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Celtic Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs (coll. & ed.)

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CELTIC FAIRY TALES

_SELECTED AND EDITED BY_

JOSEPH JACOBS

_SAY THIS

Three times, with your eyes shut_

Mothuighim boladh an Eireannaigh bhinn bhreugaigh faoi m'fhoidin
duthaigh.

_And you will see

What you will see_

_TO ALFRED NUTT_

PREFACE

Last year, in giving the young ones a volume of English Fairy Tales,
my difficulty was one of collection. This time, in offering them
specimens of the rich folk-fancy of the Celts of these islands, my
trouble has rather been one of selection. Ireland began to collect
her folk-tales almost as early as any country in Europe, and Croker
has found a whole school of successors in Carleton, Griffin,
Kennedy, Curtin, and Douglas Hyde. Scotland had the great name of
Campbell, and has still efficient followers in MacDougall, MacInnes,
Carmichael, Macleod, and Campbell of Tiree. Gallant little Wales has
no name to rank alongside these; in this department the Cymru have
shown less vigour than the Gaedhel. Perhaps the Eisteddfod, by
offering prizes for the collection of Welsh folk-tales, may remove
this inferiority. Meanwhile Wales must be content to be somewhat
scantily represented among the Fairy Tales of the Celts, while the
extinct Cornish tongue has only contributed one tale.

In making my selection I have chiefly tried to make the stories
characteristic. It would have been easy, especially from Kennedy, to
have made up a volume entirely filled with "Grimm's Goblins" _a la
Celtique_. But one can have too much even of that very good
thing, and I have therefore avoided as far as possible the more
familiar "formulae" of folk-tale literature. To do this I had to
withdraw from the English-speaking Pale both in Scotland and
Ireland, and I laid down the rule to include only tales that have
been taken down from Celtic peasants ignorant of English.

Having laid down the rule, I immediately proceeded to break it. The
success of a fairy book, I am convinced, depends on the due
admixture of the comic and the romantic: Grimm and Asbjornsen knew
this secret, and they alone. But the Celtic peasant who speaks
Gaelic takes the pleasure of telling tales somewhat sadly: so far as
he has been printed and translated, I found him, to my surprise,
conspicuously lacking in humour. For the comic relief of this volume
I have therefore had to turn mainly to the Irish peasant of the
Pale; and what richer source could I draw from?

For the more romantic tales I have depended on the Gaelic, and, as I
know about as much of Gaelic as an Irish Nationalist M. P., I have
had to depend on translators. But I have felt myself more at liberty
than the translators themselves, who have generally been over-
literal, in changing, excising, or modifying the original. I have
even gone further. In order that the tales should be characteristically
Celtic, I have paid more particular attention to tales that are to be
found on both sides of the North Channel.

In re-telling them I have had no scruple in interpolating now and
then a Scotch incident into an Irish variant of the same story, or
_vice versa_. Where the translators appealed to English folklorists
and scholars, I am trying to attract English children. They translated; I
endeavoured to transfer. In short, I have tried to put myself into the
position of an _ollamh_ or _sheenachie_ familiar with both forms
of Gaelic, and anxious to put his stories in the best way to attract
English children. I trust I shall be forgiven by Celtic scholars for the
changes I have had to make to effect this end.

The stories collected in this volume are longer and more detailed
than the English ones I brought together last Christmas. The
romantic ones are certainly more romantic, and the comic ones
perhaps more comic, though there may be room for a difference of
opinion on this latter point. This superiority of the Celtic folk-
tales is due as much to the conditions under which they have been
collected, as to any innate superiority of the folk-imagination. The
folk-tale in England is in the last stages of exhaustion. The Celtic
folk-tales have been collected while the practice of story-telling
is still in full vigour, though there are every signs that its term
of life is already numbered. The more the reason why they should be
collected and put on record while there is yet time. On the whole,
the industry of the collectors of Celtic folk-lore is to be
commended, as may be seen from the survey of it I have prefixed to
the Notes and References at the end of the volume. Among these, I
would call attention to the study of the legend of Beth Gellert, the
origin of which, I believe, I have settled.

While I have endeavoured to render the language of the tales simple
and free from bookish artifice, I have not felt at liberty to retell
the tales in the English way. I have not scrupled to retain a Celtic
turn of speech, and here and there a Celtic word, which I have
_not_ explained within brackets--a practice to be abhorred of
all good men. A few words unknown to the reader only add
effectiveness and local colour to a narrative, as Mr. Kipling well
knows.

One characteristic of the Celtic folk-lore I have endeavoured to
represent in my selection, because it is nearly unique at the
present day in Europe. Nowhere else is there so large and consistent
a body of oral tradition about the national and mythical heroes as
amongst the Gaels. Only the _byline_, or hero-songs of Russia,
equal in extent the amount of knowledge about the heroes of the past
that still exists among the Gaelic-speaking peasantry of Scotland
and Ireland. And the Irish tales and ballads have this peculiarity,
that some of them have been extant, and can be traced, for well nigh
a thousand years. I have selected as a specimen of this class the
Story of Deirdre, collected among the Scotch peasantry a few years
ago, into which I have been able to insert a passage taken from an
Irish vellum of the twelfth century. I could have more than filled
this volume with similar oral traditions about Finn (the Fingal of
Macpherson's "Ossian"). But the story of Finn, as told by the Gaelic
peasantry of to-day, deserves a volume by itself, while the
adventures of the Ultonian hero, Cuchulain, could easily fill
another.

I have endeavoured to include in this volume the best and most
typical stories told by the chief masters of the Celtic folk-tale,
Campbell, Kennedy, Hyde, and Curtin, and to these I have added the
best tales scattered elsewhere. By this means I hope I have put
together a volume, containing both the best, and the best known
folk-tales of the Celts. I have only been enabled to do this by the
courtesy of those who owned the copyright of these stories. Lady
Wilde has kindly granted me the use of her effective version of "The
Horned Women;" and I have specially to thank Messrs. Macmillan for
right to use Kennedy's "Legendary Fictions," and Messrs. Sampson Low
& Co., for the use of Mr. Curtin's Tales.

In making my selection, and in all doubtful points of treatment, I
have had resource to the wide knowledge of my friend Mr. Alfred Nutt
in all branches of Celtic folk-lore. If this volume does anything to
represent to English children the vision and colour, the magic and
charm, of the Celtic folk-imagination, this is due in large measure
to the care with which Mr. Nutt has watched its inception and
progress. With him by my side I could venture into regions where the
non-Celt wanders at his own risk.

Lastly, I have again to rejoice in the co-operation of my friend,
Mr. J. D. Batten, in giving form to the creations of the folk-fancy.
He has endeavoured in his illustrations to retain as much as
possible of Celtic ornamentation; for all details of Celtic
archaeology he has authority. Yet both he and I have striven to give
Celtic things as they appear to, and attract, the English mind,
rather than attempt the hopeless task of representing them as they
are to Celts. The fate of the Celt in the British Empire bids fair
to resemble that of the Greeks among the Romans. "They went forth to
battle, but they always fell," yet the captive Celt has enslaved his
captor in the realm of imagination. The present volume attempts to
begin the pleasant captivity from the earliest years. If it could
succeed in giving a common fund of imaginative wealth to the Celtic
and the Saxon children of these isles, it might do more for a true
union of hearts than all your politics.

JOSEPH JACOBS.

CONTENTS

I. CONNLA AND THE FAIRY MAIDEN

II. GULEESH

III. THE FIELD OF BOLIAUNS

IV. THE HORNED WOMEN

V. CONAL YELLOWCLAW

VI. HUDDEN AND DUDDEN AND DONALD O'NEARY

VII. THE SHEPHERD OF MYDDVAI

VIII. THE SPRIGHTLY TAILOR

IX. THE STORY OF DEIRDRE

X. MUNACHAR AND MANACHAR

XI. GOLD-TREE AND SILVER-TREE

XII. KING O'TOOLE AND HIS GOOSE

XIII. THE WOOING OF OLWEN

XIV. JACK AND HIS COMRADES

XV. THE SHEE AN GANNON AND THE GRUAGACH GAIRE

XVI. THE STORY-TELLER AT FAULT

XVII. THE SEA-MAIDEN

XVIII. A LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY

XIX. FAIR, BROWN, AND TREMBLING

XX. JACK AND HIS MASTER

XXI. BETH GELLERT

XXII. THE TALE OF IVAN

XXIII. ANDREW COFFEY

XXIV. THE BATTLE OF THE BIRDS

XXV. BREWERY OF EGGSHELLS

XXVI. THE LAD WITH THE GOAT-SKIN

NOTES AND REFERENCES

CONNLA AND THE FAIRY MAIDEN

Connla of the Fiery Hair was son of Conn of the Hundred Fights. One
day as he stood by the side of his father on the height of Usna, he
saw a maiden clad in strange attire coming towards him.

