JACK AND HIS COMRADES.

Once there was a poor widow, and often there was, and she had one son. A very scarce summer came, and they didn’t know how they’d live till the new potatoes would be fit for eating. So Jack said to his mother one evening, “Mother, bake my cake, and kill my cock, till I go seek my fortune; and if I meet it, never fear but I’ll soon be back to share it with you.” So she did as he asked her, and he set out at break of day on his journey. His mother came along with him to the bawn (yard) gate, and says she,—“Jack, which would you rather have, half the cake and half the cock with my blessing, or the whole of ’em with my curse?” “O musha, mother,” says Jack, “why do you ax me that question? sure you know I wouldn’t have your curse and Damer’s1 estate along with it.” “Well, then, Jack,” says she, “here’s the whole tote (lot) of ’em, and my thousand blessings along with them.” So she stood on the bawn ditch (fence) and blessed him as far as her eyes could see him.

Well, he went along and along till he was tired, and ne’er a farmer’s house he went into wanted a boy.2 At last his road led by the side of a bog, and there was a poor ass up to his shoulders near a big bunch of grass he was striving to come at. “Ah, then, Jack asthore,” says he, “help me out or I’ll be dhrounded.” “Never say’t twice,” says Jack, and he pitched in big stones and scraws (sods) into the slob, till the ass got good ground p. 6 under him. “Thank you, Jack,” says he, when he was out on the hard road; “I’ll do as much for you another time. Where are you going?” “Faith, I’m going to seek my fortune till harvest comes in, God bless it!” “And if you like,” says the ass, “I’ll go along with you; who knows what luck we may have!” “With all my heart; it’s getting late, let us be jogging.”

Well, they were going through a village, and a whole army of gorsoons3 were hunting a poor dog with a kittle tied to his tail. He ran up to Jack for protection, and the ass let such a roar out of him, that the little thieves took to their heels as if the ould boy (the devil) was after them. “More power to you, Jack!” says the dog. “I’m much obleeged to you: where is the baste4 and yourself going?” “We’re going to seek our fortune till harvest comes in.” “And wouldn’t I be proud to go with you!” says the dog, “and get shut (rid) of them ill conducted boys; purshuin’ to ’em!” “Well, well, throw your tail over your arm, and come along.”

They got outside the town, and sat down under an old wall, and Jack pulled out his bread and meat, and shared with the dog; and the ass made his dinner on a bunch of thistles. While they were eating and chatting, what should come by but a poor half‐starved cat, and the moll‐row he gave out of him would make your heart ache. “You look as if you saw the tops of nine houses since breakfast,” says Jack; “here’s a bone and something p. 7 on it.” “May your child never know a hungry belly!” says Tom; “it’s myself that’s in need of your kindness. May I be so bold as to ask where yez are all going?” “We’re going to seek our fortune till the harvest comes in, and you may join us if you like.” “And that I’ll do with a heart and a half,” says the cat, “and thank’ee for asking me.”

Off they set again, and just as the shadows of the trees were three times as long as themselves, they heard a great cackling in a field inside the road, and out over the ditch jumped a fox with a fine black cock in his mouth. “Oh you anointed villian!” says the ass, roaring like thunder. “At him, good dog!” says Jack, and the word wasn’t out of his mouth when Coley was in full sweep after the Moddhera Rua (Red Dog). Reynard dropped his prize like a hot potato, and was off like shot, and the poor cock came back fluttering and trembling to Jack and his comrades. “O musha, naybours!” says he, “wasn’t it the hoith o’ luck that threw you in my way! Maybe I won’t remember your kindness if ever I find you in hardship; and where in the world are you all going?” “We’re going to seek our fortune till the harvest comes in; you may join our party if you like, and sit on Neddy’s crupper when your legs and wings are tired.”

Well, the march began again, and just as the sun was gone down they looked around, and there was neither cabin nor farm house in sight. “Well, well,” says Jack, “the worse luck now the better another time, and it’s only a summer night after all. We’ll go into the wood, and make our bed on the long grass.” No sooner said than done. Jack stretched himself on a bunch of dry grass, the ass lay near him, the dog and cat lay in the ass’s warm lap, and the cock went to roost in the next tree.

Well, the soundness of deep sleep was over them all, when the cock took a notion of crowing. “Bother you, Cuileach Dhu (Black Cock)!” says the ass: “you p. 8 disturbed me from as nice a wisp of hay as ever I tasted. What’s the matter?” “It’s daybreak that’s the matter: don’t you see light yonder?” “I see a light indeed,” says Jack, “but it’s from a candle it’s coming, and not from the sun. As you’ve roused us we may as well go over, and ask for lodging.” So they all shook themselves, and went on through grass, and rocks, and briars, till they got down into a hollow, and there was the light coming through the shadow, and along with it came singing, and laughing, and cursing. “Easy, boys!” says Jack: “walk on your tippy toes till we see what sort of people we have to deal with.” So they crept near the window, and there they saw six robbers inside, with pistols, and blunderbushes, and cutlashes, sitting at a table, eating roast beef and pork, and drinking mulled beer, and wine, and whisky punch.

“Wasn’t that a fine haul we made at the Lord of Dunlavin’s!” says one ugly‐looking thief with his mouth full, “and it’s little we’d get only for the honest porter: here’s his purty health!” “The porter’s purty health!” cried out every one of them, and Jack bent his finger at his comrades. “Close your ranks, my men,” says he in a whisper, “and let every one mind the word of command.” So the ass put his fore‐hoofs on the sill of the window, the dog got on the ass’s head, the cat got on the dog’s head, and the cock on the cat’s head. Then Jack made a sign, and they all sung out like mad. “Hee‐haw, hee‐haw!” roared the ass; “bow‐wow!” barked the dog; “meaw‐meaw!” cried the cat; “cock‐a‐doodle‐doo!” crowed the cock. “Level your pistols!” cried Jack, “and make smithereens of ’em. Don’t leave a mother’s son of ’em alive; present, fire!” With that they gave another halloo, and smashed every pane in the window. The robbers were frightened out of their lives. They blew out the candles, threw down the table, and skelped out at the back door as if they were in earnest, and never drew rein till they were in the very heart of the wood.

p. 9

Jack and his party got into the room, closed the shutters, lighted the candles, and ate and drank till hunger and thirst were gone. Then they lay down to rest;—Jack in the bed, the ass in the stable, the dog on the door mat, the cat by the fire, and the cock on the perch.

At first the robbers were very glad to find themselves safe in the thick wood, but they soon began to get vexed. “This damp grass is very different from our warm room,” says one; “I was obliged to drop a fine pig’s crubeen (foot),” says another; “I didn’t get a tay‐spoonful of my last tumbler,” says another; “and all the Lord of Dunlavin’s goold and silver that we left behind!” says the last. “I think I’ll venture back,” says the captain, “and see if we can recover anything.” “That’s a good boy!” said they all, and away he went.

The lights were all out, and so he groped his way to the fire, and there the cat flew in his face, and tore him with teeth and claws. He let a roar out of him, and made for the room door, to look for a candle inside. He trod on the dog’s tail, and if he did, he got the marks of his teeth in his arms, and legs, and thighs. “Millia murdher (thousand murders)!” cried he; “I wish I was out of this unlucky house.” When he got to the street door, the cock dropped down upon him with his claws and bill, and what the cat and dog done to him was only a flay‐bite to what he got from the cock. “Oh, tattheration to you all, you unfeeling vagabones!” says he, when he recovered his breath; and he staggered and spun round and round till he reeled into the stable, back foremost, but the ass received him with a kick on the broadest part of his small clothes, and laid him comfortably on the dunghill. When he came to himself, he scratched his head, and began to think what happened him; and as soon as he found that his legs were able to carry him, he crawled away, dragging one foot after another, till he reached the wood.

“Well, well,” cried them all, when he came within p. 10 hearing, “any chance of our property?” “You may say chance,” says he, “and it’s itself is the poor chance all out. Ah, will any of you pull a bed of dry grass for me? All the sticking‐plaster in Inniscorfy (Enniscorthy) will be too little for the cuts and bruises I have on me. Ah, if you only knew what I have gone through for you! When I got to the kitchen fire, looking for a sod of lighted turf, what should be there but a colliach (old woman) carding flax, and you may see the marks she left on my face with the cards. I made to the room door as fast as I could, and who should I stumble over but a cobbler and his seat, and if he did not work at me with his awls and his pinchers you may call me a rogue. Well, I got away from him somehow, but when I was passing through the door, it must be the divel himself that pounced down on me with his claws, and his teeth, that were equal to sixpenny nails, and his wings—ill luck be in his road! Well, at last I reached the stable, and there, by way of salute, I got a pelt from a sledge‐hammer that sent me half a mile off. If you don’t believe me, I’ll give you leave to go and judge for yourselves.” “Oh, my poor captain,” says they, “we believe you to the nines. Catch us, indeed, going within a hen’s race of that unlucky cabin!”

Well, before the sun shook his doublet next morning, Jack and his comrades were up and about. They made a hearty breakfast on what was left the night before, and then they all agreed to set off to the castle of the Lord of Dunlavin, and give him back all his gold and silver. Jack put it all in the two ends of a sack, and laid it across Neddy’s back, and all took the road in their hands. Away they went, through bogs, up hills, down dales, and sometimes along the yalla high road, till they came to the hall door of the Lord of Dunlavin, and who should be there, airing his powdered head, his white stockings, and his red breeches, but the thief of a porter.

He gave a cross look to the visitors, and says he to p. 11 Jack, “What do you want here, my fine fellow? there isn’t room for you all.” “We want,” says Jack, what I’m sure you haven’t to give us—and that is, common civility.” “Come, be off, you lazy geochachs (greedy strollers)!” says he, “while a cat ’ud be licking her ear, or I’ll let the dogs at you.” “Would you tell a body,” says the cock that was perched on the ass’s head, “who was it that opened the door for the robbers the other night?” Ah! maybe the porter’s red face didn’t turn the colour of his frill, and the Lord of Dunlavin and his pretty daughter, that were standing at the parlour window unknownst to the porter, put out their heads. “I’d be glad, Barney,” says the master, “to hear your answer to the gentleman with the red comb on him.” “Ah, my lord, don’t believe the rascal; sure I didn’t open the door to the six robbers.” “And how did you know there were six, you poor innocent?” said the lord. “Never mind, sir,” says Jack, “all your gold and silver is there in that sack, and I don’t think you will begrudge us our supper and bed after our long march from the wood of Athsalach (muddy ford).” “Begrudge, indeed! Not one of you will ever see a poor day if I can help it.”

So all were welcomed to their heart’s content, and the ass, and the dog, and the cock got the best posts in the farmyard, and the cat took possession of the kitchen. The lord took Jack in hands, dressed him from top to toe in broadcloth, and frills as white as snow, and turn‐pumps, and put a watch in his fob. When they sat down to dinner, the lady of the house said Jack had the air of a born gentleman about him, and the lord said he’d make him his steward. Jack brought his mother, and settled her comfortably near the castle, and all were as happy as you please. The old woman that told me the story said Jack and the young lady were married; but if they were, I hope he spent two or three years getting the edication of a gentleman. I don’t think that a country boy would feel comfortable, striving to find discoorse for a well‐bred young lady, the length of a summer’s day, even p. 12 if he had the “Academy of Compliments,”5 and the “Complete Letter Writer” by heart.

THE BAD STEPMOTHER.

Once there was a king, and he had two fine children, a girl and a boy; but he married again after their mother died, and a very wicked woman she was that he put over them. One day when he was out hunting, the stepmother came in where the daughter was sitting all alone, with a cup of poison in one hand and a dagger in the other, and made her swear that she would never tell any one that ever was christened what she would see her doing. The poor young girl—she was only fifteen—took the oath, and just after the queen took the king’s favourite dog and killed him before her eyes.

When the king came back, and saw his pet lying dead in the hall, he flew into a passion, and axed who done7 p. 18 it; and says the queen, says she—“Who done it but your favourite daughter? There she is—let her deny it if she can!” The poor child burst out a crying, but wasn’t able to say anything in her own defence bekase of her oath. Well, the king did not know what to do or to say. He cursed and swore a little, and hardly ate any supper. The next day he was out a hunting the queen killed the little son, and left him standing on his head on the window‐seat of the lobby.

