Adapted from welsh Folk-Lore by Owain Elias
DICK THE FIDDLER WAS IN THE habit of going about the country to play at merry-makings, fairs, and other public events. This worthy, after a week’s fuddle at Darowen, wending his way homeward, had to walk down ‘Fairy Green Lane,’ just above the farmstead of Cefn Cloddiau. To banish fear, which he felt was gradually obtaining the mastery over him, and instead of just whistling, he drew out from the skirt pocket of his long-tailed great coat his favourite instrument. After tuning it, he commenced elbowing his way through his favourite air, Aden Ddu’r Fran (Crow’s Black Wing).
When he passed over the green sward where the Tylwyth Têg, or Fairies, held their merry meetings, he heard something rattle in his fiddle, and this something continued rattling and tinkling until he reached Llwybr Scriw Riw, his home. By then he was almost out of his senses at the fright caused by that everlasting ‘tink, rink, jink,’ which was ever sounding in his ears.
Having entered the cottage he soon heard music of a different kind, in the harsh angry voice of his better half, who justly incensed at his absence, began lecturing him in a style, which, unfortunately, Dick, from habit, could not wholly appreciate. He was called a worthless fool, a regular drunkard and idler.
“How is it possible for me to beg enough for myself and half a house-full of children nearly naked, while you go about the country and bring me nothing home.”
‘Hush, hush, my good woman,” said Dick, “see what’s in the blessed old fiddle.”
She obeyed, shook it, and out tumbled, to great surprise, a five-shilling piece. The wife looked up into the husband’s face, saw that it was ‘as pale as a sheet’ with fright: and also noting that he had such an unusually large sum in his possession, she came to the conclusion that he could not live long, and accordingly changed her style saying, “Good man go to Llanidloes tomorrow, it is market-day and buy some shirting for yourself, for it may never be your good fortune to have such a sum of money again.”
The following day, according to his wife’s wishes, Dick wended his way to Llanidloes, musing, as he went along, upon his extraordinary luck, and unable to account for it. Arrived in the town, he entered Richard Evans’s shop, and called for shirting linen to the value of five shillings, for which he gave the shopkeeper the crown piece taken out of the fiddle. Mr. Evans placed it in the till, and our worthy Dick betook himself to Betty Brunt’s public-house in high glee with the capital piece of linen in the skirt pocket of his long-tailed top coat.
He had not, however, been long seated before Mr. Evans came in, and made sharp enquiries as to how and where he obtained possession of the crown piece with which he had paid for the linen. Dick assumed a solemn look, and then briefly related where and how he had received the coin.
“Say you so,” said Evans, “I thought as much, for when I looked into the till, shortly after you left the shop, to my great surprise it was changed into a heap of musty horse dung.”