Page:The Folk-Lore Journal Volume 3 1885.djvu/195

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NOTES AND QUERIES.
187

Dog-bite Superstition.—A few years ago the daughter of the coachman of a neighbour walked into my stable-yard; the dog was loose, and being nearly dark he did not recognise her, but reared up and bit her face, but not severely; the dog was a St. Bernard and of good disposition; it soon got abroad that the girl had been bitten; she told her story to the wife of a policeman, a countrywoman, who told her what would happen if ever the dog went mad; the girl returned to her father's house in great distress and labouring under great excitement; her father, who did not believe in the superstition, came to me, evidently half ashamed, to ask if I would have the dog destroyed, and in order to calm the poor girl's fear I had the dog poisoned. I subsequently saw the woman who created the alarm; she maintained that the thing was true, and quite considered that she had done the proper thing in telling the girl of her peril. According to Henderson, Folk-Lore, p. 159, the idea is prevalent in Northumberland. It is likewise mentioned by Gregor, p. 127, as prevalent in the north-east of Scotland. J. G. Fenwick.

Moorlands, Newcastle-on-Tyne.


Man transformed into Bull.—Can any of the readers of the Folk-Lore Journal tell me where to find the story of a man who was compelled by enchantments to take the form of a bull for twelve hours every day? I heard the tale when I was a child from a rough farmhouse servant in Lincolnshire, and I am anxious to learn its history. In the beginning of the story the man, like "the Hoodie" of the Highland legend, related in Campbell's Popular Tales of the West Highlands, vol. i. p. 63, asks his bride whether he shall appear under his brute form by day or by night. Later on, however, the narrative resembles a Welsh story mentioned in the same book, vol. iv. p. 295, for the heroine of the Welsh tale sings to the king who has taken the "sleepy drink":

"I bore three babes for thee,
And I climbed the glass peaks for thee,"
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While the forsaken wife of the Lincolnshire story sits on the door-sill of her husband's room combing her hair and chanting: