The white "misseron"

From the "Tales of a Beer Drinker" by Charles Deulin

Source : http://netia59a.ac-lille.fr/av-fourmies/class-exp/misseron/missero1.htm 

     In the olden days, in the days when animals could speak, (I mean, when men, wiser than they are now, could understand the language of the beasts), there lived in the forest Amblise a misseron or, if you prefer, a sparrow which was as white as snow.

  

     In temperament he was no more similar than in plumage to his brothers; he could be accused of neither cheekiness, not thieving nor prattling, which is why none of his peers would be his friend. This mortified him and he resolved to seek one outside his kind. He offered his friendship to the bear, but, dishonestly, the bear answered that he was in need of no one; he offered it to the wolf, but the wolf bared his teeth; he offered it to the fox and the fox accepted, but on seeing his treacherous and cunning air, misseron immediately concluded that such an associate would love him to the point of making him his dinner.

  

    So he then tried the horse, the ox and the ass. They shrugged their shoulders saying:
- What have we in common with such a puny companion? One might as well make friends with a gnat.
   The poor sparrow grew sadder and sadder, for he thought himself to be worthy of a friend, able to exchange helping hand for helping hand, protection for protection . He could, of course, have asked man, but man is the most malevolent and cruellest of all the animals. For, if wolves eat sheep, it is out of obedience to the law of nature and to satisfy their appetite, whereas man does evil for evil's sake; he puts birds in cages, when not putting them on spits, and slaughters his fellows merely for the sake of honour, without being driven to it by hunger.

One day in May, when misseron was on his way alone to Quiévrechain, he came across an old, one-eyed mastiff, limping, gaunt and dragging himself along with difficulty.

  

He was moved to pity and said in a gentle voice,
- Where are you going, old chap?

 

  

 - Straight-ahead, like a lost dog, said the mastiff. For years, I faithfully kept the house. Now, that I am almost crippled, my master has given my job to some whippersnapper and even tried to put me down and so I have run away
- And who is this wretch?
- Tafarot, the brewer.
- Tafarot who lives in that big, desolate house the other side of Quiévrechain?

  

 

- Yes, that's the man.
- I know him. He has an attic full of barley with a hole in it so that you can get in. He's a brute. Many a time, I have seen him thrashing his wife ... So, my poor dog, you have nobody to love you and take care of you in your old age?
- No one.
- Would you like me to be your friend?
- Yes, I would like that, but what can you do for me, my kind little misseron?
- Well, we could give it a try. Time alone will tell. Meanwhile, let's shake on it.
And the two friends touched each other's paws.

  

Fluttering along in front of his companion, white misseron led him to the farmhouse of Vaucelle, the headquarters for sparrows throughout the neighbourhood.

  

On the way, they met dame magpie who chattered on and on like the clattering of the flaps on a windmill
- "Where are you going like this, flittering along with this limping dog? cried the magpie.
- He is my friend, the sparrow proudly replied.

- A miracle! White misseron has found a friend! exclaimed the magpie. And she flew ahead to tell the news.

- Quick! Come on, all of you! she said.
In no time, the two companions were surrounded by more than a hundred sparrows who had come to inspect the dog at close quarters.

 

  

The taunts and gibes were soon raining down thick and fast like hailstones.

- What a queer friend!

- Only one eye!

- Only three legs!

- You can't get more tattered and torn than that !

- Its just the left-overs from an old friend !

- Where on earth did he meet him?

- In Péruwelz, where else?

- Yesterday, there was the flea market.

White misseron weathered the downpour and then answered, without flying off the handle, that is to say, losing his composure.

- You are all young, handsome, amiable but so loud mouthed, of that there is no doubt. But now, please, a little bit of quiet and let people love in peace.

The dog then intimated to his friend that he was ravenous.
- There is nothing here but for sparrows to peck at, he said, but if you don't mind trotting on to Onnaing, I'll invite you for dinner.
The mastiff agreed, and half an hour later the two companions arrived in the village. As they passed the butcher's, misseron said to the dog:
- Stay there and wait.
He flew up and perched on the attic window above the stall, turned his tail towards the street and dropped something onto a large piece of meat.

  

- Misseron, you rascal! cried the butcher. He picked up the meat, wiped it with his apron, and was about to put it back when he noticed that the wife of the mayor, who lived opposite, was watching from behind her curtain.

  

He changed his mind and, as in any case the loss was not great, he threw it to the dog sitting there waiting with his nose in the air.

  

The mastiff seized it, bolted into a corner and soon swallowed it down.

  

For some time, the two friends lived like this, the bird providing for the wants of the dog, and from Onnaing to Quiévrechain, the sole talk of the forest of Amblise was the friendship between the mastiff and white misseron.

Unfortunately however, little by little the poor old dog gradually grew weaker, sometimes falling into long slumbers from which it was difficult to rouse him. One day misseron said to his friend:

- Let's go and see how the chicory is doing round Onnaing way - so off they set.

On the way, as the sun was beating down and it was hot and close, the mastiff felt tired and lay down on the road for a nap.
- Don't lie down there, his comrade cried.. You're could get yourself mangled, but the dog was already so fast asleep that he could no longer hear. The sparrow perched on top of an elm and while watching over his companion, began chirping, "tweet, tweet, tweet" to pass the time away.