"Whence comest thou, maiden?" said Connla.

"I come from the Plains of the Ever Living," she said, "there where
there is neither death nor sin. There we keep holiday alway, nor
need we help from any in our joy. And in all our pleasure we have no
strife. And because we have our homes in the round green hills, men
call us the Hill Folk."

The king and all with him wondered much to hear a voice when they
saw no one. For save Connla alone, none saw the Fairy Maiden.

"To whom art thou talking, my son?" said Conn the king.

Then the maiden answered, "Connla speaks to a young, fair maid, whom
neither death nor old age awaits. I love Connla, and now I call him
away to the Plain of Pleasure, Moy Mell, where Boadag is king for
aye, nor has there been complaint or sorrow in that land since he
has held the kingship. Oh, come with me, Connla of the Fiery Hair,
ruddy as the dawn with thy tawny skin. A fairy crown awaits thee to
grace thy comely face and royal form. Come, and never shall thy
comeliness fade, nor thy youth, till the last awful day of
judgment."

The king in fear at what the maiden said, which he heard though he
could not see her, called aloud to his Druid, Coran by name.

"Oh, Coran of the many spells," he said, "and of the cunning magic,
I call upon thy aid. A task is upon me too great for all my skill
and wit, greater than any laid upon me since I seized the kingship.
A maiden unseen has met us, and by her power would take from me my
dear, my comely son. If thou help not, he will be taken from thy
king by woman's wiles and witchery."

Then Coran the Druid stood forth and chanted his spells towards the
spot where the maiden's voice had been heard. And none heard her
voice again, nor could Connla see her longer. Only as she vanished
before the Druid's mighty spell, she threw an apple to Connla.

For a whole month from that day Connla would take nothing, either to
eat or to drink, save only from that apple. But as he ate it grew
again and always kept whole. And all the while there grew within him
a mighty yearning and longing after the maiden he had seen.

But when the last day of the month of waiting came, Connla stood by
the side of the king his father on the Plain of Arcomin, and again
he saw the maiden come towards him, and again she spoke to him.

"'Tis a glorious place, forsooth, that Connla holds among short-
lived mortals awaiting the day of death. But now the folk of life,
the ever-living ones, beg and bid thee come to Moy Mell, the Plain
of Pleasure, for they have learnt to know thee, seeing thee in thy
home among thy dear ones."

When Conn the king heard the maiden's voice he called to his men
aloud and said:

"Summon swift my Druid Coran, for I see she has again this day the
power of speech."

Then the maiden said: "Oh, mighty Conn, fighter of a hundred fights,
the Druid's power is little loved; it has little honour in the
mighty land, peopled with so many of the upright. When the Law will
come, it will do away with the Druid's magic spells that come from
the lips of the false black demon."

Then Conn the king observed that since the maiden came, Connla his
son spoke to none that spake to him. So Conn of the hundred fights
said to him, "Is it to thy mind what the woman says, my son?"

"'Tis hard upon me," then said Connla; "I love my own folk above all
things; but yet, but yet a longing seizes me for the maiden."

When the maiden heard this, she answered and said "The ocean is not
so strong as the waves of thy longing. Come with me in my curragh,
the gleaming, straight-gliding crystal canoe. Soon we can reach
Boadag's realm. I see the bright sun sink, yet far as it is, we can
reach it before dark. There is, too, another land worthy of thy
journey, a land joyous to all that seek it. Only wives and maidens
dwell there. If thou wilt, we can seek it and live there alone
together in joy."

When the maiden ceased to speak, Connla of the Fiery Hair rushed
away from them and sprang into the curragh, the gleaming, straight-
gliding crystal canoe. And then they all, king and court, saw it
glide away over the bright sea towards the setting sun. Away and
away, till eye could see it no longer, and Connla and the Fairy
Maiden went their way on the sea, and were no more seen, nor did any
know where they came.

GULEESH

There was once a boy in the County Mayo; Guleesh was his name. There
was the finest rath a little way off from the gable of the house,
and he was often in the habit of seating himself on the fine grass
bank that was running round it. One night he stood, half leaning
against the gable of the house, and looking up into the sky, and
watching the beautiful white moon over his head. After he had been
standing that way for a couple of hours, he said to himself: "My
bitter grief that I am not gone away out of this place altogether.
I'd sooner be any place in the world than here. Och, it's well for
you, white moon," says he, "that's turning round, turning round, as
you please yourself, and no man can put you back. I wish I was the
same as you."

Hardly was the word out of his mouth when he heard a great noise
coming like the sound of many people running together, and talking,
and laughing, and making sport, and the sound went by him like a
whirl of wind, and he was listening to it going into the rath.
"Musha, by my soul," says he, "but ye're merry enough, and I'll
follow ye."

What was in it but the fairy host, though he did not know at first
that it was they who were in it, but he followed them into the rath.
It's there he heard the _fulparnee_, and the _folpornee_, the
_rap-lay-hoota_, and the _roolya-boolya_, that they had there,
and every man of them crying out as loud as he could: "My horse,
and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle, and saddle!"

"By my hand," said Guleesh, "my boy, that's not bad. I'll imitate
ye," and he cried out as well as they: "My horse, and bridle, and
saddle! My horse, and bridle, and saddle!" And on the moment there
was a fine horse with a bridle of gold, and a saddle of silver,
standing before him. He leaped up on it, and the moment he was on
its back he saw clearly that the rath was full of horses, and of
little people going riding on them.

Said a man of them to him: "Are you coming with us to-night,
Guleesh?"

"I am surely," said Guleesh.

"If you are, come along," said the little man, and out they went all
together, riding like the wind, faster than the fastest horse ever
you saw a-hunting, and faster than the fox and the hounds at his
tail.

The cold winter's wind that was before them, they overtook her, and
the cold winter's wind that was behind them, she did not overtake
them. And stop nor stay of that full race, did they make none, until
they came to the brink of the sea.

Then every one of them said: "Hie over cap! Hie over cap!" and that
moment they were up in the air, and before Guleesh had time to
remember where he was, they were down on dry land again, and were
going like the wind.

At last they stood still, and a man of them said to Guleesh:
"Guleesh, do you know where you are now?"

"Not a know," says Guleesh.

"You're in France, Guleesh," said he. "The daughter of the king of
France is to be married to-night, the handsomest woman that the sun
ever saw, and we must do our best to bring her with us; if we're
only able to carry her off; and you must come with us that we may be
able to put the young girl up behind you on the horse, when we'll be
bringing her away, for it's not lawful for us to put her sitting
behind ourselves. But you're flesh and blood, and she can take a
good grip of you, so that she won't fall off the horse. Are you
satisfied, Guleesh, and will you do what we're telling you?"

"Why shouldn't I be satisfied?" said Guleesh. "I'm satisfied,
surely, and anything that ye will tell me to do I'll do it without
doubt."

They got off their horses there, and a man of them said a word that
Guleesh did not understand, and on the moment they were lifted up,
and Guleesh found himself and his companions in the palace. There
was a great feast going on there, and there was not a nobleman or a
gentleman in the kingdom but was gathered there, dressed in silk and
satin, and gold and silver, and the night was as bright as the day
with all the lamps and candles that were lit, and Guleesh had to
shut his two eyes at the brightness. When he opened them again and
looked from him, he thought he never saw anything as fine as all he
saw there. There were a hundred tables spread out, and their full of
meat and drink on each table of them, flesh-meat, and cakes and
sweetmeats, and wine and ale, and every drink that ever a man saw.
The musicians were at the two ends of the hall, and they were
playing the sweetest music that ever a man's ear heard, and there
were young women and fine youths in the middle of the hall, dancing
and turning, and going round so quickly and so lightly, that it put
a _soorawn_ in Guleesh's head to be looking at them. There were
more there playing tricks, and more making fun and laughing, for
such a feast as there was that day had not been in France for twenty
years, because the old king had no children alive but only the one
daughter, and she was to be married to the son of another king that
night. Three days the feast was going on, and the third night she
was to be married, and that was the night that Guleesh and the
sheehogues came, hoping, if they could, to carry off with them the
king's young daughter.