Well, whatever way the king was in before, he went mad now in earnest. “Who done this?” says he to the queen. “Who, but your pet daughter?” “Take the vile creature,” says he to two of his footmen, “into the forest, and cut off her two hands at the wrists, and maybe that’ll teach her not to commit any more murders. Oh, Vuya, Vuya!” says he, stamping his foot on the boarded floor, “what a misfortunate king I am to lose my childher this way, and had only the two. Bring me back the two hands, or your own heads will be off before sunset.”

When he stamped on the floor a splinter ran up into his foot through the sole of his boot; but he didn’t mind it at first, he was in such grief and anger. But when he was taking off his boots, he found the splinter fastening one of them on his foot. He was very hardset to get it off, and was obliged to send for a surgeon to get the splinter out of the flesh; but the more he cut and probed, the further it went in. So he was obliged to lie on a sofia all day, and keep it poulticed with bowl‐almanac or some other plaster.

Well, the poor princess, when her arms were cut off, thought the life would leave her; but she knew there was a holy well off in the wood, and to it she made her way. She put her poor arms into the moss that was growing over it, and the blood stopped flowing, and she was eased of the pain, and then she washed herself as well as she could. She fell asleep by the well, and the spirit of her mother appeared to her in a dream, and told her to be good, and never forget to say her prayers p. 19 night and morning, and that she would escape every snare that would be laid for her.

When she awoke next morning she washed herself again, and said her prayers, and then she began to feel hungry. She heard a noise, and she was so afraid that she got into a low broad tree that hung over the well. She wasn’t there long till she saw a girl with a piece of bread and butter in one hand, and a pitcher in the other, coming and stooping over the well. She looked down through the branches, and if she did, so sure the girl saw her face in the water, and thought it was her own. She looked at it again and again, and then, without waiting to eat her bread or fill her pitcher, she ran back to the kitchen of a young king’s palace that was just at the edge of the wood. “Where’s the water?” says the housekeeper. “Wather!” says she; “it ’ud be a purty business for such handsome girl as I grew since yesterday, to be fetchin’ wather for the likes of the people that’s here. It’s married to the young prince I ought to be.” “Oh! to Halifax with you,” says the housekeeper, “I’ll soon cure your impedence.” So she locked her up in the store‐room, an’ kep’ her on bread and water.

To make a long story short, two other girls were sent to the well, and all were in the same story when they cum back. An’ there was such a thravally8 ruz in the kitchen about it at last, that the young king came to hear the rights of it. The last girl told him what happened to herself, and nothing would do the prince but go to the well to see about it. When he came he stooped and saw the shadow of the beautiful face; but he had sense enough to look up, and he found the princess in the tree.

Well, it would take me too long to tell yez all the fine things he said to her, and how modestly she answered him, and how he handed her down, and was almost p. 20 ready to cry when he seen her poor arms. She would not tell him who she was, nor the way she was persecuted on account of her oath; but the short and the long of it was, that he took her home, and couldn’t live if she didn’t marry him. Well, married they were; and in course of time they had a fine little boy; but the strangest thing of all was that the young queen begged her husband not to have the child baptized till he’d be after coming home from the wars that the King of Ireland had just then with the Danes.

He agreed, and set off to the camp, giving a beautiful jewel to her just as his foot was in the stirrup. Well, he wrote to her every second day, and she wrote to him every second day, and dickens a letter ever came to the hands of him or her. For the wicked stepmother had her watched all along, from the very day she came to the well till the king went to the wars; and she gave such a bribe to the postman (!) that she got all the letters herself. Well, the poor king didn’t know whether he was standing on his head or his feet, and the poor queen was crying all the day long.

At last there was a letter delivered to the king; and this was wrote by the wicked stepmother herself, as if it was from the young queen to one of the officers, asking him to get a furlough, and come and meet her at such a well, naming the one in the forest. He got this officer, that was as innocent as the child unborn, put in irons, and sent two of his soldiers to put the queen to death, and bring him his young child safe. But the night before, the spirit of the queen’s mother appeared to her in a dream, and told her the danger that was coming. “Go,” said she, “with your child to‐morrow morning to the well, and dress yourself in your maid’s clothes before you leave the house; wash your arms in the well once more, and take a bottle of the water with you, and return to your father’s palace. Nobody will know you. The water will cure him of a disorder he has, and I need not say any more.”

p. 21

Just as the young queen was told, just so she done; and when she was after washing her face and arms, lo and behold! her nice soft hands were restored; but her face that was as white as cream was now as brown as a berry. So she fell on her knees and said her prayers, and then she filled her bottle, and set out for her father’s court with her child in her arms. The sentries at the palace gates let her pass when she said she was coming to cure the king; and she got to where he was lying in pain before the stepmother knew anything about it, for herself was sick at the time.

Before she opened her mouth the king loved her, she looked so like his former queen and his lost daughter, though her face was so swarthy. She hardly washed his wound with the water of the holy well when out came the splinter, and he was as strong on his limbs as a new ditch.

Well, hadn’t he great cooramuch about the brown‐faced woman and her child, and nothing that the wicked queen could do would alter his opinion of her. The old rogue didn’t know who she was, especially as she wasn’t without the hands; but it was her nature to be jealous of every one that the king cared for.

In two or three weeks the wars was over, and the young king was returning home, and the road he took brought him by his father‐in‐law’s. The old king would not let him pass by without giving him an entertainment for all his bravery again’ the Danes, and there was great huzzaing and cheering as he was riding up the avenue and through the courtyard. Just as he was alighting, his wife held up his little son to him, with the jewel in his little hand.

He got a wonderful fright. He knew his wife’s features, but they were so tawny, and her pretty brown hands were to the good, and the child was his own picture, but still she couldn’t be his false princess. He kissed the child, and passed on, but hardly said a word till dinner was over. Then says he to the old king, “Would you p. 22 allow a brown woman and her child that I saw in the palace yard, to be sent for, till I speak to her?” “Indeed an’ I will,” said the other; “I owe my life to her.” So she came in, and the young king made her sit down very close to him. “Young woman,” says he, “I have a particular reason for asking who you are, and who is the father of that child.” “I can’t tell you that, sir,” said she, “because of an oath I was obliged to take never to tell my story to any one that was christened. But my little boy was never christened, and to him I’ll tell everything. My little son, you must know that my wicked stepmother killed my father’s favourite dog, and killed my own little brother, and made me swear never to tell any one that ever received baptism, about it. She got my own father to have my hands chopped off, and I’d die only I washed them in the holy well in the forest. A king’s son made me his wife, and she got him by forged letters to send orders to have me killed. The spirit of my mother watched over me; my hands were restored; my father’s wound was healed; and now I place you in your own father’s arms. Now, you may be baptized, thank God! and that’s the story I had to tell you.”

She took a wet towel, and wiped her face, and she became as white and red as she was the day of her marriage. She had like to be hurt with her husband and her father pulling her from each other; and such laughing and crying never was heard before or since. If the wicked stepmother didn’t make her escape, she was torn between wild horses; and if they all didn’t live happy after—that you and I may!”

ADVENTURES OF GILLA NA CHRECK AN GOUR.9

Long ago, a poor widow woman lived down near the iron forge, by Enniscorthy, and she was so poor, she had no clothes to put on her son; so she used to fix him in the ash‐hole, near the fire, and pile the warm ashes about him; and according as he grew up, she sunk the pit deeper. At last, by hook or by crook, she got a goat‐skin, p. 24 and fastened it round his waist, and he felt quite grand, and took a walk down the street. So says she to him next morning, “Tom, you thief, you never done any good yet, and you six foot high, and past nineteen;—take that rope, and bring me a bresna from the wood.” “Never say ’t twice, mother,” says Tom—“here goes.”

When he had it gathered and tied, what should come up but a big joiant, nine foot high, and made a lick of a club at him. Well become Tom, he jumped a‐one side, and picked up a ram‐pike; and the first crack he gave the big fellow, he made him kiss the clod. “If you have e’er a prayer,” says Tom, “now’s the time to say it, before I make brishe10 of you.” “I have no prayers,” says the giant; “but if you spare my life I’ll give you that club; and as long as you keep from sin, you’ll win every battle you ever fight with it.”

Tom made no bones about letting him off; and as soon as he got the club in his hands, he sat down on the bresna, and gave it a tap with the kippeen, and says, “Bresna, I had great trouble gathering you, and run the risk of my life for you; the least you can do is to carry me home.” And sure enough, the wind o’ the word was all it wanted. It went off through the wood, groaning and cracking, till it came to the widow’s door.

Well, when the sticks were all burned, Tom was sent off again to pick more; and this time he had to fight with a giant that had two heads on him. Tom had a little more trouble with him—that’s all; and the prayers he said, was to give Tom a fife, that nobody could help dancing when he was playing it. Begonies, he made the big fagot dance home, with himself sitting on it. Well, if you were to count all the steps from this to Dublin, dickens a bit you’d ever arrive there. The next giant was a beautiful boy with three heads on him. He had neither prayers nor catechism no more nor the others; and so he gave Tom a bottle of green ointment, that p. 25 wouldn’t let you be burned, nor scalded, nor wounded. “And now,” says he, “there’s no more of us. You may come and gather sticks here till little Lunacy Day in Harvest, without giant or fairy‐man to disturb you.”

Well, now, Tom was prouder nor ten paycocks, and used to take a walk down street in the heel of the evening; but some o’ the little boys had no more manners than if they were Dublin jackeens, and put out their tongues at Tom’s club and Tom’s goat‐skin. He didn’t like that at all, and it would be mean to give one of them a clout. At last, what should come through the town but a kind of a bellman, only it’s a big bugle he had, and a huntsman’s cap on his head, and a kind of a painted shirt. So this—he wasn’t a bellman, and I don’t know what to call him—bugle‐man, maybe, proclaimed that the King of Dublin’s daughter was so melancholy that she didn’t give a laugh for seven years, and that her father would grant her in marriage to whoever could make her laugh three times. “That’s the very thing for me to try,” says Tom; and so, without burning any more daylight, he kissed his mother, curled his club at the little boys, and off he set along the yalla highroad to the town of Dublin.

At last Tom came to one of the city gates, and the guards laughed and cursed at him instead of letting him in. Tom stood it all for a little time, but at last one of them—out of fun, as he said—drove his bagnet half an inch or so into his side. Tom done nothing but take the fellow by the scruff o’ the neck and the waistband of his corduroys, and fling him into the canal. Some run to pull the fellow out, and others to let manners into the vulgarian with their swords and daggers; but a tap from his club sent them headlong into the moat or down on the stones, and they were soon begging him to stay his hands.

So at last one of them was glad enough to show Tom the way to the palace‐yard; and there was the king, and the queen, and the princess, in a gallery, looking at all p. 26 sorts of wrestling, and sword‐playing, and rinka‐fadhas (long dances), and mumming,11 all to please the princess; but not a smile came over her handsome face.

Well, they all stopped when they seen the young giant, with his boy’s face, and long black hair, and his short, curly beard—for his poor mother couldn’t afford to buy razhurs—and his great strong arms, and bare legs, and no covering but the goatskin that reached from his waist to his knees. But an envious wizened basthard12 of a fellow, with a red head, that wished to be married to the princess, and didn’t like how she opened her eyes at Tom, came forward, and asked his business very snappishly. “My business,” says Tom, says he, “is to make the beautiful princess, God bless her, laugh three times.” “Do you see all them merry fellows and skilful swordsmen,” says the other, “that could eat you up with a grain of salt, and not a mother’s soul of ’em ever got a laugh from her these seven years?” So the fellows gathered round Tom, and the bad man aggravated him till he told them he didn’t care a pinch o’ snuff for the whole bilin’ of ’em; let ’em come on, six at a time, and try what they could do. The king, that was too far off to hear what they were saying, asked what did the stranger want. “He wants,” says the red‐headed fellow, “to make hares of your best men.” “Oh!” says the king, “if that’s the way, let one of ’em turn out and try his mettle.” So one stood forward, with soord and pot‐lid, and made a cut at Tom. He struck the fellow’s elbow with the club, and up over their heads flew the sword, and down went the owner of it on the gravel from a thump he got on the helmet. Another took his place, and another, and another, and then half‐a‐dozen at once, p. 27 and Tom sent swords, helmets, shields, and bodies, rolling over and over, and themselves bawling out that they were kilt, and disabled, and damaged, and rubbing their poor elbows and hips, and limping away. Tom contrived not to kill any one; and the princess was so amused, that she let a great sweet laugh out of her that was heard over all the yard. “King of Dublin,” says Tom, “I’ve quarter your daughter.” And the king didn’t know whether he was glad or sorry, and all the blood in the princess’s heart run into her cheeks.

