S.

That the saga is also current in Scotland is proved by the following rhyme, which Leyden has preserved from a nursery tale. The spirit of a child, in the form of a bird, whistles the following verse to its father:

“Pew wew, pew wew (pipi, wiwi),
My minny me slew.”

with which the remarks, by Albert Hofer in the Blätter für literarische Unterhaltung, 1849, No. 199, should be compared. Lastly, the Bechuanas in South Africa have a kindred story.

Marleenken is Marianchen, Marie Annchen; Machandel [In Diefenbach's ffoch und Niederdeutsches Worterbwh, under 'Machandelbaum,' we find:\n "Machandelbaum, Machandelenbaum, Magand . . . Scabiu. "Machandelbeere, Magandelenbeeren, arciotida = Wacholderbeere Yermittelude Form : wachanderenberen, Juniperus." — Tr.] is perhaps not Almond (Mandel) but Wacholder (juniper), and very important, as it is a tree which rejuvenates, and is awake so far as is implied by quick, active, vivus, living. In other places it is called Queckholder, Reckholder, Juniperus (from junior, younger) Anglo-Saxon, Quicbeam [Quicbeam, or cwicbeam, is, however, not the juniper, but the wild, or mountain-ash, a tree whose berries were also said to have possessed rejuvenating power, and a sprig of which, carried about or placed above house or barn doors, was said to "hinder witches of their will." Hence its common name, "witchwood." — Tr.]. The wicked stepmother (an old proverb says, “The Devil is lined with stepmothers”) is to be found in many other stories. The beginning where the mother cuts her finger reminds us of Snow-white, and of a remarkable passage in Parzival, which is explained in Altd. Wälder, 1, 1-30. The gathering the bones together occurs in the myth of Osiris and Orpheus, and also in the legend of Adalbert; the bringing to life again, in many others, viz., in the story of Brother Lustig (No. 81); in Fitcher’s Vogel (No. 46) in the old Danish ballad Mariböquelle; in the German saga Das ertrunkene Kind (1. St. 62), illusively in Pfaffe Amis; in the Negro story of Nanni, who is taught by her mother to eat the flesh of a young chicken, and put its bones and feathers together again. Zeus restores life to the bones of the child which has been eaten, and replaces with ivory the shoulder-blade which Demeter has eaten. See Gruber’s Mythological Dictionary, 3. 377. Thor collects the bones of the buck which has been eaten, and brings them back to life by shaking them (Dämesage, 38). Other stories need not be mentioned. The punishment of a mill-stone falling on the head from above the door is found in the Edda in the story of the two dwarfs, Fialar and Galar (Copenhagen edition, p. 84). Compare No. 90.

[A Devonshire story The Rose-tree, which is allied to this, is given by Mr. Henderson in his Folklore of the Northern Counties. London, 1866. For Almond-tree birth refer to Pausanias, VII. 17. — Tr.]

The Devonshire version of the tale — The Rose Tree — mentioned in the notes as appearing in William Henderson’s Notes on the Folk-lore of the Northern Counties of England and the Borders (first edition), 1866, pp.314-7 would also be reprinted in Jacobs’ English Fairy Tales of 1890, whose notes to the tale identify it as being communcated to WIlliam Henderson by Sabine Baring Gould.

Jacobs’ notes to “The Rose Tree”, 1890

https://archive.org/details/englishfairytal00jacogoog/page/n36/mode/2up In Joseph Jacobs, English Fairy Tales, 1890.

The tale of The Rose-Tree, appears at pp.15-19, with the note appearing at p.230.

III. THE ROSE TREE.

Source.— From the first edition of Henderson’s Folk-Lore of Northern Counties, p. 314, to which it was communicated by the Rev. S. Baring-Gould.

Parallels.— This is better known under the title, “Orange and Lemon,” and with the refrain:

“My mother killed me.
My father picked my bones.
My little sister buried me.
Under the marble stones.”

I heard this in Australia. Mr. Jones gives part of it in Folk Tales of the Magyars, 418-20, and another version occurs in Notes and Queries, vi. 496. Mr. I. Gollancz informs me he remembers a version entitled “Pepper, Salt, and Mustard,” with the refrain just given. Abroad it is Grimm’s “Juniper Tree” (No. 47), where see further parallels. The German rhyme is sung by Margaret in the mad scene of Goethe’s “Faust”.

Jacobs’ also mentions another version that appeared in Notes and Queries. A quick search of back issues of Notes and Queries to try to identify the tale, and which series of N&Q it appeared in, also reveals that Baring Gould’s collected version of the tale appeared in that periodical in July, 1865, a year before it appeared in Henderson’s Notes.

The Rose Tree, a Devonshire Household Tale, 1865

https://archive.org/details/sim_notes-and-queries_1865-07-29_8_187/mode/2up Notes and Queries 1865-07-29: Vol 8 Iss 187

3rd S. VIII July 29, ‘65.

p.82-4

DEVONSHIRE HOUSEHOLD TALES.

It is of great importance that the household tales of England should be collected, as they have been collected in France, in Germany, in Russia, in Greece, in Scotland, &c.