Guleesh and his companions were standing together at the head of the
hall, where there was a fine altar dressed up, and two bishops
behind it waiting to marry the girl, as soon as the right time
should come. Now nobody could see the sheehogues, for they said a
word as they came in, that made them all invisible, as if they had
not been in it at all.

"Tell me which of them is the king's daughter," said Guleesh, when
he was becoming a little used to the noise and the light.

"Don't you see her there away from you?" said the little man that he
was talking to.

Guleesh looked where the little man was pointing with his finger,
and there he saw the loveliest woman that was, he thought, upon the
ridge of the world. The rose and the lily were fighting together in
her face, and one could not tell which of them got the victory. Her
arms and hands were like the lime, her mouth as red as a strawberry
when it is ripe, her foot was as small and as light as another one's
hand, her form was smooth and slender, and her hair was falling down
from her head in buckles of gold. Her garments and dress were woven
with gold and silver, and the bright stone that was in the ring on
her hand was as shining as the sun.

Guleesh was nearly blinded with all the loveliness and beauty that
was in her; but when he looked again, he saw that she was crying,
and that there was the trace of tears in her eyes. "It can't be,"
said Guleesh, "that there's grief on her, when everybody round her
is so full of sport and merriment."

"Musha, then, she is grieved," said the little man; "for it's
against her own will she's marrying, and she has no love for the
husband she is to marry. The king was going to give her to him three
years ago, when she was only fifteen, but she said she was too
young, and requested him to leave her as she was yet. The king gave
her a year's grace, and when that year was up he gave her another
year's grace, and then another; but a week or a day he would not
give her longer, and she is eighteen years old to-night, and it's
time for her to marry; but, indeed," says he, and he crooked his
mouth in an ugly way--"indeed, it's no king's son she'll marry, if I
can help it."

Guleesh pitied the handsome young lady greatly when he heard that,
and he was heart-broken to think that it would be necessary for her
to marry a man she did not like, or, what was worse, to take a nasty
sheehogue for a husband. However, he did not say a word, though he
could not help giving many a curse to the ill-luck that was laid out
for himself, to be helping the people that were to snatch her away
from her home and from her father.

He began thinking, then, what it was he ought to do to save her, but
he could think of nothing. "Oh! if I could only give her some help
and relief," said he, "I wouldn't care whether I were alive or dead;
but I see nothing that I can do for her."

He was looking on when the king's son came up to her and asked her
for a kiss, but she turned her head away from him. Guleesh had
double pity for her then, when he saw the lad taking her by the soft
white hand, and drawing her out to dance. They went round in the
dance near where Guleesh was, and he could plainly see that there
were tears in her eyes.

When the dancing was over, the old king, her father, and her mother
the queen, came up and said that this was the right time to marry
her, that the bishop was ready, and it was time to put the wedding-
ring on her and give her to her husband.

The king took the youth by the hand, and the queen took her
daughter, and they went up together to the altar, with the lords and
great people following them.

When they came near the altar, and were no more than about four
yards from it, the little sheehogue stretched out his foot before
the girl, and she fell. Before she was able to rise again he threw
something that was in his hand upon her, said a couple of words, and
upon the moment the maiden was gone from amongst them. Nobody could
see her, for that word made her invisible. The little man_een_
seized her and raised her up behind Guleesh, and the king nor no one
else saw them, but out with them through the hall till they came to
the door.

Oro! dear Mary! it's there the pity was, and the trouble, and the
crying, and the wonder, and the searching, and the _rookawn_,
when that lady disappeared from their eyes, and without their seeing
what did it. Out of the door of the palace they went, without being
stopped or hindered, for nobody saw them, and, "My horse, my bridle,
and saddle!" says every man of them. "My horse, my bridle, and
saddle!" says Guleesh; and on the moment the horse was standing
ready caparisoned before him. "Now, jump up, Guleesh," said the
little man, "and put the lady behind you, and we will be going; the
morning is not far off from us now."

Guleesh raised her up on the horse's back, and leaped up himself
before her, and, "Rise, horse," said he; and his horse, and the
other horses with him, went in a full race until they came to the
sea.

"Hie over cap!" said every man of them.

"Hie over cap!" said Guleesh; and on the moment the horse rose under
him, and cut a leap in the clouds, and came down in Erin.

They did not stop there, but went of a race to the place where was
Guleesh's house and the rath. And when they came as far as that,
Guleesh turned and caught the young girl in his two arms, and leaped
off the horse.

"I call and cross you to myself, in the name of God!" said he; and
on the spot, before the word was out of his mouth, the horse fell
down, and what was in it but the beam of a plough, of which they had
made a horse; and every other horse they had, it was that way they
made it. Some of them were riding on an old besom, and some on a
broken stick, and more on a bohalawn or a hemlock-stalk.

The good people called out together when they heard what Guleesh
said:

"Oh! Guleesh, you clown, you thief, that no good may happen you, why
did you play that trick on us?"

But they had no power at all to carry off the girl, after Guleesh
had consecrated her to himself.

"Oh! Guleesh, isn't that a nice turn you did us, and we so kind to
you? What good have we now out of our journey to France. Never mind
yet, you clown, but you'll pay us another time for this. Believe us,
you'll repent it."

"He'll have no good to get out of the young girl," said the little
man that was talking to him in the palace before that, and as he
said the word he moved over to her and struck her a slap on the side
of the head. "Now," says he, "she'll be without talk any more; now,
Guleesh, what good will she be to you when she'll be dumb? It's time
for us to go--but you'll remember us, Guleesh!"

When he said that he stretched out his two hands, and before Guleesh
was able to give an answer, he and the rest of them were gone into
the rath out of his sight, and he saw them no more.

He turned to the young woman and said to her: "Thanks be to God,
they're gone. Would you not sooner stay with me than with them?" She
gave him no answer. "There's trouble and grief on her yet," said
Guleesh in his own mind, and he spoke to her again: "I am afraid
that you must spend this night in my father's house, lady, and if
there is anything that I can do for you, tell me, and I'll be your
servant."

The beautiful girl remained silent, but there were tears in her
eyes, and her face was white and red after each other.

"Lady," said Guleesh, "tell me what you would like me to do now. I
never belonged at all to that lot of sheehogues who carried you away
with them. I am the son of an honest farmer, and I went with them
without knowing it. If I'll be able to send you back to your father
I'll do it, and I pray you make any use of me now that you may
wish."

He looked into her face, and he saw the mouth moving as if she was
going to speak, but there came no word from it.

"It cannot be," said Guleesh, "that you are dumb. Did I not hear you
speaking to the king's son in the palace to-night? Or has that devil
made you really dumb, when he struck his nasty hand on your jaw?"

The girl raised her white smooth hand, and laid her finger on her
tongue, to show him that she had lost her voice and power of speech,
and the tears ran out of her two eyes like streams, and Guleesh's
own eyes were not dry, for as rough as he was on the outside he had
a soft heart, and could not stand the sight of the young girl, and
she in that unhappy plight.

He began thinking with himself what he ought to do, and he did not
like to bring her home with himself to his father's house, for he
knew well that they would not believe him, that he had been in
France and brought back with him the king of France's daughter, and
he was afraid they might make a mock of the young lady or insult
her.

As he was doubting what he ought to do, and hesitating, he chanced
to remember the priest. "Glory be to God," said he, "I know now what
I'll do; I'll bring her to the priest's house, and he won't refuse
me to keep the lady and care for her." He turned to the lady again
and told her that he was loth to take her to his father's house, but
that there was an excellent priest very friendly to himself, who
would take good care of her, if she wished to remain in his house;
but that if there was any other place she would rather go, he said
he would bring her to it.

She bent her head, to show him she was obliged, and gave him to
understand that she was ready to follow him any place he was going.
"We will go to the priest's house, then," said he; "he is under an
obligation to me, and will do anything I ask him."

They went together accordingly to the priest's house, and the sun
was just rising when they came to the door. Guleesh beat it hard,
and as early as it was the priest was up, and opened the door
himself. He wondered when he saw Guleesh and the girl, for he was
certain that it was coming wanting to be married they were.