  


    
Ten minutes later, our lookout saw in the distance, a cart being driven by Tafarot, the brewer of Quiévrechain and former master of the mastiff.
Tafarot was a brewer and that day he was in a foul mood. As soon as he saw him, white misseron tried to awaken his companion. But alas, it was in vain that he shouted into his ears:
- Quick, we've got to be off, your master is coming !
The dog, worn out by the walk, woke only to fall back into a deep sleep. The sparrow then resolved to go and face the brewer.
- Master, by virtue of your kindness, he asked him politely, would you be so kind as not to crush my old friend who is sleeping there on the road?
- Why don't you wake him up and tell him to clear off? Tafarot said roughly.
- I have done my best. He is sleeping like a log and I can't wake him.
- In that case, too bad for him! And the brewer drove on.
- Do you know that he is your faithful dog, the one who served you for ten years? cried misseron.
- Ah, that old rascal who ran away, said Tafarot. I am glad to meet up with him again. And he drove his wagon straight at the sleeper.
- Brewer stop, stop you scoundrel or you will regret it!
- Really, will I! And what can you do to me? he brute replied disdainfully.
He whipped his horse on and the wheel passed over the body of the poor hound who was crushed on the spot.


  


Misseron shrieked, his feathers ruffled up, his eyes flashed with rage.

  

- You wretch !, he cried, you have killed my friend. Now listen closely to what I am going to say. The price you'll pay for his death is all that you possess!
- Do your damndest replied the brewer, I don't care a tinker's curse !

White misseron flew off with a grieving heart. He was wracking his brain to find some way of avenging the poor deceased dog when he ran into his friend, dame magpie, chattering to herself.
- And what about your friend, where is he? she asked.
- Alas, Tafarot, the brewer has run him over and crushed him, and, what's more, he called me an ugly old pica pica...
- An ugly, old pica pica! But it is me that he is insulting! Where is he?
- Look, he is coming..
- Ah, so there he is… Well, you just stay there, my friend, and you'll see. The sparrow settled in a bush and along came Tafarot, cracking his whip.
- Hey, look here, sony boy cried Mrs.Van Bonbec, is it true that you called white misseron " an ugly, old pica pica?"

 

  


- And what if I did?
- Well, you just take that cap off your head and apologize straight away.
The brewer shrugged his shoulders. When he saw that, as rapid as an arrow, the bird swooped down upon him, seized his cap by the bobble and carried it off. My cap, my cap! cried Tafarot. And he ran after the magpie cracking his whip at him.

 

  


She flew up and perched on the top of a poplar. The brewer climbed into the tree. He was hardly half way up when the thief with the cap in his beak started taunting him from an ash tree, just twenty yards away.

  

 Tafarot climbed down to find three men with their billhooks who were collecting firewood in the forest doubled up with laughter. Tafarot bombarded the tree with stones in fury. Wasting no time, white misseron flew down to the wagon and while all this was going on, pecked at the cork plugging the hole in the barrel of beer. In no time the bird had pierced it and the contents of the barrel flowed out.
  

Tired of pursing the magpie, Tafarot came back and picked up the reins. He saw the beer streaming from the barrel and flabbergasted he saw it was empty.
- Alas, poor me ! he groaned.
- Ah, but not yet poor enough! said misseron.

 

  

 He flew off and perched on the horse's head and began pecking away with his beak again. Immediately, the horse kicked and reared. Wait, you miserable runt! cried Tafarot, beside himself in rage. . He seized the billhook from one of the men and, no longer knowing what he was doing, raised it to strike bird. The bird skipped aside and the blow came down with such force on the horse's head that, felled, it dropped down dead.
- Oh, poor me, I am so wretched! wailed the brewer.
- Not wretched enough yet, said misseron, flying off. We'll meet again back home in your house. Bareheaded and seething with rage, Tafarot pulled the shafts free from the horse, and as he was as strong as he was ill-natured, he pushed the cart to Quarouble stopping at Faidherbe to drink a pint of beer to console himself.  

    Meanwhile his wife, waiting for him, was preparing a meat grill for supper. She was a poor creature. He used to beat the living daylights out of her and he had rendered almost simple-minded. Her name was Clara, but was called Beatty, in allusion to the beatings she received all day long.

While the meat was grilling, she remembered that there wasn't enough beer left and that there was a barrel that needed to be tapped. If her brute of a husband should return without the jug of beer on the table she was sure to get a drubbing. . Beatty went down to the cellar, tapped the barrel and put the jug under it. No sooner had she turned on the tap than she heard a loud noise like a thousand birds alighting on the roof.

 

  


Quickly, she hurried upstairs to see what was going on. When she got to the attic to her amazement she saw a hundred or more sparrows gorging themselves on the grain.

  

White misseron had convened all the sparrows in the region. On leaving Tafarot, Misseron had flown straight to the farmhouse at Vaucelle, and, gathering his brothers, he told them that he had found an attic full of March barley which was as tender as wheat and with an opening in the granary where you could get in. They all flew off as one man, forming a cloud so thick that as they passed, people crossed themselves, believing that it was an eclipse.

