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Those who have read George MacDonald's story of Sir Gibbie remember how the little waif from the city was mistaken for a brownie because he secretly helped in the churning. In France a pious class of peasants pray to St. Blaise for a blessing on their various farm occupations, including the dairy work. A hymn written to the saint contains this petition:
"I had been living with that little girl and her family about a month, I suppose, when one day she came running to my house and took me out, and said: "'Oh, Brownie' that was her name for me 'we are going to the country, Brownie dear, where you can run and play on the green grass, and eat fresh clover, and have the best time.
During the short space of his absence, the Tweed, which they must necessarily ford, rose to a dangerous height. Brownie, who transported his charge with all the rapidity of the ghostly lover of Lenore, was not to be stopped by the obstacle. He plunged in with the terrified old lady, and landed her in safety where her services were wanted.
The dull little sprite would gladly have helped the poor lad to his freedom, but told him that only on one night of the year was there the least hope, and that was on Hallow-e'en, when the whole nation of fairies ride in procession through the streets of earth. So Robin was instructed to spin a dream, which the kind brownie would hum in Janet's ear while she slept.
"I resign," he said, "and anyone that wants to go in my place is welcome to do so." But nobody cared to go. And the whole village seemed greatly disappointed, until Grandaddy Beaver made a short speech. "We've all had a good holiday, anyhow," he said. "And I should say that was something to be thankful for." "Have you heard the news?" Tired Tim asked Brownie Beaver one day.
"She's afraid he's coming back again," Mr. Crow explained. "I have heard he was lazy," Brownie said. "What happened on Friday?" "Tommy Fox made a visit. But he didn't have a good time at all," Mr. Crow reported, "and he left faster than he came." Brownie Beaver wanted to know where Tommy Fox made his visit. "At Farmer Green's hen-house," Mr. Crow explained. "Why did he hurry away?" Brownie asked.
Certes, the convenience of such a supernatural assistance could have been nowhere more sensibly felt than in a family where the domestics were so little disposed to personal activity; yet this serving maiden was so far from rejoicing in seeing a supposed aerial substitute discharging a task which she should have long since performed herself, that she proceeded to raise the family by her screams of horror, uttered as thick as if the Brownie had been flaying her.
Mother Carey smiled and waved a finger toward a little Brownie, who came with a tray on which were two cups; one full of bright sparkling pink stuff, and the other with something that looked like dark green oil. But the glasses were joined at the top, there was but one place to drink, and that reached both.
Then he tried to squirm from under the tree-trunk. But he couldn't move himself at all. Next he tried to push the tree away from him. But he couldn't move the tree either. For a long while Brownie Beaver struggled, first at one impossible thing, and then at the other. And all the time the tree seemed to grow heavier and heavier.
"Not dressed? you laziness!" Jim flung at her. "Well, you aren't either," was the merry retort. "No; but we've got no silly hair to brush!" "Pooh! that won't take me any time. Mrs. Brown's up, Jim, and she says breakfast will be ready in ten minutes." "Good old Brownie!" Jim ejaculated. "Can't beat her, can you? D'you know if she's got the swag packed?"
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