"Guleesh, Guleesh, isn't it the nice boy you are that you can't wait
till ten o'clock or till twelve, but that you must be coming to me
at this hour, looking for marriage, you and your sweetheart? You
ought to know that I can't marry you at such a time, or, at all
events, can't marry you lawfully. But ubbubboo!" said he, suddenly,
as he looked again at the young girl, "in the name of God, who have
you here? Who is she, or how did you get her?"

"Father," said Guleesh, "you can marry me, or anybody else, if you
wish; but it's not looking for marriage I came to you now, but to
ask you, if you please, to give a lodging in your house to this
young lady."

The priest looked at him as though he had ten heads on him; but
without putting any other question to him, he desired him to come
in, himself and the maiden, and when they came in, he shut the door,
brought them into the parlour, and put them sitting.

"Now, Guleesh," said he, "tell me truly who is this young lady, and
whether you're out of your senses really, or are only making a joke
of me."

"I'm not telling a word of lie, nor making a joke of you," said
Guleesh; "but it was from the palace of the king of France I carried
off this lady, and she is the daughter of the king of France."

He began his story then, and told the whole to the priest, and the
priest was so much surprised that he could not help calling out at
times, or clapping his hands together.

When Guleesh said from what he saw he thought the girl was not
satisfied with the marriage that was going to take place in the
palace before he and the sheehogues broke it up, there came a red
blush into the girl's cheek, and he was more certain than ever that
she had sooner be as she was--badly as she was--than be the married
wife of the man she hated. When Guleesh said that he would be very
thankful to the priest if he would keep her in his own house, the
kind man said he would do that as long as Guleesh pleased, but that
he did not know what they ought to do with her, because they had no
means of sending her back to her father again.

Guleesh answered that he was uneasy about the same thing, and that
he saw nothing to do but to keep quiet until they should find some
opportunity of doing something better. They made it up then between
themselves that the priest should let on that it was his brother's
daughter he had, who was come on a visit to him from another county,
and that he should tell everybody that she was dumb, and do his best
to keep every one away from her. They told the young girl what it
was they intended to do, and she showed by her eyes that she was
obliged to them.

Guleesh went home then, and when his people asked him where he had
been, he said that he had been asleep at the foot of the ditch, and
had passed the night there.

There was great wonderment on the priest's neighbours at the girl
who came so suddenly to his house without any one knowing where she
was from, or what business she had there. Some of the people said
that everything was not as it ought to be, and others, that Guleesh
was not like the same man that was in it before, and that it was a
great story, how he was drawing every day to the priest's house, and
that the priest had a wish and a respect for him, a thing they could
not clear up at all.

That was true for them, indeed, for it was seldom the day went by
but Guleesh would go to the priest's house, and have a talk with
him, and as often as he would come he used to hope to find the young
lady well again, and with leave to speak; but, alas! she remained
dumb and silent, without relief or cure. Since she had no other
means of talking, she carried on a sort of conversation between
herself and himself, by moving her hand and fingers, winking her
eyes, opening and shutting her mouth, laughing or smiling, and a
thousand other signs, so that it was not long until they understood
each other very well. Guleesh was always thinking how he should send
her back to her father; but there was no one to go with her, and he
himself did not know what road to go, for he had never been out of
his own country before the night he brought her away with him. Nor
had the priest any better knowledge than he; but when Guleesh asked
him, he wrote three or four letters to the king of France, and gave
them to buyers and sellers of wares, who used to be going from place
to place across the sea; but they all went astray, and never a one
came to the king's hand.

This was the way they were for many months, and Guleesh was falling
deeper and deeper in love with her every day, and it was plain to
himself and the priest that she liked him. The boy feared greatly at
last, lest the king should really hear where his daughter was, and
take her back from himself, and he besought the priest to write no
more, but to leave the matter to God.

So they passed the time for a year, until there came a day when
Guleesh was lying by himself, on the grass, on the last day of the
last month in autumn, and he was thinking over again in his own mind
of everything that happened to him from the day that he went with
the sheehogues across the sea. He remembered then, suddenly, that it
was one November night that he was standing at the gable of the
house, when the whirlwind came, and the sheehogues in it, and he
said to himself: "We have November night again to-day, and I'll
stand in the same place I was last year, until I see if the good
people come again. Perhaps I might see or hear something that would
be useful to me, and might bring back her talk again to Mary"--that
was the name himself and the priest called the king's daughter, for
neither of them knew her right name. He told his intention to the
priest, and the priest gave him his blessing.

Guleesh accordingly went to the old rath when the night was
darkening, and he stood with his bent elbow leaning on a grey old
flag, waiting till the middle of the night should come. The moon
rose slowly; and it was like a knob of fire behind him; and there
was a white fog which was raised up over the fields of grass and all
damp places, through the coolness of the night after a great heat in
the day. The night was calm as is a lake when there is not a breath
of wind to move a wave on it, and there was no sound to be heard but
the _cronawn_ of the insects that would go by from time to
time, or the hoarse sudden scream of the wild-geese, as they passed
from lake to lake, half a mile up in the air over his head; or the
sharp whistle of the golden and green plover, rising and lying,
lying and rising, as they do on a calm night. There were a thousand
thousand bright stars shining over his head, and there was a little
frost out, which left the grass under his foot white and crisp.

He stood there for an hour, for two hours, for three hours, and the
frost increased greatly, so that he heard the breaking of the
_traneens_ under his foot as often as he moved. He was thinking,
in his own mind, at last, that the sheehogues would not come that
night, and that it was as good for him to return back again, when
he heard a sound far away from him, coming towards him, and he
recognised what it was at the first moment. The sound increased,
and at first it was like the beating of waves on a stony shore, and
then it was like the falling of a great waterfall, and at last it was like
a loud storm in the tops of the trees, and then the whirlwind burst
into the rath of one rout, and the sheehogues were in it.

It all went by him so suddenly that he lost his breath with it, but
he came to himself on the spot, and put an ear on himself, listening
to what they would say.

Scarcely had they gathered into the rath till they all began
shouting, and screaming, and talking amongst themselves; and then
each one of them cried out: "My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My
horse, and bridle, and saddle!" and Guleesh took courage, and called
out as loudly as any of them: "My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My
horse, and bridle, and saddle!" But before the word was well out of
his mouth, another man cried out: "Ora! Guleesh, my boy, are you
here with us again? How are you getting on with your woman? There's
no use in your calling for your horse to-night. I'll go bail you
won't play such a trick on us again. It was a good trick you played
on us last year?"

"It was," said another man; "he won't do it again."

"Isn't he a prime lad, the same lad! to take a woman with him that
never said as much to him as, 'How do you do?' since this time last
year!" says the third man.

"Perhaps be likes to be looking at her," said another voice.

"And if the _omadawn_ only knew that there's an herb growing up
by his own door, and if he were to boil it and give it to her, she'd
be well," said another voice.

"That's true for you."

"He is an omadawn."

"Don't bother your head with him; we'll be going."

"We'll leave the _bodach_ as he is."

And with that they rose up into the air, and out with them with one
_roolya-boolya_ the way they came; and they left poor Guleesh
standing where they found him, and the two eyes going out of his
head, looking after them and wondering.

He did not stand long till he returned back, and he thinking in his
own mind on all he saw and heard, and wondering whether there was
really an herb at his own door that would bring back the talk to the
king's daughter. "It can't be," says he to himself, "that they would
tell it to me, if there was any virtue in it; but perhaps the
sheehogue didn't observe himself when he let the word slip out of
his mouth. I'll search well as soon as the sun rises, whether
there's any plant growing beside the house except thistles and
dockings."

He went home, and as tired as he was he did not sleep a wink until
the sun rose on the morrow. He got up then, and it was the first
thing he did to go out and search well through the grass round about
the house, trying could he get any herb that he did not recognise.
And, indeed, he was not long searching till he observed a large
strange herb that was growing up just by the gable of the house.

He went over to it, and observed it closely, and saw that there were
seven little branches coming out of the stalk, and seven leaves
growing on every branch_een_ of them; and that there was a
white sap in the leaves. "It's very wonderful," said he to himself,
"that I never noticed this herb before. If there's any virtue in an
herb at all, it ought to be in such a strange one as this."

He drew out his knife, cut the plant, and carried it into his own
house; stripped the leaves off it and cut up the stalk; and there
came a thick, white juice out of it, as there comes out of the sow-
thistle when it is bruised, except that the juice was more like oil.