So there was no more fighting that day, and Tom was invited to dine with the royal family. Next day, Redhead told Tom of a wolf, the size of a yearling heifer, that used to be serenading (sauntering) about the walls, and eating people and cattle; and said what a pleasure it would give the king to have it killed. “With all my heart,” says Tom; “send a jackeen to show me where he lives, and we’ll see how he behaves to a stranger.” The princess was not well pleased, for Tom looked a different person with fine clothes and a nice green birredh over his long curly hair; and besides, he’d got one laugh out of her. However, the king gave his consent; and in an hour and a half the horrible wolf was walking into the palace‐yard, and Tom a step or two behind, with his club on his shoulder, just as a shepherd would be walking after a pet lamb.

The king and queen and princess were safe up in their gallery, but the officers and people of the court that wor padrowling about the great bawn, when they saw the big baste coming in, gave themselves up, and began to make for doors and gates; and the wolf licked his chops, as if he was saying, “Wouldn’t I enjoy a breakfast off a couple of yez!” The king shouted out, “O Gilla na Chreck an Gour, take away that terrible wolf, and you must have all my daughter.” But Tom didn’t mind him a bit. He pulled out his flute and began to play like vengeance; and dickens a man or boy in the yard but began shovelling away heel and toe, and the wolf himself p. 28 was obliged to get on his hind legs and dance “Tatther Jack Walsh,” along with the rest. A good deal of the people got inside, and shut the doors, the way the hairy fellow wouldn’t pin them; but Tom kept playing, and the outsiders kept dancing and shouting, and the wolf kept dancing and roaring with the pain his legs were giving him: and all the time he had his eyes on Redhead, who was shut out along with the rest. Wherever Redhead went, the wolf followed, and kept one eye on him and the other on Tom, to see if he would give him leave to eat him. But Tom shook his head, and never stopped the tune, and Redhead never stopped dancing and bawling, and the wolf dancing and roaring, one leg up and the other down, and he ready to drop out of his standing from fair tiresomeness.

When the princess seen that there was no fear of any one being kilt, she was so divarted by the stew that Redhead was in, that she gave another great laugh; and, well become Tom, out he cried, “King of Dublin, I have two halves of your daughter.” “Oh, halves or alls,” says the king, “put away that divel of a wolf, and we’ll see about it.” So Gilla put his flute in his pocket, and says he to the baste that was sittin’ on his currabingo ready to faint, “Walk off to your mountain, my fine fellow, and live like a respectable baste; and if I ever find you come within seven miles of any town, I’ll——.” He said no more, but spit in his fist, and gave a flourish of his club. It was all the poor divel wanted: he put his tail between his legs, and took to his pumps without looking at man or mortial, and neither sun, moon, or stars ever saw him in sight of Dublin again.

At dinner every one laughed but the foxy fellow; and sure enough he was laying out how he’d settle poor Tom next day. “Well, to be sure!” says he, “King of Dublin, you are in luck. There’s the Danes moidhering us to no end. D—— run to Lusk wid ’em! and if any one can save us from ’em, it is this gentleman with the goatskin. There is a flail hangin’ on the collar‐beam in p. 29 hell, and neither Dane nor devil can stand before it.” “So,” says Tom to the king, “will you let me have the other half of the princess if I bring you the flail?” “No, no,” says the princess; “I’d rather never be your wife than see you in that danger.”

But Redhead whispered and nudged Tom about how shabby it would look to reneague the adventure. So he asked which way he was to go, and Redhead directed him through a street where a great many bad women lived, and a great many sheebeen houses were open, and away he set.

Well, he travelled and travelled, till he came in sight of the walls of hell; and, bedad, before he knocked at the gates, he rubbed himself over with the greenish ointment. When he knocked, a hundred little imps popped their heads out through the bars, and axed him what he wanted. “I want to speak to the big divel of all,” says Tom: “open the gate.”

It wasn’t long till the gate was thrune open, and the Ould Boy received Tom with bows and scrapes, and axed his business. “My business isn’t much,” says Tom. “I only came for the loan of that flail that I see hanging on the collar‐beam, for the King of Dublin to give a thrashing to the Danes.” “Well,” says the other, “the Danes is much better customers to me; but since you walked so far I won’t refuse. Hand that flail,” says he to a young imp; and he winked the far‐off eye at the same time. So, while some were barring the gates, the young devil climbed up, and took down the flail that had the handstaff and booltheen both made out of red‐hot iron. The little vagabond was grinning to think how it would burn the hands off o’ Tom, but the dickens a burn it made on him, no more nor if it was a good oak sapling. “Thankee,” says Tom. “Now would you open the gate for a body, and I’ll give you no more trouble.” “Oh, tramp!” says Ould Nick; “is that the way? It is easier getting inside them gates than getting out again. Take that tool from him, and give him a dose of the oil of p. 30 stirrup.” So one fellow put out his claws to seize on the flail, but Tom gave him such a welt of it on the side of the head that he broke off one of his horns, and made him roar like a devil as he was. Well, they rushed at Tom, but he gave them, little and big, such a thrashing as they didn’t forget for a while. At last says the ould thief of all, rubbing his elbow, “Let the fool out; and woe to whoever lets him in again, great or small.”

So out marched Tom, and away with him, without minding the shouting and cursing they kept up at him from the tops of the walls; and when he got home to the big bawn of the palace, there never was such running and racing as to see himself and the flail. When he had his story told, he laid down the flail on the stone steps, and bid no one for their lives to touch it. If the king, and queen, and princess, made much of him before, they made ten times more of him now; but Redhead, the mean scruffhound, stole over, and thought to catch hold of the flail to make an end of him. His fingers hardly touched it, when he let a roar out of him as if heaven and earth were coming together, and kept flinging his arms about and dancing, that it was pitiful to look at him. Tom run at him as soon as he could rise, caught his hands in his own two, and rubbed them this way and that, and the burning pain left them before you could reckon one. Well, the poor fellow, between the pain that was only just gone, and the comfort he was in, had the comicalest face that ever you see, it was such a mixtherum‐gatherum of laughing and crying. Everybody burst out a laughing—the princess could not stop no more than the rest; and then says Gilla, or Tom, “Now, ma’am, if there were fifty halves of you, I hope you’ll give me them all.” Well, the princess had no mock modesty about her. She looked at her father, and by my word, she came over to Gilla, and put her two delicate hands into his two rough ones, and I wish it was myself was in his shoes that day!

Tom would not bring the flail into the palace. You may be sure no other body went near it; and when the p. 31 early risers were passing next morning, they found two long clefts in the stone, where it was after burning itself an opening downwards, nobody could tell how far. But a messenger came in at noon, and said that the Danes were so frightened when they heard of the flail coming into Dublin, that they got into their ships, and sailed away.

Well, I suppose, before they were married, Gilla got some man, like Pat Mara of Tomenine, to larn him the “principles of politeness,” fluxions, gunnery and fortification, decimal fractions, practice, and the rule of three direct, the way he’d be able to keep up a conversation with the royal family. Whether he ever lost his time larning them sciences, I’m not sure, but it’s as sure as fate that his mother never more saw any want till the end of her days.

p. 32

JACK THE MASTER AND JACK THE SERVANT.

There was once a poor couple, and they had three sons, and the youngest’s name was Jack. One harvest day, the eldest fellow threw down his hook, and says he, “What’s the use to be slaving this way! I’ll go seek my fortune.” And the second son said the very same: and says Jack, “I’ll go seek my fortune along with you, but let us first leave the harvest stacked for the old couple.” Well, he over‐persuaded them, and bedad, as soon as it was safe, they kissed their father and mother, and off they set, every one with three pounds in his pocket, promising to be home again in a year and a day. The first night they had no better lodging than a fine dry dyke of a ditch, outside of a churchyard. Before they went to sleep, the youngest got inside to read the tombstones. What should he stumble over but a coffin, and the sod was just taken off where the grave was to be. “Some poor body,” says he, “that was without friends to put him in consecrated ground: he mustn’t be left this way.” So he threw off his coat, and had a couple of feet cleared out, when a terrible giant walked up. “What are you at?” says he; “the corpse owed me a guinea, and he sha’n’t be buried till it is paid.” “Well, here is your guinea,” says Jack, “and leave the churchyard: it’s nothing the better for your company.” Well, he got down a couple of feet more, when another uglier giant again, with two heads on him, came and stopped Jack with the same story, and got his guinea; and when the grave was six feet down, the third giant looks on him, and he had three heads. So Jack was obliged to part with his three guineas before he could put the sod over the poor man. Then he went and lay down by his brothers, and slept till the sun began to shine on their faces next morning.

They soon came to a cross‐road, and there every one took his own way. Jack told them how all his money p. 33 was gone, but not a farthing did they offer him. Well, after some time, Jack found himself hungry, and so he sat down by the road side, and pulled out a piece of cake and a lump of bacon. Just as he had the first bit in his mouth, up comes a poor man, and asks something of him for God’s sake. “I have neither brass, gold, nor silver about me,” says Jack; “and here’s all the provisions I’m master of. Sit down and have a share.” Well, the poor man didn’t require much pressing, and when the meal was over, says he, “Sir, where are you bound for?” “Faith, I don’t know,” says Jack; “I’m going to seek my fortune.” “I’ll go with you for your servant,” says the other. “Servant inagh (forsooth)! bad I want a servant—I, that’s looking out for a place myself.” “No matter. You gave Christian burial to my poor brother yesterday evening. He appeared to me in a dream, and told me where I’d find you, and that I was to be your servant for a year. So you’ll be Jack the master, and I Jack the servant.” “Well, let it be so.”

After sunset, they came to a castle in a wood, and “Here,” says the servant, “lives the giant with one head, that wouldn’t let my poor brother be buried.” He took hold of a club that hung by the door, and gave two or three thravallys on it. “What do yous want?” says the giant, looking out through a grating. “Oh, sir, honey!” says Jack, “we want to save you. The king is sending 100,000 men to take your life for all the wickedness you ever done to poor travellers, and that. So because you let my brother be buried, I came to help you.” “Oh, murdher, murdher, what’ll I do at all at all?” says he. “Have you e’er a hiding‐place?” says Jack, “I have a cave seven miles long, and it opens into the bawn.” “That’ll do. Leave a good supper for the men, and then don’t stir out of your pew till I call you.” So they went in, and the giant left a good supper for the army, and went down, and they shut the trap‐door down on him.

Well, they ate and they drank, and then Jack gother all the horses and cows, and drove them over an hether p. 34 the trap‐door, and such fighting and shouting, whinnying and lowing, as they had, and such noise as they made! Then Jack opened the door, and called out, “Are you there, sir?” “I am,” says he, from a mile or two inside. “Wor you frightened, sir?” “You may say frightened. Are they gone away?” “Dickens a go they’ll go till you give them your sword of sharpness.” “Cock them up with the sword of sharpness. I won’t give them a smite of it.” “Well, I think you’re right. Look out. They’ll be down with you in the twinkling of a harrow pin. Go to the end of the cave, and they won’t have your head for an hour to come.” “Well, that’s no great odds; you’ll find it in the closet inside the parlour. D—— do ’em good with it.” “Very well,” says Jack; “when they’re all cleared off, I’ll drop a big stone on the trap‐door.” So the two Jacks slept very combustible in the giant’s bed—it was big enough for them; and next morning, after breakfast, they dropped the big stone on the trap‐door, and away they went.