Dr. Dasent, in his introduction to The Norse Tales, speaks of English household tales as a thing of the past, as though they were no more to be discovered. I am convinced that they are still told in out-of-the-way rural districts, but they are very difficult to obtain, as old people are shy of relating them. Von Hahn was twenty-seven years in the Levant, living among the people, without being able to obtain from them a single household tale. At last he offered to pay for those related to him, and with silver opened the women’s mouths. By this means alone was he able to form his invaluable collection of Greek and Albanian popular tales. I think that the same means might be employed in England. An intelligent girl, in a national school, may also be made very useful in gathering materials.

Our antiquarian collectors of folk lore have hitherto searched for legends, superstitions, and charms; let them diligently seek out true household tales, and I am sure they will find them still existing.

I am now removed from my native county of Devonshire, where I know these tales may be picked up, and I have but a few which I was able to collect. Seeing before me no prospect of being able to continue my search for them, I contribute what I have to “N. & Q.,” in hopes of setting others on the scent:—

I. THE ROSE TREE.

There was once upon a time a good man who had two children: a girl by a first wife, and a boy by the second. The girl was as white as milk, and her lips were like cherries. Her hair was like golden silk, and it hung to the ground. Her brother loved her dearly, but her wicked step-mother hated her. “Child,” said the step-mother one day, “go to the grocer’s shop and buy me a pound of candles.” She gave her the money; and the little girl went, bought the candles, and started on her return. There was a stile to cross. She put down the candles whilst she got over the stile. Up came a dog, and ran off with the candles.

She went back to the grocer’s, and she got a second bunch. She came to the stile, set down the candles, and proceeded to climb over. Up came the dog, and ran off with the candles.

She went again to the grocer’s, and she got a third bunch; and just the same event happened. Then she came to her step-mother crying: for she had spent all the money, and had lost three bunches of candles.

The step-mother was angry, but she pretended not to mind the loss. She said to the child: “Come lay thy head on my lap, that I may comb thy hair.” So the little one laid her head in the woman’s lap, who proceeded to comb the yellow silken hair. And when she combed, the hair fell over her knees, and rolled right down to the ground.

Then the step-mother hated her more for the beauty of her hair; so she said to her: “I cannot part thy hair on my knee, fetch a billet of wood.” So she fetched it.

“Now,” said the wicked woman, “lay thy head down on the billet whilst I part thy hair.”

Well! she laid her little golden head down without fear; and, whist! down came the axe, and it was off. So the mother wiped the axe and laughed,

Then she took the heart and the liver of the little girl, and she stewed them, and brought them into the house for supper. THe husband taster them, and shook his head. He said they tasted very strangely. She gave some to the little boy, but he would not eat. She tried to force him, but he refused; and ran out into the garden, and took up his little sister and put her in a box, and buried the box under a rose tree; and every day he went to the tree and wept, and wept, and wept, till his tears ran down on the box.

One day the rose tree flowered. It was spring. There among the flowers was a white bird; and it sang, and sang, and sang like an angel out of heaven. Away it flew, and it went to a cobbler’s shop, and perched itself on a tree hard by; and this it sang:—

“My wicked mother slew me,
My dear father ate me,
My little brother whom I love,
Sits below, and I sing up above,
Stick, stock, stone dead!” [I think that these lines are not quite correct, a line seems to be wanting.]

“Sing again that beautiful song,” asked the shoemaker. “If you will first give me those little red shoes you are making.” The cobbler gave the shoes, and the bird sang the song; then flew toa tree in front of a watchmaker’s, and sang:—

“My wicked mother slew me,
My dear father ate me,
My little brother whom I love
Sits below, and I sing up above.
Stick, stock, stone dead.

“Oh the beautiful song! sing it again, sweet bird,” asked the watchmaker. “If you will give me first that gold watch and chain in your hand.” The jeweller gave the watch and chain. The bird took it in one foot, the shoes in the other, and flew away after having repeated the song, to where three millers were picking a millstone. The bird perched on a tree, and sang:—

“My wicked mother slew me,
My dear father ate me,
My little brother whom I love
Sits below, and I sing up above.
Stick!’

Then one of the men put down his tool, and looked up from his work:—

“Stock!”

Then the second miller’s man, laid aside his tool and looked up:—

“Dead!”

Then all three cried out with one voice: “Oh what a beautiful song! sing it, sweet bird, again.” “If you will put the millstone round my neck,” said the bird. The men complied with the bird’s request, and away to the tree it flew with the millstone round its neck; and the red shoes in the grasp of one foot, and the gold watch and chain in the grasp of the other. It sang the song, and then flew home. It rattled the millstone against the eaves of the house, and the step-mother said: “It thunders.” Then the little boy ran out to see the thunder, and down dropped the red shoes at his feet. It rattled the millstone against the eaves of the house once more, and the step-mother said again, “It thunders.” Then the father ran out, and down fell the chain about his neck.

In ran father and son laughing and saying: “See! the thunder has brought us these fine things.” Then the bird rattled the millstone against the eaves of the house a third time; and the step-mother said: “It thunders again, perhaps the thunder has brought something for me,” and she ran out: but the moment she stepped outside the door, down fell the millstone on her head; and so she died.