He put it in a little pot and a little water in it, and laid it on
the fire until the water was boiling, and then he took a cup, filled
it half up with the juice, and put it to his own mouth. It came into
his head then that perhaps it was poison that was in it, and that
the good people were only tempting him that he might kill himself
with that trick, or put the girl to death without meaning it. He put
down the cup again, raised a couple of drops on the top of his
finger, and put it to his mouth. It was not bitter, and, indeed, had
a sweet, agreeable taste. He grew bolder then, and drank the full of
a thimble of it, and then as much again, and he never stopped till
he had half the cup drunk. He fell asleep after that, and did not
wake till it was night, and there was great hunger and great thirst
on him.

He had to wait, then, till the day rose; but he determined, as soon
as he should wake in the morning, that he would go to the king's
daughter and give her a drink of the juice of the herb.

As soon as he got up in the morning, he went over to the priest's
house with the drink in his hand, and he never felt himself so bold
and valiant, and spirited and light, as he was that day, and he was
quite certain that it was the drink he drank which made him so
hearty.

When he came to the house, he found the priest and the young lady
within, and they were wondering greatly why he had not visited them
for two days.

He told them all his news, and said that he was certain that there
was great power in that herb, and that it would do the lady no hurt,
for he tried it himself and got good from it, and then he made her
taste it, for he vowed and swore that there was no harm in it.

Guleesh handed her the cup, and she drank half of it, and then fell
back on her bed and a heavy sleep came on her, and she never woke
out of that sleep till the day on the morrow.

Guleesh and the priest sat up the entire night with her, waiting
till she should awake, and they between hope and unhope, between
expectation of saving her and fear of hurting her.

She awoke at last when the sun had gone half its way through the
heavens. She rubbed her eyes and looked like a person who did not
know where she was. She was like one astonished when she saw Guleesh
and the priest in the same room with her, and she sat up doing her
best to collect her thoughts.

The two men were in great anxiety waiting to see would she speak, or
would she not speak, and when they remained silent for a couple of
minutes, the priest said to her: "Did you sleep well, Mary?"

And she answered him: "I slept, thank you."

No sooner did Guleesh hear her talking than he put a shout of joy
out of him, and ran over to her and fell on his two knees, and said:
"A thousand thanks to God, who has given you back the talk; lady of
my heart, speak again to me."

The lady answered him that she understood it was he who boiled that
drink for her, and gave it to her; that she was obliged to him from
her heart for all the kindness he showed her since the day she first
came to Ireland, and that he might be certain that she never would
forget it.

Guleesh was ready to die with satisfaction and delight. Then they
brought her food, and she ate with a good appetite, and was merry
and joyous, and never left off talking with the priest while she was
eating.

After that Guleesh went home to his house, and stretched himself on
the bed and fell asleep again, for the force of the herb was not all
spent, and he passed another day and a night sleeping. When he woke
up he went back to the priest's house, and found that the young lady
was in the same state, and that she was asleep almost since the time
that he left the house.

He went into her chamber with the priest, and they remained watching
beside her till she awoke the second time, and she had her talk as
well as ever, and Guleesh was greatly rejoiced. The priest put food
on the table again, and they ate together, and Guleesh used after
that to come to the house from day to day, and the friendship that
was between him and the king's daughter increased, because she had
no one to speak to except Guleesh and the priest, and she liked
Guleesh best.

So they married one another, and that was the fine wedding they had,
and if I were to be there then, I would not be here now; but I heard
it from a birdeen that there was neither cark nor care, sickness nor
sorrow, mishap nor misfortune on them till the hour of their death,
and may the same be with me, and with us all!

THE FIELD OF BOLIAUNS

One fine day in harvest--it was indeed Lady-day in harvest, that
everybody knows to be one of the greatest holidays in the year--Tom
Fitzpatrick was taking a ramble through the ground, and went along
the sunny side of a hedge; when all of a sudden he heard a clacking
sort of noise a little before him in the hedge. "Dear me," said Tom,
"but isn't it surprising to hear the stonechatters singing so late
in the season?" So Tom stole on, going on the tops of his toes to
try if he could get a sight of what was making the noise, to see if
he was right in his guess. The noise stopped; but as Tom looked
sharply through the bushes, what should he see in a nook of the
hedge but a brown pitcher, that might hold about a gallon and a half
of liquor; and by-and-by a little wee teeny tiny bit of an old man,
with a little _motty_ of a cocked hat stuck upon the top of his
head, a deeshy daushy leather apron hanging before him, pulled out a
little wooden stool, and stood up upon it, and dipped a little
piggin into the pitcher, and took out the full of it, and put it
beside the stool, and then sat down under the pitcher, and began to
work at putting a heel-piece on a bit of a brogue just fit for
himself. "Well, by the powers," said Tom to himself, "I often heard
tell of the Lepracauns, and, to tell God's truth, I never rightly
believed in them--but here's one of them in real earnest. If I go
knowingly to work, I'm a made man. They say a body must never take
their eyes off them, or they'll escape."

Tom now stole on a little further, with his eye fixed on the little
man just as a cat does with a mouse. So when he got up quite close
to him, "God bless your work, neighbour," said Tom.

The little man raised up his head, and "Thank you kindly," said he.

"I wonder you'd be working on the holiday!" said Tom.

"That's my own business, not yours," was the reply.

"Well, may be you'd be civil enough to tell _us_ what you've
got in the pitcher there?" said Tom.

"That I will, with pleasure," said he; "it's good beer."

"Beer!" said Tom. "Thunder and fire! where did you get it?"

"Where did I get it, is it? Why, I made it. And what do you think I
made it of?"

"Devil a one of me knows," said Tom; "but of malt, I suppose, what
else?"

"There you're out. I made it of heath."

"Of heath!" said Tom, bursting out laughing; "sure you don't think
me to be such a fool as to believe that?"

"Do as you please," said he, "but what I tell you is the truth. Did
you never hear tell of the Danes?"

"Well, what about _them_?" said Tom.

"Why, all the about them there is, is that when they were here they
taught us to make beer out of the heath, and the secret's in my
family ever since."

"Will you give a body a taste of your beer?" said Tom.

"I'll tell you what it is, young man, it would be fitter for you to
be looking after your father's property than to be bothering decent
quiet people with your foolish questions. There now, while you're
idling away your time here, there's the cows have broke into the
oats, and are knocking the corn all about."

Tom was taken so by surprise with this that he was just on the very
point of turning round when he recollected himself; so, afraid that
the like might happen again, he made a grab at the Lepracaun, and
caught him up in his hand; but in his hurry he overset the pitcher,
and spilt all the beer, so that he could not get a taste of it to
tell what sort it was. He then swore that he would kill him if he
did not show him where his money was. Tom looked so wicked and so
bloody-minded that the little man was quite frightened; so says he,
"Come along with me a couple of fields off, and I'll show you a
crock of gold."

So they went, and Tom held the Lepracaun fast in his hand, and never
took his eyes from off him, though they had to cross hedges and
ditches, and a crooked bit of bog, till at last they came to a great
field all full of boliauns, and the Lepracaun pointed to a big
boliaun, and says he, "Dig under that boliaun, and you'll get the
great crock all full of guineas."

Tom in his hurry had never thought of bringing a spade with him, so
he made up his mind to run home and fetch one; and that he might
know the place again he took off one of his red garters, and tied it
round the boliaun.

Then he said to the Lepracaun, "Swear ye'll not take that garter
away from that boliaun." And the Lepracaun swore right away not to
touch it.

"I suppose," said the Lepracaun, very civilly, "you have no further
occasion for me?"

"No," says Tom; "you may go away now, if you please, and God speed
you, and may good luck attend you wherever you go."

"Well, good-bye to you, Tom Fitzpatrick," said the Lepracaun; "and
much good may it do you when you get it."

So Tom ran for dear life, till he came home and got a spade, and
then away with him, as hard as he could go, back to the field of
boliauns; but when he got there, lo and behold! not a boliaun in the
field but had a red garter, the very model of his own, tied about
it; and as to digging up the whole field, that was all nonsense, for
there were more than forty good Irish acres in it. So Tom came home
again with his spade on his shoulder, a little cooler than he went,
and many's the hearty curse he gave the Lepracaun every time he
thought of the neat turn he had served him.

THE HORNED WOMEN

A rich woman sat up late one night carding and preparing wool, while
all the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given
at the door, and a voice called, "Open! open!"

"Who is there?" said the woman of the house.

"I am the Witch of one Horn," was answered.