That night they slept at the castle of the two‐headed giant, and got his cloak of darkness in the same way; and the next night they slept at the castle of the three‐headed giant, and got his shoes of swiftness; and the next night they were near the king’s palace. “Now,” says Jack the servant, “this king has a daughter, and she was so proud that twelve princes killed themselves for her, because she would not marry any of them. At last the King of Moróco thought to persuade her, and the dickens a bit of him she’d have no more nor the others. So he fell on his sword, and died; and the old boy got leave to give him a kind of life again, to punish the proud lady. Maybe it’s an imp from hell is in his appearance. He lives in a palace one side of the river, and the king’s palace is on the other, and he has got power over the princess and her father; and when they have the heads of twelve courtiers over the gate, the King of Moróco will have the princess to himself, and maybe the evil spirit will have them both. Every young man p. 35 that offers himself has to do three things, and if he fails in all, up goes his head. There you see them—eleven, all black and white, with the sun and rain. You must try your hand. God is stronger than the devil.”

So they came to the gate. “What do you want?” says the guard. “I want to get the princess for my wife.” “Do you see them heads?” “Yes; what of that?” “Yours will be along with them before you’re a week older.” “That’s my own look out.” “Well, go on. God help all foolish people!” The king was on his throne in the big hall, and the princess sitting on a golden chair by his side. “Death or my daughter, I suppose,” says the king to Jack the master. “Just so, my liege,” says Jack. “Very well,” says the king. “I don’t know whether I’m glad or sorry,” says he. “If you don’t succeed in the three things, my daughter must marry the King of Moróco. If you do succeed, I suppose we’ll be eased from the dog’s life we are leading. I’ll leave my daughter’s scissors in your bedroom to‐night, and you’ll find no one going in till morning. If you have the scissors still at sunrise, your head will be safe for that day. Next day you must run a race against the King of Moróco, and if you win, your head will be safe that day too. Next day you must bring me the King of Moróco’s head, or your own head, and then all this bother will be over one way or the other.”

Well, they gave the two a good supper, and one time the princess would look sweet at Jack, and another time sour; for you know she was under enchantment. Sometimes she’d wish him killed, sometimes she’d like him to be saved.

When they went into their bedroom, the king came in along with them, and laid the scissors on the table. “Mind that,” says he, “and I’m sure I don’t know whether I wish to find it there to‐morrow or not.” Well, poor Jack was a little frightened, but his man encouraged him. “Go to bed,” says he; “I’ll put on the cloak of darkness, and watch, and I hope you’ll find the scissors p. 36 there at sunrise.” Well, bedad he couldn’t go to sleep. He kept his eye on the scissors till the dead hour, and the moment it struck twelve no scissors could he see: it vanished as clean as a whistle. He looked here, there, and everywhere—no scissors. “Well,” says he, “there’s hope still. Are you there, Jack?” but no answer came. “I can do no more,” says he. “I’ll go to bed.” And to bed he went, and slept.

Just as the clock was striking, Jack in the cloak saw the wall opening, and the princess walking in, going over to the table, taking up the scissors, and walking out again. He followed her into the garden, and there he saw herself and her twelve maids going down to the boat that was lying by the bank. “I’m in,” says the princess; “I’m in,” says one maid; and “I’m in,” says another; and so on till all were in; and “I’m in,” says Jack. “Who’s that?” says the last maid. “Go look,” says Jack. Well, they were all a bit frightened. When they got over, they walked up to the King of Moróco’s palace, and there the King of Moróco was to receive them, and give them the best of eating and drinking, and make his musicianers play the finest music for them.

When they were coming away, says the princess, “Here’s the scissors; mind it or not as you like.” “Oh, won’t I mind it!” says he. “Here you go,” says he again, opening a chest, and dropping it into it, and locking it up with three locks. But before he shut down the lid, my brave Jack picked up the scissors, and put it safe into his pocket. Well, when they came to the boat, the same things were said, and the maids were frightened again.

When Jack the master awoke in the morning, the first thing he saw was the scissors on the table, and the next thing he saw was his man lying asleep in the other bed, the next was the cloak of darkness hanging on the bed’s foot. Well, he got up, and he danced, and he sung, and he hugged Jack; and when the king came in with a troubled face, there was the scissors safe and sound. p. 37 “Well, Jack,” says he, “you’re safe for one day more.” The king and princess were more meentrach (loving) to Jack to‐day than they were yesterday, and the next day the race was to be run.

At last the hour of noon came, and there was the King of Moróco with tight clothes on him—themselves, and his hair, and his eyes as black as a crow, and his face as yellow as a kite’s claw. Jack was there too, and on his feet were the shoes of swiftness. When the bugle blew, they were off, and Jack went seven times round the course while the king went one: it was like the fish in the water, the arrow from a bow, the stone from a sling, or a star shooting in the night. When the race was won, and the people were shouting, the black king looked at Jack like the very devil himself, and says he, “Don’t holloa till you’re out of the wood—to‐morrow your head or mine.” “Heaven is stronger than hell,” says Jack.

And now the princess began to wish in earnest that Jack would win, for two parts of the charm were broke. So some one from her told Jack the servant that she and her maids should pay their visit to the Black Fellow at midnight like every other night past. Jack the servant was in the garden in his cloak when the hour came, and they all said the same words, and rowed over, and went up to the palace like as they done before.

The king was in a great state of fear and anger, and scolded the princess, and she didn’t seem to care much about it; but when they were leaving she said, “You know to‐morrow is to have your head or Jack’s head off. I suppose you will stay up all night!” He was standing on the grass when they were getting into the boat, and just as the last maid had her foot on the edge of it, Jack swept off his head with the sword of sharpness just as if it was the head of a thistle, and put it under his cloak. The body fell on the grass and made no noise. Well, the same moment the princess felt any liking she had for him all gone like last year’s snow, and she began to sob p. 38 and cry for fear of any thing happening to Jack. The maids were not very good at all, and so, from the moment they got out of the boat, Jack kept knocking the head against their faces and their legs, and made them roar and bawl till they were inside of the palace.

The first thing Jack the master saw when he woke in the morning, was the black head on the table, and didn’t he jump up in a hurry! When the sun was rising, every one in the palace, great and small, were in the bawn before Jack’s window, and the king was at the door. “Jack,” said he, “if you havn’t the King of Moróco’s head on a gad, your own will be on a spear, my poor fellow.” But just at the moment he heard a great shout from the bawn. Jack the servant was after opening the window, and holding out the King of Moróco’s head by the long black hair.

So the princess, and the king, and all were in joy, and maybe they didn’t keep the wedding long a‐waiting. A year and a day after Jack left home, himself and his wife were in their coach at the cross‐roads, and there were the two poor brothers, sleeping in the ditch with their reaping‐hooks by their sides. They wouldn’t believe Jack at first that he was their brother, and then they were ready to eat their nails for not sharing with him that day twelvemonth. They found their father and mother alive, and you may be sure they left them comfortable. So you see what a good thing in the end it is to be charitable to the poor, dead or alive.

I’LL BE WISER THE NEXT TIME.

Jack was twenty years old before he done any good for his family. So at last his mother said it was high time for him to begin to be of some use. So the next market p. 40 day she sent him to Bunclody (Newtownbarry), to buy a billhook to cut the furze. When he was coming back he kep’ cutting gaaches with it round his head, till at last it flew out of his hand, and killed a lamb that a neighbour was bringing home. Well, if he did, so sure was his mother obliged to pay for it, and Jack was in disgrace. “Musha, you fool,” says she, “couldn’t you lay the bill‐hook in a car, or stick it into a bundle of hay or straw that any of the neighbours would be bringing home?” “Well, mother,” said he, “it can’t be helped now; I’ll be wiser next time.”

“Now, Jack,” says she, the next Saturday, “you behaved like a fool the last time; have some wit about you now, and don’t get us into a hobble. Here is a fi’penny bit, and buy me a good pair (set) of knitting needles, and fetch ’em home safe.” “Never fear, mother.” When Jack was outside the town, coming back, he overtook a neighbour sitting on the side‐lace of his car, and there was a big bundle of hay in the bottom of it. “Just the safe thing,” says Jack, sticking the needles into it. When he came home he looked quite proud out of his good management. “Well, Jack,” says his mother, “where’s the needles?” “Oh, faith! they’re safe enough. Send any one down to Jem Doyle’s, and he’ll find them in the bundle of hay that’s in the car.” “Musha, purshuin to you, Jack! why couldn’t you stick them in the band o’ your hat? What searching there will be for them in the hay!” “Sure you said I ought to put any things I was bringing home in a car, or stick ’em in hay or straw. Anyhow I’ll be wiser next time.”

Next week Jack was sent to a neighbour’s house about a mile away, for some of her nice fresh butter. The day was hot, and Jack remembering his mother’s words, stuck the cabbage leaf that held the butter between his hat and the band. He was luckier this turn than the other turns, for he brought his errand safe in his hair and down along his clothes. There’s no pleasing some p. 41 people, however, and his mother was so vexed that she was ready to beat him.

There was so little respect for Jack’s gumption in the whole village after this, that he wasn’t let go to market for a fortnight. Then his mother trusted him with a pair of young fowl. “Now don’t be too eager to snap at the first offer you’ll get; wait for the second any way, and above all things keep your wits about you.” Jack got to the market safe. “How do you sell them fowl, honest boy?” “My mother bid me ax three shillings for ’em, but sure herself said I wouldn’t get it.” “She never said a truer word. Will you have eighteen pence?” “In throth an’ I won’t; she ordhered me to wait for a second‐offer.” “And very wisely she acted; here is a shilling.” “Well now, I think it would be wiser to take the eighteen pence, but it is better for me at any rate to go by her bidding, and then she can’t blame me.”

Jack was in disgrace for three weeks after making that bargain; and some of the neighbours went so far as to say that Jack’s mother didn’t show much more wit than Jack himself.”

She had to send him, however, next market day to sell a young sheep, and says she to him, “Jack, I’ll have your life if you don’t get the highest penny in the market for that baste.” “Oh, won’t I!” says Jack. Well, when he was standing in the market, up comes a jobber, and asks him what he’d take for the sheep. “My mother won’t be satisfied,” says Jack, “if I don’t bring her home the highest penny in the market.” “Will a guinea note do you?” says the other. “Is it the highest penny in the market?” says Jack. “No, but here’s the highest penny in the market,” says a sleeveen that was listenin’, getting up on a high ladder that was restin’ again’ the market house: “here’s the highest penny, and the sheep is mine.”

Well, if the poor mother wasn’t heart‐scalded this time it’s no matter. She said she’d never lose more than a shilling a turn by him again while she lived; but she p. 42 had to send him for some groceries next Saturday for all that, for it was Christmas eve. “Now, Jack,” says she, “I want some cinnamon, mace, and cloves, and half a pound of raisins; will you be able to think of ’em?” “Able, indeed! I’ll be repatin’ ’em every inch o’ the way, and that won’t let me forget them.” So he never stopped as he ran along, saying “cinnamon, mace, and cloves, and half a pound of raisins;” and this time he’d have come home in glory, only he struck his foot again’ a stone, and fell down, and hurt himself.

At last he got up, and as he went limping on he strove to remember his errand, but it was changed in his mind to “pitch, and tar, and turpentine, and half a yard of sacking”—“pitch, and tar, and turpentine, and half a yard of sacking.” These did not help the Christmas dinner much, and his mother was so tired of minding him that she sent him along with a clever black man (match‐maker), up to the county Carlow, to get a wife to take care of him.

Well, the black man never let him open his mouth all the time the coortin’ was goin’ on; and at last the whole party—his friends, and her friends, were gathered into the priest’s parlour. The black man staid close to him for ’fraid he’d do a bull; and when Jack was married half a‐year, if he thought his life was bad enough before, he thought it ten times worse now; and told his mother if she’d send his wife back to her father, he’d never make a mistake again going to fair or market. But the wife cock‐crowed over the mother as well as over Jack; and if they didn’t live happy, that we may!

THE THREE CROWNS.