This is the same story as the German tale of “The Juniper Tree,” but it differs from it in many particulars. In the German story the boy is killed, not the girl; and he is killed by the shutting down of the lid of a box on his neck, as he is looking at some apples. The father is not made to eat of the flesh either; though in the corresponding Greek tale, of Asterinos and the Pulja, the bad woman tries to make the sister eat of it. In the Greek story an apple tree grows out of the grave, and bears a golden talking apple, not a bird.

In the Hungarian tale (Erdélyi Népmesek, 5), “A mosolygó alma,” the life of two princes is bound up with golden pear trees, which a stepmother hews down. From them goes forth a bird which lays two golden eggs, and out of these eggs come forth the princes unhurt.

The millstone occurs in many household tales as thunder.

I have no doubt that there is a mythological root to this curious story.

…

S. Baring-Gould.

A response to Baring-Gould’s submission to N&Q a couple of issues later hints at another English variant of the tale, this time from Lincolnshire.

Orange and Lemon, 1865

https://archive.org/details/sim_notes-and-queries_1865-08-12_8_189/mode/2up?q=”rose+tree” Notes and Queries 1865-08-12: Vol 8 Iss 189

p135-6

Household Tales (3 S, viii. 82.)—The story which Mr. Baring-Gould relates under the title of “The Rose Tree,” is evidently a variety of the fiction called “Orange and Lemon,” which is, I believe, very popular in Lincolnshire nurseries. The version which my fickle memory best retains gives a daughter named Orange to the cruel stepmother of little Lemon, and the boy her brother. The dreadful supper having been served up to the father, the boy buries his sister’s remains, and the song of the bird is as follows:—

“My mother killed me,
My father picked my bones,
And my little brother buried me.
Under the cold marble stones.”

As a child this story used to make my flesh creep, and I am therefore surprised that only such a misty recollection of it. I know I always thought that the —

“Here comes the candle to light you to bed,
And here comes the hatchet to chop off your head,”

with which we supplemented the song

“Oranges and lemons, said the bells of St. Clement’s,”

(in the game called Oranges and Lemons), had reference to the shocking tragedy in the nursery tale.
St. Swithin.

The correspondent St. Swithin was actually Mrs Eliza Gutch, who had been instrumental in the formation of the Folklore Society following a letter he had written to Notes and Queries in February 1876, and who would publish three books in that society’s Country Folklore series: North Riding and Yorkshire, York and Ainsty (vol. II), Lincolnshire (vol. V; with Mabel Peacock, and East Riding of Yorkshire (vol. VI).

Jacobs also briefly referenced “Orange and Lemon” as a parallel version of The Rose Tree in his note in English Fairy Tales, referencing another Notes and Queries mention as vi. 496. This turns out to be volume 6 in the 4th Series, in December 1879.

A Nursery Tale from Lancaster, 1870

https://archive.org/details/s4notesqueries06londuoft/page/496/mode/2up Notes and queries 4th S. VI. DEC. 10, 1870

pp. 496

A NURSERY TALE.

The following story is very popular in Lancaster:— Once on a time there was a man who had three children — Lemon, Apple, and Orange Lemon was the daughter of a former wife, and hated accordingly by her stepmother, who out day sent her for some cream, and threatened, if she broke the jug, to kill her. On the way back with the cream, she fell, and the jug was soon a dilapidated as the “luck of Edenhall.” Lemon immediately resorted to the usual feminine remedy for everything, and sat on a doorstep crying violently. A lady passing inquired into the cause of her distress, and purchased her another jug. This and a successor, obtained in a similar manner, were also broken. Lemon then went home, entreating her stepmother not to kill her. The remainder I will endeavour to give literally as narrated to me:—

“Fetch the hatchet out of the cellar,” said he stepmother.

“Oh! mother, you’re going to kill me!”

“I shall, if you don’t do as I tell you.”

[The hatchet having been brought up, Lemon s straightway butchered in a manner highly suggestive of the murder of Mr. Cook.]

The stepmother buried Lemon’s head under the hearthstone, made a pie of her fingers, and put the remainder of her body in the cellar. When the father came home to dinner, he wanted to know where his daughter was.

“Gone to see her aunt,” was the answer. And the pie was placed on the table, and then they heard a voice singing—

“My little sisters are picking my bones,
While I lie under cold marble stones.”

“That’s our Lemon’s voice,” said Apple.

“These are our Lemon’s fingers,” said Orange.

Then the father went down iato the cellar, and found his daughter’s body.

Next morning Apple got up to make the fire, and, as she was doing so, a bracelet came down the chimney.

Then Orange said: “I shall make the fire tomorrow, and see if anything comes for me.” She made the fire, and there came a parasol for her. So the father said: “I shall try my luck in the morning.” And whilst he was lighting the fire, a fine watch flew down. Then he ran into the street, and looking up at the house, he saw his daughter Lemon all in white, like an angel, flying away; but this he never mentioned when he showed them his watch. Then the cruel stepmother thought she would try what she could get; but as she was making the fire, a hatchet came down the chimney, killing her dead on the hearthstone. Wm. E. A. Axon. Strangeways.