The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbours had called and
required assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in
her hand a pair of wool-carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead,
as if growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began
to card the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said
aloud: "Where are the women? they delay too long."

Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before,
"Open! open!"

The mistress felt herself obliged to rise and open to the call, and
immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her
forehead, and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool.

"Give me place," she said; "I am the Witch of the two Horns," and
she began to spin as quick as lightning.

And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard, and the witches
entered, until at last twelve women sat round the fire--the first
with one horn, the last with twelve horns.

And they carded the thread, and turned their spinning-wheels, and
wound and wove, all singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word
did they speak to the mistress of the house. Strange to hear, and
frightful to look upon, were these twelve women, with their horns
and their wheels; and the mistress felt near to death, and she tried
to rise that she might call for help, but she could not move, nor
could she utter a word or a cry, for the spell of the witches was
upon her.

Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said, "Rise, woman, and
make us a cake."

Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water from the well
that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she could find
none.

And they said to her, "Take a sieve and bring water in it."

And she took the sieve and went to the well; but the water poured
from it, and she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by
the well and wept.

Then a voice came by her and said, "Take yellow clay and moss, and
bind them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold."

This she did, and the sieve held the water for the cake; and the
voice said again:

"Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the house, cry
aloud three times and say, 'The mountain of the Fenian women and the
sky over it is all on fire.'"

And she did so.

When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry
broke from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations
and shrieks, and fled away to Slievenamon, where was their chief
abode. But the Spirit of the Well bade the mistress of the house to
enter and prepare her home against the enchantments of the witches
if they returned again.

And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which
she had washed her child's feet, the feet-water, outside the door on
the threshold; secondly, she took the cake which in her absence the
witches had made of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the
sleeping family, and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in
the mouth of each sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the
cloth they had woven, and placed it half in and half out of the
chest with the padlock; and lastly, she secured the door with a
great crossbeam fastened in the jambs, so that the witches could not
enter, and having done these things she waited.

Not long were the witches in coming back, and they raged and called
for vengeance.

"Open! open!" they screamed; "open, feet-water!"

"I cannot," said the feet-water; "I am scattered on the ground, and
my path is down to the Lough."

"Open, open, wood and trees and beam!" they cried to the door.

"I cannot," said the door, "for the beam is fixed in the jambs and I
have no power to move."

"Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!" they
cried again.

"I cannot," said the cake, "for I am broken and bruised, and my
blood is on the lips of the sleeping children."

Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled
back to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on the Spirit of the
Well, who had wished their ruin; but the woman and the house were
left in peace, and a mantle dropped by one of the witches in her
flight was kept hung up by the mistress in memory of that night; and
this mantle was kept by the same family from generation to
generation for five hundred years after.

CONALL YELLOWCLAW

Conall Yellowclaw was a sturdy tenant in Erin: he had three sons.
There was at that time a king over every fifth of Erin. It fell out
for the children of the king that was near Conall, that they
themselves and the children of Conall came to blows. The children of
Conall got the upper hand, and they killed the king's big son. The
king sent a message for Conall, and he said to him--"Oh, Conall!
what made your sons go to spring on my sons till my big son was
killed by your children? but I see that though I follow you
revengefully, I shall not be much better for it, and I will now set
a thing before you, and if you will do it, I will not follow you
with revenge. If you and your sons will get me the brown horse of
the king of Lochlann, you shall get the souls of your sons."

"Why," said Conall, "should not I do the pleasure of the king,
though there should be no souls of my sons in dread at all. Hard is
the matter you require of me, but I will lose my own life, and the
life of my sons, or else I will do the pleasure of the king."

After these words Conall left the king, and he went home: when he
got home he was under much trouble and perplexity. When he went to
lie down he told his wife the thing the king had set before him. His
wife took much sorrow that he was obliged to part from herself,
while she knew not if she should see him more.

"Oh, Conall," said she, "why didst not thou let the king do his own
pleasure to thy sons, rather than be going now, while I know not if
ever I shall see thee more?"

When he rose on the morrow, he set himself and his three sons in
order, and they took their journey towards Lochlann, and they made
no stop but tore through ocean till they reached it. When they
reached Lochlann they did not know what they should do. Said the old
man to his sons, "Stop ye, and we will seek out the house of the
king's miller."

When they went into the house of the king's miller, the man asked
them to stop there for the night. Conall told the miller that his
own children and the children of his king had fallen out, and that
his children had killed the king's son, and there was nothing that
would please the king but that he should get the brown horse of the
king of Lochlann.

"If you will do me a kindness, and will put me in a way to get him,
for certain I will pay ye for it."

"The thing is silly that you are come to seek," said the miller;
"for the king has laid his mind on him so greatly that you will not
get him in any way unless you steal him; but if you can make out a
way, I will keep it secret."

"This is what I am thinking," said Conall, "since you are working
every day for the king, you and your gillies could put myself and my
sons into five sacks of bran."

"The plan that has come into your head is not bad," said the miller.

The miller spoke to his gillies, and he said to them to do this, and
they put them in five sacks. The king's gillies came to seek the
bran, and they took the five sacks with them, and they emptied them
before the horses. The servants locked the door, and they went away.

When they rose to lay hand on the brown horse, said Conall, "You
shall not do that. It is hard to get out of this; let us make for
ourselves five hiding holes, so that if they hear us we may go and
hide." They made the holes, then they laid hands on the horse. The
horse was pretty well unbroken, and he set to making a terrible
noise through the stable. The king heard the noise. "It must be my
brown horse," said he to his gillies; "find out what is wrong with
him."

The servants went out, and when Conall and his sons saw them coming
they went into the hiding holes. The servants looked amongst the
horses, and they did not find anything wrong; and they returned and
they told this to the king, and the king said to them that if
nothing was wrong they should go to their places of rest. When the
gillies had time to be gone, Conall and his sons laid their hands
again on the horse. If the noise was great that he made before, the
noise he made now was seven times greater. The king sent a message
for his gillies again, and said for certain there was something
troubling the brown horse. "Go and look well about him." The
servants went out, and they went to their hiding holes. The servants
rummaged well, and did not find a thing. They returned and they told
this.

"That is marvellous for me," said the king: "go you to lie down
again, and if I notice it again I will go out myself."

When Conall and his sons perceived that the gillies were gone, they
laid hands again on the horse, and one of them caught him, and if
the noise that the horse made on the two former times was great, he
made more this time.

"Be this from me," said the king; "it must be that some one is
troubling my brown horse." He sounded the bell hastily, and when his
waiting-man came to him, he said to him to let the stable gillies
know that something was wrong with the horse. The gillies came, and
the king went with them. When Conall and his sons perceived the
company coming they went to the hiding holes.

The king was a wary man, and he saw where the horses were making a
noise.

"Be wary," said the king, "there are men within the stable, let us
get at them somehow."

The king followed the tracks of the men, and he found them. Every
one knew Conall, for he was a valued tenant of the king of Erin, and
when the king brought them up out of the holes he said, "Oh, Conall,
is it you that are here?"

"I am, O king, without question, and necessity made me come. I am
under thy pardon, and under thine honour, and under thy grace." He
told how it happened to him, and that he had to get the brown horse
for the king of Erin, or that his sons were to be put to death. "I
knew that I should not get him by asking, and I was going to steal
him."

"Yes, Conall, it is well enough, but come in," said the king. He
desired his look-out men to set a watch on the sons of Conall, and
to give them meat. And a double watch was set that night on the sons
of Conall.

"Now, O Conall," said the king, "were you ever in a harder place
than to be seeing your lot of sons hanged tomorrow? But you set it
to my goodness and to my grace, and say that it was necessity
brought it on you, so I must not hang you. Tell me any case in which
you were as hard as this, and if you tell that, you shall get the
soul of your youngest son."