There was once a king, some place or other, and he had three daughters. The two eldest were very proud and uncharitable, but the youngest was as good as they were bad. Well, three princes came to court them, and two of them were the moral of the eldest ladies, and one was just as lovable as the youngest. They were all walking down to a lake, one day, that lay at the bottom of the lawn, just like the one at Castleboro’, and they met a poor beggar. The king wouldn’t give him anything, and the eldest princes wouldn’t give him anything, nor their sweethearts; but the youngest daughter and her true love did give him something, and kind words along with it, and that was better nor all.

p. 44

When they got to the edge of the lake, what did they find but the beautifulest boat you ever saw in your life; and says the eldest, “I’ll take a sail in this fine boat;” and says the second eldest, “I’ll take a sail in this fine boat;” and says the youngest, “I won’t take a sail in that fine boat, for I am afraid it’s an enchanted one.” But the others overpersuaded her to go in, and her father was just going in after her, when up sprung on the deck a little man only seven inches high, and he ordered him to stand back. Well, all the men put their hands to their soords; and if the same soords were only thraneens they weren’t able to draw them, for all sthrenth was left their arms. Seven Inches loosened the silver chain that fastened the boat, and pushed away; and after grinning at the four men, says he to them, “Bid your daughters and your brides farewell for awhile. That wouldn’t have happened you three, only for your want of charity. You,” says he to the youngest, “needn’t fear, you’ll recover your princess all in good time, and you and she will be as happy as the day is long. Bad people, if they were rolling stark naked in gold, would not be rich. Banacht lath.” Away they sailed, and the ladies stretched out their hands, but weren’t able to say a word.

Well, they wern’t crossing the lake while a cat ’ud be lickin’ her ear, and the poor men couldn’t stir hand or foot to follow them. They saw Seven Inches handing the three princesses out o’ the boat, and letting them down by a nice basket and winglas into a draw‐well that was convenient, but king nor princes ever saw an opening before in the same place. When the last lady was out of sight, the men found the strength in their arms and legs again. Round the lake they ran, and never drew rein till they came to the well and windlass; and there was the silk rope rolled on the axle, and the nice white basket hanging to it. “Let me down,” says the youngest prince; “I’ll die or recover them again.” “No,” says the second daughter’s sweetheart, “I’m entitled to my turn before you.” And says the other, “I must get first p. 45 turn, in right of my bride.” So they gave way to him, and in he got into the basket, and down they let him. First they lost sight of him, and then, after winding off a hundred perches of the silk rope, it slackened, and they stopped turning. They waited two hours, and then they went to dinner, because there was no chuck made at the rope.

Guards were set till next morning, and then down went the second prince, and sure enough, the youngest of all got himself let down on the third day. He went down perches and perches, while it was as dark about him as if he was in a big pot with the cover on. At last he saw a glimmer far down, and in a short time he felt the ground. Out he came from the big lime‐kiln, and lo and behold you, there was a wood, and green fields, and a castle in a lawn, and a bright sky over all. “It’s in Tir‐na‐n‐Oge I am,” says he. “Let’s see what sort of people are in the castle.” On he walked, across fields and lawn, and no one was there to keep him out or let him into the castle; but the big hall‐door was wide open. He went from one fine room to another that was finer, and at last he reached the handsomest of all, with a table in the middle; and such a dinner as was laid upon it! The prince was hungry enough, but he was too mannerly to go eat without being invited. So he sat by the fire, and he did not wait long till he heard steps, and in came Seven Inches and the youngest sister by the hand. Well, prince and princess flew into one another’s arms, and says the little man, says he, “Why aren’t you eating?” “I think, sir,” says he, “it was only good manners to wait to be asked.” “The other princes didn’t think so,” says he. “Each o’ them fell to without leave or licence, and only gave me the rough side o’ their tongue when I told them they were making more free than welcome. Well, I don’t think they feel much hunger now. There they are, good marvel instead of flesh and blood,” says he, pointing to two statues, one in one corner, and the other in the other corner of the room. The prince was p. 46 frightened, but he was afraid to say anything, and Seven Inches made him sit down to dinner between himself and his bride; and he’d be as happy as the day is long, only for the sight of the stone men in the corner. Well, that day went by, and when the next came, says Seven Inches to him: “Now, you’ll have to set out that way,” pointing to the sun; “and you’ll find the second princess in a giant’s castle this evening, when you’ll be tired and hungry, and the eldest princess to‐morrow evening; and you may as well bring them here with you. You need not ask leave of their masters; they’re only housekeepers with the big fellows. I suppose, if they ever get home, they’ll look on poor people as if they were flesh and blood like themselves.”

Away went the prince, and bedad, it’s tired and hungry he was when he reached the first castle, at sunset. Oh, wasn’t the second princess glad to see him! and if she didn’t give him a good supper, it’s a wonder. But she heard the giant at the gate, and she hid the prince in a closet. Well, when he came in, he snuffed, an’ he snuffed, an’ says he, “Be (by) the life, I smell fresh mate.” “Oh,” says the princess, “it’s only the calf I got killed to‐day.” “Ay, ay,” says he, “is supper ready?” “It is,” says she; and before he ruz from the table he hid three‐quarters of the calf, and a cag of wine. “I think,” says he, when all was done, “I smell fresh mate still.” “It’s sleepy you are,” says she; “go to bed.” “When will you marry me?” says the giant. “You’re puttin’ me off too long.” “St. Tibb’s Eve,” says she. “I wish I knew how far off that is,” says he; and he fell asleep, with his head in the dish.

Next day, he went out after breakfast, and she sent the prince to the castle where the eldest sister was. The same thing happened there; but when the giant was snoring, the princess wakened up the prince, and they saddled two steeds in the stables, and magh go bragh (the field for ever) with them. But the horses’ heels struck the stones outside the gate, and up got the giant, p. 47 and after them he made. He roared and he shouted, and the more he shouted, the faster ran the horses; and just as the day was breaking, he was only twenty perches behind. But the prince didn’t leave the castle of Seven Inches without being provided with something good. He reined in his steed, and flung a short, sharp knife over his shoulder, and up sprung a thick wood between the giant and themselves. They caught the wind that blew before them, and the wind that blew behind them did not catch them. At last they were near the castle where the other sister lived; and there she was, waiting for them under a high hedge, and a fine steed under her.

But the giant was now in sight, roaring like a hundred lions, and the other giant was out in a moment, and the chase kept on. For every two springs the horses gave, the giants gave three, and at last they were only seventy perches off. Then the prince stopped again, and flung the second skian behind him. Down went all the flat field, till there was a quarry between them a quarter of a mile deep, and the bottom filled with black water; and before the giants could get round it, the prince and princesses were inside the domain of the great magician, where the high thorny hedge opened of itself to every one that he chose to let in.

Well, to be sure, there was joy enough between the three sisters, till the two eldest saw their lovers turned into stone. But while they were shedding tears for them, Seven Inches came in, and touched them with his rod. So they were flesh, and blood, and life once more, and there was great hugging and kissing, and all sat down to a nice breakfast, and Seven Inches sat at the head of the table.

When breakfast was over, he took them into another room, where there was nothing but heaps of gold, and silver, and diamonds, and silks, and satins; and on a table there was lying three sets of crowns: a gold crown was in a silver crown, and that was lying in a copper crown. He took up one set of crowns, and gave it to the p. 48 eldest princess; and another set, and gave it to the second youngest princess; and another, and gave it to the youngest of all; and says he, “Now you may all go to the bottom of the pit, and you have nothing to do but stir the basket, and the people that are watching above will draw you up. But remember, ladies, you are to keep your crowns safe, and be married in them, all the same day. If you be married separately, or if you be married without your crowns, a curse will follow—mind what I say.”

So they took leave of him with great respect, and walked arm‐in‐arm to the bottom of the draw‐well. There was a sky and a sun over them, and a great high wall, covered with ivy, rose before them, and was so high they could not see to the top of it; and there was an arch in this wall, and the bottom of the draw‐well was inside the arch. The youngest pair went last; and says the princess to the prince, “I’m sure the two princes don’t mean any good to you. Keep these crowns under your cloak, and if you are obliged to stay last, don’t get into the basket, but put a big stone, or any heavy thing inside, and see what will happen.”

So, when they were inside the dark cave, they put in the eldest princess first, and stirred the basket, and up she went, but first she gave a little scream. Then the basket was let down again, and up went the second princess, and then up went the youngest; but first she put her arms round her prince’s neck, and kissed him, and cried a little. At last it came to the turn of the youngest prince, and well became him;—instead of going into the basket, he put in a big stone. He drew one side and listened, and after the basket was drawn up about twenty perch, down came itself and the stone like thunder, and the stone was made brishe of on the flags.

Well, my poor prince had nothing for it but to walk back to the castle; and through it and round it he walked, and the finest of eating and drinking he got, and a bed of bog‐down to sleep on, and fine walks he took p. 49 through gardens and lawns, but not a sight could he get, high or low, of Seven Inches. Well, I don’t think any of us would be tired of this fine way of living for ever. Maybe we would. Anyhow the prince got tired of it before a week, he was so lonesome for his true love; and at the end of a month he didn’t know what to do with himself.

One morning he went into the treasure room, and took notice of a beautiful snuff‐box on the table that he didn’t remember seeing there before. He took it in his hands, and opened it, and out Seven Inches walked on the table. “I think, prince,” says he, “you’re getting a little tired of my castle?” “Ah!” says the other, “if I had my princess here, and could see you now and then, I’d never see a dismal day.” “Well, you’re long enough here now, and you’re wanting there above. Keep your bride’s crowns safe, and whenever you want my help, open this snuff‐box. Now take a walk down the garden, and come back when you’re tired.”

Well, the prince was going down a gravel walk with a quickset hedge on each side, and his eyes on the ground, and he thinking on one thing and another. At last he lifted his eyes, and there he was outside of a smith’s bawn‐gate that he often passed before, about a mile away from the palace of his betrothed princess. The clothes he had on him were as ragged as you please, but he had his crowns safe under his old cloak.

So the smith came out, and says he, “It’s a shame for a strong, big fellow like you to be on the sthra, and so much work to be done. Are you any good with hammer and tongs? Come in and bear a hand, and I’ll give you diet and lodging, and a few thirteens when you earn them.” “Never say’t twice,” says the prince; “I want nothing but to be employed.” So he took the sledge, and pounded away at the red‐hot bar that the smith was turning on the anvil to make into a set of horseshoes.

Well, they weren’t long powdhering away, when a p. 50 sthronshuch (idler) of a tailor came in; and when the smith asked him what news he had, he got the handle of the bellows and began to blow, to let out all he had heard for the last two days. There was so many questions and answers at first, that if I told them all, it would be bedtime afore I’d be done. So here is the substance of the discourse; and before he got far into it, the forge was half‐filled with women knitting stockings, and men smoking.

“Yous all heard how the two princesses were unwilling to be married till the youngest would be ready with her crowns and her sweetheart. But after the windlass loosened accidentally when they were pulling up her bridegroom that was to be, there was no more sign of a well, or a rope, or a windlass, than there is on the palm of your hand. So the buckeens that wor coortin’ the eldest ladies, wouldn’t give peace or ease to their lovers nor the king, till they got consent to the marriage, and it was to take place this morning. Myself went down out o’ curosity; and to be sure I was delighted with the grand dresses of the two brides, and the three crowns on their heads—gold, silver, and copper, one inside the other. The youngest was standing by mournful enough in white, and all was ready. The two bridegrooms came in as proud and grand as you please, and up they were walking to the altar rails, when, my dear, the boards opened two yards wide under their feet, and down they went among the dead men and the coffins in the vaults. Oh, such screeching as the ladies gave! and such running and racing and peeping down as there was; but the clerk soon opened the door of the vault, and up came the two heroes, and their fine clothes covered an inch thick with cobwebs and mould.”

So the king said they should put off the marriage, “For,” says he, “I see there is no use in thinking of it till my youngest gets her three crowns, and is married along with the others. I’ll give my youngest daughter for a wife to whoever brings three crowns to me like the p. 51 others; and if he doesn’t care to be married, some other one will, and I’ll make his fortune.” “I wish,” says the smith, “I could do it: but I was looking at the crowns after the princesses got home, and I don’t think there’s a black or a white smith on the face o’ the earth could imitate them.” “Faint heart never won fair lady,” says the prince. “Go to the palace and ask for a quarter of a pound of gold, a quarter of a pound of silver, and a quarter of a pound of copper. Get one crown for a pattern; and my head for a pledge, I’ll give you out the very things that are wanted in the morning.” “Ubbabow!” says the smith,“are you in earnest?” “Faith, I am so,” says he. “Go! worse than lose you can’t.”

