Rachel Busk - Household stories from the Land of Hofer

“Shut the door closely to,

Or the Norg will come through 6 6 “Schliess die Kammer fein, Sonst kommt der Norg herein.” .”

And at other times, again, they would take part in the field and household labours, as if they found it sport. The name of Norg was chiefly appropriated to them in South Tirol; in Vorarlberg the analogous cobbold went by the name of Rutschifenggen . Every locality, every valley, every hamlet, and almost every farm, had its own familiar dwarf whose doings were handed down as household words.

Thus it is told that there was once a countrywoman, who lived in a lonely Meierhof 7 7 The Meierhof was the homestead of a small proprietor standing midway between the peasant and the noble. of the Passeierthal, standing over her stove, preparing a pancake for her husband’s dinner, and as he was a great eater she used an immense number of eggs – three dozen and more – in his pancake: as fast as she broke the eggs into the pan, she threw the shells behind her. Three Norgs came by as she was so occupied and amused themselves with playing with them and arranging them into all kinds of patterns. The Meierin 8 8 Mistress of the Meierhof. was a grumpy sort of woman, and instead of finding pleasure in the glee of the little people, grew cross with them, and scattered the dirty black ashes among the egg-shells they had arranged so prettily. Offended at this ill-natured treatment, the Norgs took their departure, but first laid the thread of the good wife’s spinning-bobbin as a snare across the floor, and then stationed themselves outside the window to see what happened.

Presently the husband called to know if the pancake was not ready, and the Meierin, running to satisfy him, with both hands engaged in holding the dish of the enormous pancake, caught her feet in the thread, and fell flat on the ground with her face in the dish, while the three Norgs completed her vexation by setting up a loud laugh in chorus.

Here is another story of their doings, in which they play a different part. There was a storm in the valley of Matsch, and a storm in the valley of Matsch is often a terrible matter. This was one of the worst: the pitiless flood streamed down the heights, and threatened to overflow the banks of the Hochseen 9 9 Literally, “high lakes;” i. e. lakes on a high mountain level. There are three such in the valley of Matsch, the inundations of which often work sad havoc. ; the wind from the glacier howled dismally over the mountain-sides; the people closed their doors and shutters against the blast, and listened to the roar of the elements, trembling with the thought that every moment might come the signal of the inundation which should carry them and their habitations away in its torrent. In the solidest and most important house of the straggling village, which bears the same name as the valley, was gathered the family of the richest man of the place, who had no reason to share these fears, but with singing and lively conversation chased away the dismal influence of the lugubrious sounds without.

Suddenly, between the angry gusts of wind, a doleful voice was heard piteously praying for help. One of the party opened the casement, and looked out, but with more of curiosity than interest, and then quickly closing it again, came back into the room with a laugh to describe the ludicrous figure he had seen. It was a little mannikin with a beard big enough for a full-grown man, his clothes drenched with the rain, and slung over his shoulder a tiny bundle tied in a handkerchief, which yet seemed to bow him down with its weight. The description provoked a chorus of laughter, and the wretched little Norg – for it was a Norg – would have been no more thought of but that his wail became more irritating than that of the wind, and at last the master of the house got up and shouted to him to go on, for it was useless to stand droning there, he was not going to open his house at that time of night, or to such a ridiculous object. But though he banged the window to as closely as possible after delivering himself of this speech, the little man’s menacing couplet yet reached his ear —

Nevertheless the Norg begged no more, but endeavoured to pass on his way. He could not get far: the torrents of rain had obliterated the path which led from the rising ground on which this house was built, to the next, and it was scarcely safe to descend in the dark with the loose stones rattling away under the feet. Fortunately a glimmering light betrayed a low hut built into the slope. It looked so poor and humble, that the Norg felt ashamed to ask aught of its inhabitants, who could scarcely have had enough for their own needs; but when he saw how utterly forlorn was his position, he sat down on a stone, and wept. Notwithstanding that the poor little Norg had such a hoarse voice that it was more like that of a wild animal than a man, there was a compassionate little maid within who perceived it was a voice of distress, and put her head out to ask who was there. “Poor old man!” she cried; “come inside and dry yourself, and let me give you something warm.” But before he could answer he heard a weak voice within, “Beware, Theresl, of the wolves – remember we are in ‘Matsch der Wölfe Heimath 11 11 The “home of the wolves;” a nickname given to Matsch, because still infested by wolves. .’” “Never fear, mother dear,” replied the maiden, “this is no wolf, but a very distressed little old man, who does not look as if he could harm any one; and besides we are now in June – the wolves don’t threaten us in the summer,” and she opened the door, and let in the little man.

By the time she had dried his clothes and fed him with some warm soup, the worst of the storm had abated, and he was able to go on his way. The maiden offered him shelter for the night, but he declared he must reach home before midnight, and prepared to depart. Before he left he asked her what there was she most desired. “Oh, that my mother be restored to health!” answered Theresa; “I desire nothing more than that!”

The Norg walked to the bedside, and informed himself of the nature of the sick mother’s illness. “Your mother shall be cured,” said the little man; “but you must come to me to-morrow at midnight to the Nörgelspitz;” and as the girl started at the impossibility of the feat, he continued, “You have only to make your way as far as the Wetterkreuz , and there call three times ‘Kruzinegele! Kruzinegele! Kruzinegele!’ and I will be at your side, and take you up the rest of the way.” And he took his departure, singing, —

The next night Theresa courageously set out on her way, and climbed as far as the Wetterkreuz – and it was lucky she had to go no farther, for here she sank down quite exhausted. She had not lain there many seconds when she saw a procession of little men just like Kruzinegele, with a litter and torches, who carried her up till they came to a door in the rock, which opened at their approach. This led to a magnificent crystal hall glittering with gold and gems, and on a gold throne sat Kruzinegele himself, with his fair daughter by his side. When the litter was brought to the steps of the throne, he came down courteously, and renewed his thanks for her hospitality, but she could not find a word to say, in her astonishment at seeing him so changed. Meantime he sent his daughter to fetch the herbs which were to cure the poor mother, and gave them to her, telling her how to administer them. “You see,” he added, —