Thistle and Thyme by Sorche Nic Leodhas

foolish talk about him being so bonny. ’Twas just beggin’ for trouble.” And they all nodded wisely. But not one of them would tell her what it was they were thinking. Not one.
    Well, the word of the illfaring wean got to the ears of an old cailleach who lived by her lone a little bit beyond the village. She had the name for having all sorts of old wisdom, and some folks said she was a witch. When she heard the tales that were going about, she put on her shawl and shut up her house and went to have a look at the bairn.
    â€œTch! Tch! Tch!” she said when she got a sight of the bairn. “Well, mistress,” said she. “’Tis no wonder the babe’s ill-favored. That’s no bairn of your own! ’Tis a changeling that’s lying there in that cradle.”
    When the young mother heard that, she threw her apron over her face and burst into tears.
    â€œI doubt ye’ve been goin’ about telling folks how bonny your bairn was,” scolded the old woman.
    â€œOch, I did! I did!” cried the young mother. “Even after they told me not to do so.”
    â€œOch, aye. And the fairies heard you say it. They’d not rest after that, till they got hold of your bonny bairn and put one of their ugly brats in his place. When did they switch him on you?”
    â€œIt must have been whilst I was gathering whinberries on the hill, for he’s never been the same since that day. ’Twas but a wee while I was away from him, but it could have been then they did it.” And she fell to weeping almost as loud as the squalling creature in the cradle.
    â€œHauld your whisht!” the old woman said sharply. “Be quiet, lass! Things are never so bad that they can’t be mended, a bit at least. Run and fetch a bundle of grass that your bairn lay on, and give me the shawl you spread for him. We’ll have the fairies’ babe out of the cradle and your own back in gey soon.”
    The bairn’s mother ran off to the hill, and found the patch of bright green grass circled round with bushes where she’d laid her babe. She gathered a great bundle of it and happed it up in her apron and fetched it back to the old woman. Then the old woman asked for the shawl the bairn had lain upon. The old woman wrapped the bundle of grass in the shawl and set it on her knee and dandled it as if it were a bairn. “Sit ye down by the cradle,” she told the young mother, “and neither move nor speak till I give you leave.”
    Then she got a huge big cauldron and filled it full of water and set it over the fire. And all the time, she nursed the bundle of grass in the shawl. She heaped up the fire until it blazed high and the water began to steam. By and by the water began to boil in the pot and when it was boiling high and thumping away like a drum, the old woman took the bundle in one arm and a big wooden spoon in the other, and began to stir the water round and round and round. And whilst she stirred, she sang over and over in a croodling tone:
    Fire boil the cauldron
    Hot, hot, hot!
    Dowse the changeling
    In the pot!
    And all of a sudden she threw shawl, grass and all, into the boiling water!
    The minute she did so, the bairn in the cradle sat up with an eldritch screech, and called out at the top o’ his lungs. “E-e-e-eeh! Come fetch me quick, mammy, or they’ll put me in the cauldron and boil me!
    The door burst open with a terrible bang and in rushed a wild-looking fairy woman, with the young mother’s bairn under her arm. She snatched the changeling out of the cradle and tossed the woman’s child into it. “Take your bairn and I’ll take mine!” she screamed, and out the door she flew.
    â€œWell now!” said the old woman as she laid the wooden spoon on the table. “You can take up the bairn, for it’s your own. You’ve got him back safe again.” And she put on her own shawl and started out the door.
    The