To make a long story short, the smith got the quarter of a pound of gold, and the quarter of a pound of silver, and the quarter of a pound of copper, and gave them and the pattern crown to the prince. He shut the forge door at nightfall, and the neighbours all gathered in the bawn, and they heard him hammering, hammering, hammering, from that to daybreak; and every now and then he’d pitch out through the window, bits of gold, silver, and copper; and the idlers scrambled for them, and cursed one another, and prayed for the good luck of the workman.

Well, just as the sun was thinking to rise, he opened the door, and brought out the three crowns he got from his true love, and such shouting and huzzaing as there was! The smith asked him to go along with him to the palace, but he refused; so off set the smith, and the whole townland with him; and wasn’t the king rejoiced when he saw the crowns! “Well,” says he to the smith, “you’re a married man; what’s to be done?” “Faith, your majesty, I didn’t make them crowns at all; it was a big shuler (vagrant) of a fellow that took employment with me yesterday.” “Well, daughter, will you marry the fellow that made these crowns?” “Let me see them first, father.” So when she examined them, she knew them right well, and guessed it was her true love that sent p. 52 them. “I will marry the man that these crowns came from,” says she.

“Well,” says the king to the eldest of the two princes, “go up to the smith’s forge, take my best coach, and bring home the bridegroom.” He was very unwilling to do this, he was so proud, but he did not wish to refuse. When he came to the forge, he saw the prince standing at the door, and beckoned him over to the coach. “Are you the fellow,” says he, “that made them crowns?” “Yes,” says the other. “Then,” says he, “maybe you’d give yourself a brushing, and get into that coach; the king wants to see you. I pity the princess.” The young prince got into the carriage, and while they were on the way, he opened the snuff‐box, and out walked Seven Inches, and stood on his thigh. “Well,” says he, “what trouble is on you now?” “Master,” says the other, “please to let me be back in my forge, and let this carriage be filled with paving stones.” No sooner said than done. The prince was sitting in his forge, and the horses wondered what was after happening to the carriage.

When they came into the palace yard, the king himself opened the carriage door, to pay respect to his new son‐in‐law. As soon as he turned the handle, a shower of small stones fell on his powdered wig and his silk coat, and down he fell under them. There was great fright and some tittering, and the king, after he wiped the blood from his forehead, looked very cross at the eldest prince. “My liege,” says he, “I’m very sorry for this accidence, but I’m not to blame. I saw the young smith get into the carriage, and we never stopped a minute since.” “It’s uncivil you were to him. Go,” says he, to the other prince, “and bring the young smith here, and be polite.” “Never fear,” says he.

But there’s some people that couldn’t be good‐natured if they were to be made heirs of Damer’s estate. Not a bit civiller was the new messenger than the old, and when the king opened the carriage door a second time, it’s a p. 53 shower of mud that came down on him; and if he didn’t fume, and splutter, and shake himself, it’s no matter. “There’s no use,” says he, “going on this way. The fox never got a better messenger than himself.”

So he changed his clothes, and washed himself, and out he set to the smith’s forge. Maybe he wasn’t polite to the young prince, and asked him to sit along with himself. The prince begged to be allowed to sit in the other carriage, and when they were half‐way, he opened his snuff‐box. “Master,” says he, “I’d wish to be dressed now according to my rank.” “You shall be that,” says Seven Inches. “And now I’ll bid you farewell. Continue as good and kind as you always were; love your wife, and that’s all the advice I’ll give you.” So Seven Inches vanished; and when the carriage door was opened in the yard—not by the king though, for a burnt child dreads the fire—out walks the prince as fine as hands and pins could make him, and the first thing he did was to run over to his bride, and embrace her very heartily.

Every one had great joy but the two other princes. There was not much delay about the marriages that were all celebrated on the one day. Soon after, the two elder couples went to their own courts, but the youngest pair stayed with the old king, and they were as happy as the happiest married couple you ever heard of in a story.

THE CORPSE WATCHERS.

There was once a poor woman that had three daughters, and one day the eldest said, “Mother, bake my cake and kill my cock, till I go seek my fortune.” So she did, and when all was ready, says her mother to her, “Which will you have—half of these with my blessing, or the whole with my curse?” “Curse or no curse,” says she, “the whole is little enough.” So away she set, and if the mother didn’t give her her curse, she didn’t give her her blessing.

She walked and she walked till she was tired and hungry, and then she sat down to take her dinner. While she was eating it, a poor woman came up, and asked for a bit. “The dickens a bit you’ll get from me,” says she; “it’s all too little for myself;” and the poor woman walked away very sorrowful. At nightfall she got lodging at a farmer’s, and the woman of the house told her that she’d give her a spade‐full of gold and a shovel‐full of silver if she’d only sit up and watch her son’s corpse that was waking in the next room. She said she’d do that; and so, when the family were in their bed, she sat by the fire, and cast an eye from time to time on the corpse that was lying under the table.

All at once the dead man got up in his shroud, and stood before her, and said, “All alone, fair maid!” She gave him no answer, and when he said it the third time, he struck her with a switch, and she became a grey flag.

About a week after, the second daughter went to seek her fortune, and she didn’t care for her mother’s blessing p. 55 no more nor her sister, and the very same thing happened to her. She was left a grey flag by the side of the other.

At last the youngest went off in search of the other two, and she took care to carry her mother’s blessing with her. She shared her dinner with the poor woman on the road, and she told her that she would watch over her.

Well, she got lodging in the same place as the others, and agreed to mind the corpse. She sat up by the fire with the dog and cat, and amused herself with some apples and nuts the mistress gave her. She thought it a pity that the man under the table was a corpse, he was so handsome.

But at last he got up, and says he, “All alone, fair maid!” and she wasn’t long about an answer:—

“Ho, ho!” says he, “you’re a girl of courage, though you wouldn’t have enough to follow me. I am now going to cross the quaking bog, and go through the burning forest. I must then enter the cave of terror, and climb the hill of glass, and drop from the top of it into the Dead Sea.” “I’ll follow you,” says she, “for I engaged to mind you.” He thought to prevent her, but she was as stiff as he was stout.

Out he sprang through the window, and she followed him till they came to the “Green Hills,” and then says he:—

They opened, and the man and woman passed through, and there they were, on the edge of a bog.

He trod lightly over the shaky bits of moss and sod; p. 56 and while she was thinking of how she’d get across, the old beggar appeared to her, but much nicer dressed, touched her shoes with her stick, and the soles spread a foot on each side. So she easily got over the shaky marsh. The burning wood was at the edge of the bog, and there the good fairy flung a damp, thick cloak over her, and through the flames she went, and a hair of her head was not singed. Then they passed through the dark cavern of horrors, where she’d have heard the most horrible yells, only that the fairy stopped her ears with wax. She saw frightful things, with blue vapours round them, and felt the sharp rocks, and the slimy backs of frogs and snakes.

When they got out of the cavern, they were at the mountain of glass; and then the fairy made her slippers so sticky with a tap of her rod, that she followed the young corpse easily to the top. There was the deep sea a quarter of a mile under them, and so the corpse said to her, “Go home to my mother, and tell her how far you came to do her bidding: farewell.” He sprung head foremost down into the sea, and after him she plunged, without stopping a moment to think about it.

She was stupified at first, but when they reached the waters she recovered her thoughts. After piercing down a great depth, they saw a green light towards the bottom. At last they were below the sea, that seemed a green sky above them; and sitting in a beautiful meadow, she half asleep, and her head resting against his side. She couldn’t keep her eyes open, and she couldn’t tell how long she slept; but when she woke, she was in bed at his house, and he and his mother sitting by her bedside, and watching her.

It was a witch that had a spite to the young man, because he wouldn’t marry her, and so she got power to keep him in a state between life and death till a young woman would rescue him by doing what she had just done. So at her request, her sisters got their own shape again, and were sent back to their mother, with p. 57 their spades of gold and shovels of silver. Maybe they were better after that, but I doubt it much. The youngest got the young gentleman for her husband. I’m sure she deserved him, and, if they didn’t live happy, that we may!

THE BROWN BEAR OF NORWAY.

There was once a king in Ireland, and he had three daughters, and very nice princesses they were. And one day that their father and themselves were walking in the lawn, the king began to joke on them, and to ask them who they would like to be married to. “I’ll have the King of Ulster for a husband,” says one; “and I’ll have the King of Munster,” says another; “and,” says the youngest, “I’ll have no husband but the Brown Bear of Norway.” For a nurse of her’s used to be telling her of an enchanted prince that she called by that name, and she fell in love with him, and his name was the first name p. 58 on her lips, for the very night before she was dreaming of him. Well, one laughed, and another laughed, and they joked on the princess all the rest of the evening. But that very night she woke up out of her sleep in a great hall that was lighted up with a thousand lamps; the richest carpets were on the floor, and the walls were covered with cloth of gold and silver, and the place was full of grand company, and the very beautiful prince she saw in her dreams was there, and it wasn’t a moment till he was on one knee before her, and telling her how much he loved her, and asking her wouldn’t she be his queen. Well, she hadn’t the heart to refuse him, and married they were the same evening.

“Now, my darling,” says he, when they were left by themselves, “you must know that I am under enchantment. A sorceress, that had a beautiful daughter, wished me for her son‐in‐law; and because I didn’t keep the young girl at the distance I ought, the mother got power over me, and when I refused to marry her daughter, she made me take the form of a bear by day, and I was to continue so till a lady would marry me of her own free will, and endure five years of great trials after.”

Well, when the princess woke in the morning, she missed her husband from her side, and spent the day very sorrowful. But as soon as the lamps were lighted in the grand hall, where she was sitting on a sofa covered with silk, the folding doors flew open, and he was sitting by her side the next minute. So they spent another evening so happy, and he took an opportunity of warning her that whenever she began to tire of him, or not to have any confidence in him, they would be parted for ever, and he’d be obliged to marry the witch’s daughter.

So she got used to find him absent by day, and they spent a happy twelvemonth together, and at last a beautiful little boy was born; and as happy as she was before, she was twice as happy now, for she had her child to keep her company in the day when she couldn’t see her husband.

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At last, one evening, when herself, and himself and her child, were sitting with a window open because it was a sultry night, in flew an eagle, took the infant’s sash in his beak, and up in the air with him. She screamed, and was going to throw herself out through the window after him, but the prince caught her, and looked at her very seriously. She bethought of what he said soon after their marriage, and she stopped the cries and complaints that were on her lips. She spent her days very lonely for another twelvemonth, when a beautiful little girl was sent to her. Then she thought to herself she’d have a sharp eye about her this time; so she never would allow a window to be more than a few inches open.

But all her care was in vain. Another evening, when they were all so happy, and the prince dandling the baby, a beautiful greyhound bitch stood before them, took the child out of the father’s hand, and was out of the door before you could wink. This time she shouted, and ran out of the room, but there were some of the servants in the next room, and all declared that neither child nor dog passed out. She felt, she could not tell how, to her husband, but still she kept command over herself, and didn’t once reproach him.

When the third child was born, she would hardly allow a window or a door to be left open for a moment; but she wasn’t the nearer to keep the child to herself. They were sitting one evening by the fire, when a lady appeared standing by them. She opened her eyes in a great fright, and stared at her, and while she was doing so, the appearance wrapped a shawl round the baby that was sitting in its father’s lap, and either sunk through the ground with it, or went up through the wide chimney. This time the mother kept her bed for a month.

“My dear,” said she to her husband, when she was beginning to recover, “I think I’d feel better if I was after seeing my father, and mother, and sisters once more. If you give me leave to go home for a few days, I’d be p. 60 glad.” “Very well,” said he, “I will do that; and whenever you feel inclined to return, only mention your wish when you lie down at night.” The next morning when she awoke, she found herself in her own old chamber in her father’s palace. She rung the bell, and in a short time she had her mother, and father, and married sisters about her, and they laughed till they cried for joy at finding her safe back again.

So in time she told them all that happened to her, and they didn’t know what to advise her to do. She was as fond of her husband as ever, and said she was sure that he couldn’t help letting the children go; but still she was afraid beyond the world to have another child to be torn from her. Well, the mother and sisters consulted a wise woman that used to bring eggs to the castle, for they had great confidence in her wisdom. She said the only plan was to secure the bear’s skin that the prince was obliged to put on every morning, and get it burned, and then he couldn’t help being a man night and day, and then the enchantment would be at an end.

