A Bag Of Moonshine. Alan Garner

      “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.