"I will tell a case as hard in which I was," said Conall. "I was
once a young lad, and my father had much land, and he had parks of
year-old cows, and one of them had just calved, and my father told
me to bring her home. I found the cow, and took her with us. There
fell a shower of snow. We went into the herd's bothy, and we took
the cow and the calf in with us, and we were letting the shower pass
from us. Who should come in but one cat and ten, and one great one-
eyed fox-coloured cat as head bard over them. When they came in, in
very deed I myself had no liking for their company. 'Strike up with
you,' said the head bard, 'why should we be still? and sing a cronan
to Conall Yellowclaw.' I was amazed that my name was known to the
cats themselves. When they had sung the cronan, said the head bard,
'Now, O Conall, pay the reward of the cronan that the cats have sung
to thee.' 'Well then,' said I myself, 'I have no reward whatsoever
for you, unless you should go down and take that calf.' No sooner
said I the word than the two cats and ten went down to attack the
calf, and in very deed, he did not last them long. 'Play up with
you, why should you be silent? Make a cronan to Conall Yellowclaw,'
said the head bard. Certainly I had no liking at all for the cronan,
but up came the one cat and ten, and if they did not sing me a
cronan then and there! 'Pay them now their reward,' said the great
fox-coloured cat. 'I am tired myself of yourselves and your
rewards,' said I. 'I have no reward for you unless you take that cow
down there.' They betook themselves to the cow, and indeed she did
not last them long.

"'Why will you be silent? Go up and sing a cronan to Conall
Yellowclaw,' said the head bard. And surely, oh king, I had no care
for them or for their cronan, for I began to see that they were not
good comrades. When they had sung me the cronan they betook
themselves down where the head bard was. 'Pay now their reward, said
the head bard; and for sure, oh king, I had no reward for them; and
I said to them, 'I have no reward for you.' And surely, oh king,
there was catterwauling between them. So I leapt out at a turf
window that was at the back of the house. I took myself off as hard
as I might into the wood. I was swift enough and strong at that
time; and when I felt the rustling toirm of the cats after me I
climbed into as high a tree as I saw in the place, and one that was
close in the top; and I hid myself as well as I might. The cats
began to search for me through the wood, and they could not find me;
and when they were tired, each one said to the other that they would
turn back. 'But,' said the one-eyed fox-coloured cat that was
commander-in-chief over them, 'you saw him not with your two eyes,
and though I have but one eye, there's the rascal up in the tree.'
When he had said that, one of them went up in the tree, and as he
was coming where I was, I drew a weapon that I had and I killed him.
'Be this from me!' said the one-eyed one--'I must not be losing my
company thus; gather round the root of the tree and dig about it,
and let down that villain to earth.' On this they gathered about the
tree, and they dug about the root, and the first branching root that
they cut, she gave a shiver to fall, and I myself gave a shout, and
it was not to be wondered at.

"There was in the neighbourhood of the wood a priest, and he had ten
men with him delving, and he said, 'There is a shout of a man in
extremity and I must not be without replying to it.' And the wisest
of the men said, 'Let it alone till we hear it again.' The cats
began again digging wildly, and they broke the next root; and I
myself gave the next shout, and in very deed it was not a weak one.
'Certainly,' said the priest, 'it is a man in extremity--let us
move.' They set themselves in order for moving. And the cats arose
on the tree, and they broke the third root, and the tree fell on her
elbow. Then I gave the third shout. The stalwart men hastened, and
when they saw how the cats served the tree, they began at them with
the spades; and they themselves and the cats began at each other,
till the cats ran away. And surely, oh king, I did not move till I
saw the last one of them off. And then I came home. And there's the
hardest case in which I ever was; and it seems to me that tearing by
the cats were harder than hanging to-morrow by the king of
Lochlann."

"Och! Conall," said the king, "you are full of words. You have freed
the soul of your son with your tale; and if you tell me a harder
case than that you will get your second youngest son, and then you
will have two sons."

"Well then," said Conall, "on condition that thou dost that, I will
tell thee how I was once in a harder case than to be in thy power in
prison to-night."

"Let's hear," said the king.

"I was then," said Conall, "quite a young lad, and I went out
hunting, and my father's land was beside the sea, and it was rough
with rocks, caves, and rifts. When I was going on the top of the
shore, I saw as if there were a smoke coming up between two rocks,
and I began to look what might be the meaning of the smoke coming up
there. When I was looking, what should I do but fall; and the place
was so full of heather, that neither bone nor skin was broken. I
knew not how I should get out of this. I was not looking before me,
but I kept looking overhead the way I came--and thinking that the
day would never come that I could get up there. It was terrible for
me to be there till I should die. I heard a great clattering coming,
and what was there but a great giant and two dozen of goats with
him, and a buck at their head. And when the giant had tied the
goats, he came up and he said to me, 'Hao O! Conall, it's long since
my knife has been rusting in my pouch waiting for thy tender flesh.'
'Och!' said I, 'it's not much you will be bettered by me, though you
should tear me asunder; I will make but one meal for you. But I see
that you are one-eyed. I am a good leech, and I will give you the
sight of the other eye.' The giant went and he drew the great
caldron on the site of the fire. I myself was telling him how he
should heat the water, so that I should give its sight to the other
eye. I got heather and I made a rubber of it, and I set him upright
in the caldron. I began at the eye that was well, pretending to him
that I would give its sight to the other one, till I left them as
bad as each other; and surely it was easier to spoil the one that
was well than to give sight to the other.

"When he saw that he could not see a glimpse, and when I myself said
to him that I would get out in spite of him, he gave a spring out of
the water, and he stood in the mouth of the cave, and he said that
he would have revenge for the sight of his eye. I had but to stay
there crouched the length of the night, holding in my breath in such
a way that he might not find out where I was.

"When he felt the birds calling in the morning, and knew that the
day was, he said--'Art thou sleeping? Awake and let out my lot of
goats.' I killed the buck. He cried, 'I do believe that thou art
killing my buck.'

"'I am not,' said I, 'but the ropes are so tight that I take long to
loose them.' I let out one of the goats, and there he was caressing
her, and he said to her, 'There thou art thou shaggy, hairy white
goat; and thou seest me, but I see thee not.' I kept letting them
out by the way of one and one, as I flayed the buck, and before the
last one was out I had him flayed bag-wise. Then I went and I put my
legs in place of his legs, and my hands in place of his forelegs,
and my head in place of his head, and the horns on top of my head,
so that the brute might think that it was the buck. I went out. When
I was going out the giant laid his hand on me, and he said, 'There
thou art, thou pretty buck; thou seest me, but I see thee not.' When
I myself got out, and I saw the world about me, surely, oh, king!
joy was on me. When I was out and had shaken the skin off me, I said
to the brute, 'I am out now in spite of you.'

"'Aha!' said he, 'hast thou done this to me. Since thou wert so
stalwart that thou hast got out, I will give thee a ring that I have
here; keep the ring, and it will do thee good.'

"'I will not take the ring from you,' said I, 'but throw it, and I
will take it with me.' He threw the ring on the flat ground, I went
myself and I lifted the ring, and I put it on my finger. When he
said me then, 'Is the ring fitting thee?' I said to him, 'It is.'
Then he said, 'Where art thou, ring?' And the ring said, 'I am
here.' The brute went and went towards where the ring was speaking,
and now I saw that I was in a harder case than ever I was. I drew a
dirk. I cut the finger from off me, and I threw it from me as far as
I could out on the loch, and there was a great depth in the place.
He shouted, 'Where art thou, ring?' And the ring said, 'I am here,'
though it was on the bed of ocean. He gave a spring after the ring,
and out he went in the sea. And I was as pleased then when I saw him
drowning, as though you should grant my own life and the life of my
two sons with me, and not lay any more trouble on me.

"When the giant was drowned I went in, and I took with me all he had
of gold and silver, and I went home, and surely great joy was on my
people when I arrived. And as a sign now look, the finger is off
me."

"Yes, indeed, Conall, you are wordy and wise," said the king. "I see
the finger is off you. You have freed your two sons, but tell me a
case in which you ever were that is harder than to be looking on
your son being hanged tomorrow, and you shall get the soul of your
eldest son."