So they all persuaded her to do that, and she promised she would; and after eight days she felt so great a longing to see her husband again, that she made the wish the same night, and when she woke three hours after, she was in her husband’s palace, and himself was watching over her. There was great joy on both sides, and they were happy for many days.

Now she began to reflect how she never felt her husband leaving her of a morning, and how she never found him neglecting to give her a sweet drink out of a gold cup just as she was going to bed.

So one night she contrived not to drink any of it, though she pretended to do so; and she was wakeful enough in the morning, and saw her husband passing out through a panel in the wainscot, though she kept her eyelids nearly closed. The next night she got a few drops of the sleepy posset that she saved the evening before, put into her husband’s night drink, and that made p. 61 him sleep sound enough. She got up after midnight, passed through the panel, and found a beautiful brown bear’s hide hanging in an alcove. She stole back, and went down to the parlour fire, and put the hide into the middle of it, and never took eyes off it till it was all fine ashes. She then lay down by her husband, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and fell asleep.

If she was to live a hundred years, she’d never forget how she wakened next morning, and found her husband looking down on her with misery and anger in his face. “Unhappy woman,” said he, “you have separated us for ever! Why hadn’t you patience for five years? I am now obliged, whether I like or no, to go a three days’ journey to the witch’s castle, and live with her daughter. The skin that was my guard you have burned it, and the egg‐wife that gave you the counsel was the witch herself. I won’t reproach you: your punishment will be severe enough without it. Farewell for ever!”

He kissed her for the last time, and was off the next minute walking as fast as he could. She shouted after him, and then seeing there was no use, she dressed herself and pursued him. He never stopped, nor stayed, nor looked back, and still she kept him in sight; and when he was on the hill she was in the hollow, and when he was in the hollow she was on the hill. Her life was almost leaving her, when just as the sun was setting, he turned up a bohyeen (lane), and went into a little house. She crawled up after him, and when she got inside there was a beautiful little boy on his knees, and he kissing and hugging him. “Here, my poor darling,” says he, “is your eldest child, and there,” says he, pointing to a nice middle‐aged woman that was looking on with a smile on her face, “is the eagle that carried him away.” She forgot all her sorrows in a moment, hugging her child, and laughing and crying over him. The Vanithee washed their feet, and rubbed them with an ointment that took all the soreness out of their bones, and made them as fresh as a daisy. Next morning, just before sunrise, he p. 62 was up, and prepared to be off. “Here,” said he to her, “is a thing which may be of use to you. It’s a scissors, and whatever stuff you cut with it will be turned into rich silk. The moment the sun rises, I’ll lose all memory of yourself and the children, but I’ll get it at sunset again; farewell.” But he wasn’t far gone till she was in sight of him again, leaving her boy behind. It was the same to‐day as yesterday: their shadows went before them in the morning, and followed them in the evening. He never stopped, and she never stopped, and as the sun was setting, he turned up another lane, and there they found their little daughter. It was all joy and comfort again till morning, and then the third day’s journey commenced.

But before he started, he gave her a comb, and told her that whenever she used it, pearls and diamonds would fall from her hair, Still he had his full memory from sunset to sunrise; but from sunrise to sunset he travelled on under the charm, and never threw his eye behind. This night they came to where the youngest baby was, and the next morning, just before sunrise, the prince spoke to her for the last time. “Here, my poor wife,” said he, “is a little hand‐reel, with gold thread that has no end, and the half of our marriage ring. If you can ever get to my bed, and put your half ring to mine, I will recollect you. There is a wood yonder, and the moment I enter it, I will forget everything that ever happened between us, just as if I was born yesterday. Farewell, dear wife and child, for ever.” Just then the sun rose, and away he walked towards the wood. She saw it open before him, and close after him, and when she came up, she could no more get in than she could break through a stone wall. She wrung her hands, and shed tears, but then she recollected herself, and cried out, “Wood, I charge you by my three magic gifts—the scissors, the comb, and the reel—to let me through;” and it opened, and she went along a walk till she came in sight of a palace, and a lawn, and a woodman’s cottage p. 63 in the edge of the wood where it came nearest the palace.

She went into this lodge, and asked the woodman and his wife to take her into their service. They were not willing at first; but she told them she would ask no wages, and would give them diamonds, and pearls, and silk stuffs, and gold thread whenever they wished for them. So they agreed to let her stay.

It wasn’t long till she heard how a young prince, that was just arrived, was living in the palace as the husband of the young mistress. Herself and her mother said that they were married fifteen years before, and that he was charmed away from them ever since. He seldom stirred abroad, and every one that saw him remarked how silent and sorrowful he went about, like a person that was searching for some lost thing.

The servants and conceited folk at the big house began to take notice of the beautiful young woman at the lodge, and to annoy her with their impudent addresses. The head‐footman was the most troublesome, and at last she invited him to come take tea with her. Oh, how rejoiced he was, and how he bragged of it in the servants’ hall! Well, the evening came, and the footman walked into the lodge, and was shown to her sitting‐room; for the lodge‐keeper and his wife stood in great awe of her, and gave her two nice rooms to herself. Well, he sat down as stiff as a ramrod, and was talking in a grand style about the great doings at the castle, while she was getting the tea and toast ready. “Oh,” says she to him, “would you put your hand out at the window, and cut me off a sprig or two of honeysuckle?” He got up in great glee, and put out his hand and head; and said she, “By the virtue of my magic gifts, let a pair of horns spring out of your head, and serenade the lodge.” Just as she wished, so it was. They sprung from the front of each ear, and tore round the walls till they met at the back. Oh, the poor wretch! and how he bawled, and roared! and the servants that p. 64 he used to be boasting to, were soon flocking from the castle, and grinning, and huzzaing, and beating tunes on tongs, and shovels, and pans; and he cursing and swearing, and the eyes ready to start out of his head, and he so black in the face, and kicking out his legs behind like mad.

At last she pitied his case, and removed the charm, and the horns dropped down on the ground, and he would have killed her on the spot, only he was as weak as water, and his fellow‐servants came in, and carried him up to the big house.

Well, some way or other, the story came to the ears of the prince, and he strolled down that way. She had only the dress of a country‐woman on her as she sat sewing at the window, but that did not hide her beauty, and he was greatly puzzled and disturbed, after he had a good look at her features, just as a body is perplexed to know whether something happened to him when he was young, or if he only dreamed it. Well, the witch’s daughter heard about it too, and she came to see the strange girl; and what did she find her doing, but cutting out the pattern of a gown from brown paper; and as she cut away, the paper became the richest silk she ever saw. The lady looked on with very covetous eyes, and, says she, “What would you be satisfied to take for that scissors?” “I’ll take nothing,” says she, “but leave to spend one night in the prince’s chamber, and I’ll swear that we’ll be as innocent of any crime next morning as we were in the evening.” Well, the proud lady fired up, and was going to say something dreadful; but the scissors kept on cutting, and the silk growing richer and richer every inch. So she agreed, and made her take a great oath to keep her promise.

When night came on she was let into her husband’s chamber, and the door was locked. But, when she came in a tremble, and sat by the bed‐side, the prince was in such a dead sleep, that all she did couldn’t awake him. She sung this verse to him, sighing and sobbing, p. 65 and kept singing it the night long, and it was all in vain:—

At the first dawn, the proud lady was in the chamber, and led her away, and the footman of the horns put out his tongue at her as she was quitting the palace.

So there was no luck so far; but the next day the prince passed by again, and looked at her, and saluted her kindly, as a prince might a farmer’s daughter, and passed on; and soon the witch’s daughter came by, and found her combing her hair, and pearls and diamonds dropping from it.

Well, another bargain was made, and the princess spent another night of sorrow, and she left the castle at daybreak, and the footman was at his post, and enjoyed his revenge.

The third day the prince went by, and stopped to talk with the strange woman. He asked her could he do anything to serve her, and she said he might. She asked him did he ever wake at night. He said that he was rather wakeful than otherwise; but that during the last two nights, he was listening to a sweet song in his dreams, and could not wake, and that the voice was one that he must have known and loved in some other world long ago. Says she, “Did you drink any sleepy posset either of these evenings before you went to bed?” “I did,” said he. “The two evenings my wife gave me something to drink, but I don’t know whether it was a sleepy posset or not.” “Well, prince,” said she, “as you say you would wish to oblige me, you can do it by not tasting any drink this afternoon.” “I will not,” says he, and then he went on his walk.

Well, the great lady was soon after the prince, and found the stranger using her hand‐reel and winding threads of gold off it, and the third bargain was made.

p. 66

That evening the prince was lying on his bed at twilight, and his mind much disturbed; and the door opened, and in his princess walked, and down she sat by his bed‐side, and sung:—

“Brown Bear of Norway!” said he: “I don’t understand you.” “Don’t you remember, prince, that I was your wedded wife for four years?” “I do not,” said he, “but I’m sure I wish it was so.” “Don’t you remember our three babes, that are still alive?” “Show me them. My mind is all a heap of confusion.” “Look for the half of our marriage ring, that hangs at your neck, and fit it to this.” He did so, and the same moment the charm was broken. His full memory came back on him, and he flung his arms round his wife’s neck, and both burst into tears.

Well, there was a great cry outside, and the castle walls were heard splitting and cracking. Every one in the castle was alarmed, and made their way out. The prince and princess went with the rest, and by the time all were safe on the lawn, down came the building, and made the ground tremble for miles round. No one ever saw the witch and her daughter afterwards. It was not long till the prince and princess had their children with them, and then they set out for their own palace. The kings of Ireland, and of Munster and Ulster, and their wives, soon came to visit them, and may every one that deserves it be as happy as the Brown Bear of Norway and his family.

THE GOBAN SAOR.

It is a long time since the Goban Saor was alive. Maybe it was him that built the Castle of Ferns; part of the walls are thick enough to be built by any goban, or gow, that ever splintered wood, or hammered red‐hot iron, or cut a stone. If he didn’t build Ferns, he built other castles for some of the five kings or the great chiefs. He could fashion a spear‐shaft while you’d p. 68 count five, and the spear‐head at three strokes of a hammer. When he wanted to drive big nails into beams that were ever so high from the ground, he would pitch them into their place, and, taking a fling of the hammer at their heads, they would be drove in as firm as the knocker of Newgate, and he would catch the hammer when it was falling down.

At last it came to the King of Munster’s turn to get his castle built, and to Goban he sent. Goban knew that, in other times far back, the King of Ireland killed the celebrated architects, Rog, Robog, Rodin, and Rooney, the way they would never build another palace equal to his, and so he mentioned something to his wife privately before he set out. He took his son along with him, and the first night they got lodging at a farmer’s house. The farmer told them they might leave their beasts to graze all night in any of his fields they pleased. So they entered one field, and says Goban, “Tie the bastes up for the night.” “Why?” says the son; “I can’t find anything strong enough.” “Well, then, let us try the next field. Now,” says he, “tie up the horses if you can.” “Oh! by my word, here’s a thistle strong enough this time.” “That will do.”

The next night they slept at another farmer’s house, where there were two young daughters—one with black hair, very industrious; the other with fair complexion, and rather liking to sit with her hands across, and listen to the talk round the fire, than to be doing any work. While they were chatting about one thing and another, says the Goban, “Young girls, if I’d wish to be young again, it would be for the sake of getting one of you for a wife; but I think very few old people that do be thinking at all of the other world, ever wish to live their lives over again. Still I wish that you may have good luck in your choice of a husband, and so I give you three bits of advice. Always have the head of an old woman by the hob; warm yourselves with your work in the morning; and, some time before I come back, take the skin of a p. 69 newly‐killed sheep to the market, and bring itself and the price of it home again.” When they were leaving next morning, the Goban said to his son, “Maybe one of these girls may be your wife some day.”