 

  

 

    Beatty tried to chase them away, they fluttered around her but wouldn't leave. She tried opening the window; but it wasn't any better. Those waiting outside flew in in droves. Beatty rushed downstairs, as fast as her legs would carry her to fetch a stick and there, at the bottom of the stairs, what did she see but the new house dog running off with the grilled meat in his mouth!

 

 

  

    She ran after him in pursuit. Unfortunately, he disappeared into the countryside and there was no way she could catch him. The woman then hurried back to turn off the tap of the barrel, but while she had been rushing across the fields, the beer had spilled over into the cellar. The barrel was empty and the cellar flooded.

- Oh Lordy me! said Beatty, what on earth can I do so that he doesn't see this mess? She struggled upstairs again and caught sight of a bag of flour that the miller had brought the day before. In her simplicity she thought that if she sprinkled flour over the beer, it would be soaked up and leave the flagstones clean.

 

  

 

    The bag was heavy. As Beatty brought it downstairs she tipped over the beer jug and its contents, like the rest of the beer, was lost . It was the last jug of beer in the house, the other barrels hadn't yet settled and weren't ready to be tapped. A short time later Tafarot arrived, as drunk as a fiddler's bitch and as cheerful as a tombstone. At Faidherbe's, he had met two archers from Onnaing on the way back from a competition at Mons fair, they had drunk more than thirty pints together, without getting rid of his grief.
As soon as his wife saw him in the distance she called out:

Quick, go up to the attic, there are more than a thousand sparrows eating all our grain. Armed with his staff, the brewer rushed up the stairs two at a time. Aghast, he saw, a thousand sparrows tucking into the piles of barley. And there in the middle, like a general, was white misseron, who seemed to have taken command.

- Thunder and lightning! Tafarot cried, and he began lunging to the right and left, - slash, swish and that's for you!

 

  

 

    And so the brewer was able to get an idea of the extent of the disaster. Three quarters of the barley had disappeared with the cursed pilfers.

- God almighty ! Poor me, he cried, tearing his hair.

- Oh, but you will be poorer still! misseron replied, coming out from the corner where he had been hiding.

- Your cruelty will cost you your life! And off he flew. Tafarot threw his staff after him, it missed him but fell onto the head of the dog returning home who was quite astonished to find himself being belaboured by beatings falling from the sky.

 

    The brewer and his wife went down to the kitchen and, dejected and with bowed heads, sat down opposite each other. Tafarot then recounted to his wife all the misfortunes that had befallen him. She did not dare to say too much, but deep in her soul she did not think that white misseron was so much in the wrong. Why had her husband run over the poor old dog?

The effort of all this sighing however, made the brewer realize that he was feeling peckish. It was his wife's turn to tell the story of the meat, the barrel of beer and the bag of flour, all lost due to the mischief of misseron. In any other circumstances, he would have thrashed his wife to a frazzle, but overwhelmed by this relentless persecution, he could only repeat one last time:

- Oh, poor me, how unhappy I am!

- Still not unhappy enough! cried a voice. Your cruelty will cost you your life!

It was the eternal misseron perched outside on the window sill. Tafarot jumped up like a scalded cat, grabbed a stool and threw it into the window panes which shattered. White misseron then had the nerve to enter the room. The brewer threw at him everything that he could get his hands on: pots, pans, dishes, plates, chairs and benches, but didn't hit him once.

  


   At last, however, he did manage to catch hold of him.
- Wring his neck! said his wife, afraid of seeing the little animal suffer.
- No! Tafarot said, foaming with rage, that would be too easy. First, we will first teach him how to sing by burning his eyes out as they do for finches, and then we will tear out his feathers, one by one and then his wings and legs. Put the poker in the fire to heat. Beatty obeyed. When the poker was red hot, her husband ordered her to approach. He felt with delight the poor bird quivering in his hands.

 

  

 

   Suddenly white misseron raised his head and cried with all his strength:
- Brewer, it will cost you your life! Tafarot started. He was livid with rage and grinding his teeth. The sight of this scared Beatty and, inadvertently, she burned his hand.

  

    Beside himself, he let the sparrow go and gave his wife such a clout that she saw ten thousand stars. He tried to catch misseron again; he saw him on the window sill, out of reach. The bird looked at him with a look that exasperated him even more. He grabbed a knife and stabbed Beatty.

 

  

The poor woman screamed and fell into a faint. He thought he had killed her, and turning his rage against himself, he plunged the knife into his heart.

  

  

    Beatty wasn't badly wounded and soon got better, but Tafarot dropped dead on the spot. White misseron flew off to Vaucelle, as proud and as happy as a peacock. His friend had been avenged. The tale was soon the talk of the land. A tavern opened just opposite the brewery under the sign of the White Misseron . Customers flocked there. Little by little, the place grew into a hamlet which was called White Misseron, a name it still retains today.

    This is tale that people are fond of telling for it shows that we should despise no one, that neither friend nor enemy is ever small, and that courage prevails over brute force.

 

The End