As they were going along, they met a poor man striving to put a flat roof over a mud‐walled round cabin, but he had only three joists, and each of them was only

three‐quarters of the breadth across. Well, the Goban put two nicks near one end of every joist, on opposite sides; and when these were fitted into one another, there was a three‐cornered figure formed in the middle, and the other ends rested on the mud wall, and the floor they made was as strong as anything. The poor man blessed the two men, and they went on. That night they stopped at a house where the master sat by the fire, and hardly opened his mouth all the evening. If he didn’t talk, a meddlesome neighbour did, and interfered about everything. There was another chance lodger besides the Goban and his son, and when the evening was half over, the Goban said he thought he would go farther on his journey as it was a fine night. “You may come along with us, if you like,” says he to the other man; but he said he was too tired. The two men slept in a farmer’s house half a mile farther on; and the next morning the first news they heard, when they were setting out, was, that the man of the house they left the evening before was found murdered in his bed, and the lodger taken up on suspicion. Says he to his son, “Never sleep a night where the woman is everything, and the man nothing.” He stopped a day or two, however, and by cross‐examining and calling witnesses, p. 70 he got the murder tracked to the woman and the busy neighbour.

The next day they came to a ford, where a dozen of carpenters were puzzling their heads about setting up a wooden bridge that would neither have a peg nor a nail in any part of it. The king would give a great reward to them if they succeeded, and if they didn’t, he’d never give one of them a job again. “Give us a hatchet and a few sticks,” says the Goban, “and we’ll see if we have any little genius that way.” So he squared a few posts and cross‐bars, and made a little bridge on the sod; and it was so made, that the greater weight was on it, and the stronger the stream of water, the solider it would be.13

Maybe the carpenters warn’t thankful, except one envious, little, ould basthard of a fellow, that said any child might have thought of the plan (it happened he didn’t think of it though), and would make the Goban and his son drink a cag of whisky, only they couldn’t delay their journey.

At last they came to where the King of Munster kep’ his coort, either at Cashel or Limerick, or some place in Clare, and the Goban burned very little daylight till he had a palace springing up like a flagger. People came from all parts, and were in admiration of the fine work; but as they were getting near the eaves, one of the carpenters that were engaged at the wooden bridge came late one night into the Goban’s room, and told him what himself was suspecting, that just as he would be setting p. 71 the coping stone, the scaffolding would, somehow or other, get loose, himself fall down a few stories and be kilt, the king wring his hands, and shed a few crocodile tears, and the like palace never be seen within the four seas of Ireland.

“Sha gu dheine,”14 says the Goban to himself; but next day he spoke out plain enough to the king. “Please your Majesty,” says he, “I am now pretty near the end of my work, but there is still something to be done before we come to the wall‐plate that is to make all sure and strong. There is a bit of a charm about it, but I haven’t the tool here—it is at home, and my son got so sick last night, and is lying so bad, he is not able to go for it. If you can’t spare the young prince, I must go myself, for my wife wouldn’t intrust it to any one but of royal blood.” The king, rather than let the Goban out of his sight, sent the young prince for the tool. The Goban told him some outlandish name in Irish, which his wife would find at his bed’s head, and bid him make all the haste he could back.

In a week’s time, back came two of the poor attendants that were with the prince, and told the king that his son was well off, with the best of eating and drinking, and chess‐playing and sword exercise, that any prince could wish for, but that out of her sight the Goban’s wife nor her people would let him, till she had her husband safe and sound inside of his own threshold.

Well, to be sure, how the king fumed and raged! but what’s the use of striving to tear down a stone wall with your teeth? He could do without his palace being finished, but he couldn’t do without his son and heir. The Goban didn’t keep spite; he put the finishing touch to the palace in three days, and, in two days more, himself and his son were sitting at the farmer’s fireside where the two purty young girls wor.

“Well, my colleen bawn,” says he to the one with the fair hair, “did you mind the advice I gev you when I p. 72 was here last?” “Indeed I did, and little good it did me. I got an old woman’s skull from the churchyard, and fixed it in the wall near the hob, and it so frightened every one, that I was obliged to have it taken back in an hour.” “And how did you warm yourself with your work in the cold mornings?” “The first morning’s work I had was to card flax, and I thrune some of it on the fire, and my mother gave me such a raking for it, that I didn’t offer to warm myself that way again.” “Now for the sheep‐skin.” “That was the worst of all. When I told the buyers in the market that I was to bring back the skin and the price of it, they only jeered at me. One young buckeen said, if I’d go into the tavern and take share of a quart of mulled beer with him, he’d make that bargain with me, and that so vexed me that I turned home at once.” “Well, that was the right thing to do, anyhow. Now my little Ceann Dhu (black head), let us see how you fared. The skull?” “Och!” says an old woman, sitting close to the fire in the far corner, “I’m a distant relation that was left desolate, and this,” says she, tapping the side of her poor head, “is the old woman’s skull she provided.” “Well, now for the warming of yourself in the cold mornings.” “Oh, I kept my hands and feet going so lively at my work that it was warming enough.” “Well, and the sheep‐skin?” “That was easy enough. When I got to the market, I went to the crane, plucked the wool off, sold it, and brought home the skin.”

“Man and woman of the house,” says the Goban, “I ask you before this company, to give me this girl for my daughter‐in‐law; and if ever her husband looks crooked at her, I’ll beat him within an inch of his life.” There was very few words, and no need of a black man to make up the match; and when the prince was returning home, he stopped a day to be at the wedding. If I hear of any more of the Goban’s great doings, I’ll tell ’em some other time.

THE THREE ADVICES WHICH THE KING WITH THE RED SOLES GAVE TO HIS SON.15

When the chief of the Bonna Dearriga was on his death‐bed he gave his son three counsels, and said misfortune would attend him if he did not follow them. The first was never to bring home a beast from a fair after having been offered a fair price for it; the second, never to call in ragged clothes on a friend when he wanted a favour from him; the third not to marry a wife with whose family he was not well acquainted.

The name of the young chief was Illan, called Don, from his brown hair, and the first thing he set about doing after the funeral, was to test the wisdom of his father’s counsels. So he went to the fair of Tailtean16 with a fine mare of his, and rode up and down. He asked twenty gold rings for his beast, but the highest bid he got was only nineteen. To work out his design he would not abate a screpal, but rode home on her back in the evening. He could have readily crossed a ford that lay in his way near home; for sheer devilment he leaped p. 74 the river higher up, where the banks on both sides were steep. The poor beast stumbled as she came near the edge, and was flung head foremost into the rocky bed, and killed. He was pitched forward, but his fall was broken by some shrubs that were growing in the face of the opposite bank. He was as sorry for the poor mare as any young fellow, fond of horses and dogs, could be. When he got home he sent a giolla to take off the animal’s two fore‐legs at the knee, and these he hung up in the great hall of his dun, having first had them properly dried and prepared.

Next day he repaired again to the fair, and got into conversation with a rich chief of Oriel, whose handsome daughter had come to the meeting to purchase some cows. Illan offered his services, as he knew most of the bodachs and the bodachs’ wives who were there for the object of selling. A word to them from the handsome and popular young chief,—and good bargains were given to the lady. So pleased was her father, ay and she too, with this civility that he forthwith received an invitation to hunt and fish at the northern rath, and very willingly he accepted it. So he returned home in a very pleasant state of mind, and was anxious that this second experiment should succeed better than the first.

The visit was paid, and in the mornings there were pleasant walks in the woods with the young lady, while her little brother and sister were chasing one another through the trees, and the hunting and fishing went on afterwards, and there were feasts of venison, and wild boar, and drinking of wine and mead in the evenings, and stories in verse recited by bards, and sometimes moonlight walks on the ramparts of the fort, and at last marriage was proposed and accepted.

One morning as Illan was musing on the happiness that was before him, an attendant on his promised bride walked into his room. “Great must be your surprise, O Illan Don,” said she, “at this my visit, but my respect for you will not allow me to see you fall into the pit that p. 75 is gaping for you. Your affianced bride is an unchaste woman. You have remarked the deformed Fergus Rua, who plays on the small clarsech, and is the possessor of thrice fifty stories. He often attends in her room late in the evening to play soft music to her, and to put her to sleep with this soft music and his stories of the Danaan druids. Who would suspect the weak deformed creature, or the young lady of noble birth? By your hand, O Illan of the brown hair, if you marry her, you will bring disgrace on yourself and your clan. You do not trust my words! Then trust to your own senses. She would most willingly break off all connexion with the lame wretch since she first laid eyes on you, but he has sworn to expose her before you and her father. When the household is at rest this night, wait at the entrance of the passage that leads to the women’s apartments. I will meet you there. To‐morrow morning you will require no one’s advice for your direction.”

Before the sun tinged the purple clouds, next morning, Illan was crossing the outer moat of the lios, and lying behind him on the back of his trusty steed, was some long object carefully folded in skins. “Tell your honoured chief,” said he to the attendant who was conducting him, “that I am obliged on a sudden to depart, and that I request him by his regard for me to return my visit a fortnight hence, and to bring his fair daughter with him.” On he rode, and muttered from time to time, “Oh, had I slain the guilty pair, it would be a well merited death! the deformed wretch! the weak lost woman! Now for the third trial!”

Illan had a married sister, whose rath was about twelve of our miles distant from his. To her home he repaired next day, changing clothes with a beggar whom he met on the road. When he arrived, he found that they were at dinner, and several neighbouring families with them in the great hall. “Tell my sister,” said he to a giolla who was lounging at the door, “that I wish to speak with her.” “Who is your sister?” said the other in an p. 76 insolent tone, for he did not recognise the young chief in his beggar’s dress. “Who should she be but the Bhan a Teagh, you rascal!” The fellow began to laugh, but the open palm of the irritated young man coming like a sledge stroke on his cheek, dashed him on the ground, and set him a‐roaring. “Oh, what has caused this confusion?” said the lady of the house, coming out from the hall. “I,” said her brother, “punishing your giolla’s disrespect.” “Oh, brother, what has reduced you to such a condition?” “An attack on my house, and a creagh made on my lands in my absence. I have neither gold nor silver vessels in my dun, nor rich cloaks, nor ornaments, nor arms for my followers. My cattle have been driven from my lands, and all as I was on a visit at the house of my intended bride. You must come to my relief; you will have to send cattle to my ravaged fields, gold and silver vessels, and ornaments and furs, and rich clothes to my house, to enable me to receive my bride and her father in a few days.” “Poor dear Illan!” she answered, “my heart bleeds for you. I fear I cannot aid you, nor can I ask you to join our company within in these rags. But you must be hungry; stay here till I send you some refreshment.”

She quitted him, and did not return again, but an attendant came out with a griddle‐cake in one hand, and a porringer with some Danish beer in it in the other. Illan carried them away to the spot where he had quitted the beggar, and gave him the bread, and made him drink the beer. Then changing clothes with him, he rewarded him, and returned home, bearing the porringer as a trophy.

On the day appointed with the father of his affianced, there were assembled in Illan’s hall, his sister, his sister’s husband, his affianced, her father, and some others. When an opportunity offered after meat and bread, and wine had gone the way of all food, Illan addressed his guests: “Friends and relations, I am about confessing some of my faults before you, and hope you will be p. 77 bettered by the hearing. My dying father charged me never to refuse a fair offer for horse, cow, or sheep, at a fair. For refusing a trifle less than I asked for my noble mare, there was nothing left to me but those bits of her fore‐legs you see hanging by the wall. He advised me never to put on an air of want when soliciting a favour. I begged help of my sister for a pretended need, and because I had nothing better than a beggar’s cloak on me, I got nothing for my suit but the porringer that you see dangling by the poor remains of my mare. I wooed a strange lady to be my wife, contrary to my dying father’s injunction, and after seeming to listen favourably to my suit, she at last said I should be satisfied with the crutches of her lame and deformed harper: there they are!” The sister blushed, and was ready to sink through the floor for shame. The bride was in a much more wretched state, and would have fainted, but it was not the fashion of the day. Her father stormed, and said this was but a subterfuge on the part of Illan. He deferred to her pleasure, but though torn with anguish for the loss of the young chief’s love and respect, she took the blame on herself.

The next morning saw the rath without a visitor; but within a quarter of a year, the kind faced, though not beautiful daughter of a neighbouring Duine Uasal (gentleman) made the fort cheerful by her presence. Illan had known her since they were children. He was long aware of her excellent qualities, but had never thought of her as a wife till the morning after his speech. He was fonder of her a month after his marriage than he was on the marriage morning, and much fonder when a year had gone by, and presented his house with an heir.

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