"Then went my father," said Conall, "and he got me a wife, and I was
married. I went to hunt. I was going beside the sea, and I saw an
island over in the midst of the loch, and I came there where a boat
was with a rope before her, and a rope behind her, and many precious
things within her. I looked myself on the boat to see how I might
get part of them. I put in the one foot, and the other foot was on
the ground, and when I raised my head what was it but the boat over
in the middle of the loch, and she never stopped till she reached
the island. When I went out of the boat the boat returned where she
was before. I did not know now what I should do. The place was
without meat or clothing, without the appearance of a house on it. I
came out on the top of a hill. Then I came to a glen; I saw in it,
at the bottom of a hollow, a woman with a child, and the child was
naked on her knee, and she had a knife in her hand. She tried to put
the knife to the throat of the babe, and the babe began to laugh in
her face, and she began to cry, and she threw the knife behind her.
I thought to myself that I was near my foe and far from my friends,
and I called to the woman, 'What are you doing here?' And she said
to me, 'What brought you here?' I told her myself word upon word how
I came. 'Well then,' said she, 'it was so I came also.' She showed
me to the place where I should come in where she was. I went in, and
I said to her, 'What was the matter that you were putting the knife
on the neck of the child?' 'It is that he must be cooked for the
giant who is here, or else no more of my world will be before me.'
Just then we could be hearing the footsteps of the giant, 'What
shall I do? what shall I do?' cried the woman. I went to the
caldron, and by luck it was not hot, so in it I got just as the
brute came in. 'Hast thou boiled that youngster for me?' he cried.
'He's not done yet,' said she, and I cried out from the caldron,
'Mammy, mammy, it's boiling I am.' Then the giant laughed out HAI,
HAW, HOGARAICH, and heaped on wood under the caldron.

"And now I was sure I would scald before I could get out of that. As
fortune favoured me, the brute slept beside the caldron. There I was
scalded by the bottom of the caldron. When she perceived that he was
asleep, she set her mouth quietly to the hole that was in the lid,
and she said to me 'was I alive?' I said I was. I put up my head,
and the hole in the lid was so large, that my head went through
easily. Everything was coming easily with me till I began to bring
up my hips. I left the skin of my hips behind me, but I came out.
When I got out of the caldron I knew not what to do; and she said to
me that there was no weapon that would kill him but his own weapon.
I began to draw his spear and every breath that he drew I thought I
would be down his throat, and when his breath came out I was back
again just as far. But with every ill that befell me I got the spear
loosed from him. Then I was as one under a bundle of straw in a
great wind for I could not manage the spear. And it was fearful to
look on the brute, who had but one eye in the midst of his face; and
it was not agreeable for the like of me to attack him. I drew the
dart as best I could, and I set it in his eye. When he felt this he
gave his head a lift, and he struck the other end of the dart on the
top of the cave, and it went through to the back of his head. And he
fell cold dead where he was; and you may be sure, oh king, that joy
was on me. I myself and the woman went out on clear ground, and we
passed the night there. I went and got the boat with which I came,
and she was no way lightened, and took the woman and the child over
on dry land; and I returned home."

The king of Lochlann's mother was putting on a fire at this time,
and listening to Conall telling the tale about the child.

"Is it you," said she, "that were there?"

"Well then," said he, "'twas I."

"Och! och!" said she, "'twas I that was there, and the king is the
child whose life you saved; and it is to you that life thanks should
be given." Then they took great joy.

The king said, "Oh, Conall, you came through great hardships. And
now the brown horse is yours, and his sack full of the most precious
things that are in my treasury."

They lay down that night, and if it was early that Conall rose, it
was earlier than that that the queen was on foot making ready. He
got the brown horse and his sack full of gold and silver and stones
of great price, and then Conall and his three sons went away, and
they returned home to the Erin realm of gladness. He left the gold
and silver in his house, and he went with the horse to the king.
They were good friends evermore. He returned home to his wife, and
they set in order a feast; and that was a feast if ever there was
one, oh son and brother.

HUDDEN AND DUDDEN AND DONALD O'NEARY

There was once upon a time two farmers, and their names were Hudden
and Dudden. They had poultry in their yards, sheep on the uplands,
and scores of cattle in the meadow-land alongside the river. But for
all that they weren't happy. For just between their two farms there
lived a poor man by the name of Donald O'Neary. He had a hovel over
his head and a strip of grass that was barely enough to keep his one
cow, Daisy, from starving, and, though she did her best, it was but
seldom that Donald got a drink of milk or a roll of butter from
Daisy. You would think there was little here to make Hudden and
Dudden jealous, but so it is, the more one has the more one wants,
and Donald's neighbours lay awake of nights scheming how they might
get hold of his little strip of grass-land. Daisy, poor thing, they
never thought of; she was just a bag of bones.

One day Hudden met Dudden, and they were soon grumbling as usual,
and all to the tune of "If only we could get that vagabond Donald
O'Neary out of the country."

"Let's kill Daisy," said Hudden at last; "if that doesn't make him
clear out, nothing will."

No sooner said than agreed, and it wasn't dark before Hudden and
Dudden crept up to the little shed where lay poor Daisy trying her
best to chew the cud, though she hadn't had as much grass in the day
as would cover your hand. And when Donald came to see if Daisy was
all snug for the night, the poor beast had only time to lick his
hand once before she died.

Well, Donald was a shrewd fellow, and downhearted though he was,
began to think if he could get any good out of Daisy's death. He
thought and he thought, and the next day you could have seen him
trudging off early to the fair, Daisy's hide over his shoulder,
every penny he had jingling in his pockets. Just before he got to
the fair, he made several slits in the hide, put a penny in each
slit, walked into the best inn of the town as bold as if it belonged
to him, and, hanging the hide up to a nail in the wall, sat down.

"Some of your best whisky," says he to the landlord.

But the landlord didn't like his looks. "Is it fearing I won't pay
you, you are?" says Donald; "why I have a hide here that gives me
all the money I want." And with that he hit it a whack with his
stick and out hopped a penny. The landlord opened his eyes, as you
may fancy.

"What'll you take for that hide?"

"It's not for sale, my good man."

"Will you take a gold piece?"

"It's not for sale, I tell you. Hasn't it kept me and mine for
years?" and with that Donald hit the hide another whack and out
jumped a second penny.

Well, the long and the short of it was that Donald let the hide go,
and, that very evening, who but he should walk up to Hudden's door?

"Good-evening, Hudden. Will you lend me your best pair of scales?"

Hudden stared and Hudden scratched his head, but he lent the scales.

When Donald was safe at home, he pulled out his pocketful of bright
gold and began to weigh each piece in the scales. But Hudden had put
a lump of butter at the bottom, and so the last piece of gold stuck
fast to the scales when he took them back to Hudden.

If Hudden had stared before, he stared ten times more now, and no
sooner was Donald's back turned, than he was of as hard as he could
pelt to Dudden's.

"Good-evening, Dudden. That vagabond, bad luck to him--"

"You mean Donald O'Neary?"

"And who else should I mean? He's back here weighing out sackfuls of
gold."

"How do you know that?"

"Here are my scales that he borrowed, and here's a gold piece still
sticking to them."

Off they went together, and they came to Donald's door. Donald had
finished making the last pile of ten gold pieces. And he couldn't
finish because a piece had stuck to the scales.

In they walked without an "If you please" or "By your leave."

"Well, _I_ never!" that was all _they_ could say.

"Good-evening, Hudden; good-evening, Dudden. Ah! you thought you had
played me a fine trick, but you never did me a better turn in all
your lives. When I found poor Daisy dead, I thought to myself,
'Well, her hide may fetch something;' and it did. Hides are worth
their weight in gold in the market just now."

Hudden nudged Dudden, and Dudden winked at Hudden.

"Good-evening, Donald O'Neary."

"Good-evening, kind friends."

The next day there wasn't a cow or a calf that belonged to Hudden or
Dudden but her hide was going to the fair in Hudden's biggest cart
drawn by Dudden's strongest pair of horses.

When they came to the fair, each one took a hide over his arm, and
there they were walking through the fair, bawling out at the top of
their voices: "Hides to sell! hides to sell!"

Out came the tanner:

"How much for your hides, my good men?"

"Their weight in gold."

"It's early in the day to come out of the tavern."

That was all the tanner said, and back he went to his yard.

"Hides to sell! Fine fresh hides to sell!"

Out came the cobbler.

"How much for your hides, my men?"

"Their weight in gold."

"Is it making game of me you are! Take that for your pains," and the
cobbler dealt Hudden a blow that made him stagger.

Up the people came running from one end of the fair to the other.
"What's the matter? What's the matter?" cried they.

"Here are a couple of vagabonds selling hides at their weight in
gold," said the cobbler.

"Hold 'em fast; hold 'em fast!" bawled the innkeeper, who was the
last to come up, he was so fat. "I'll wager it's one of the rogues
who tricked me out of thirty gold pieces yesterday for a wretched
hide."

It was more kicks than halfpence that Hudden and Dudden got before
they were well on their way home again, and they didn't run the
slower because all the dogs of the town were at their heels.

Well, as you may fancy, if they loved Donald little before, they
loved him less now.

"What's the matter, friends?" said he, as he saw them tearing along,
their hats knocked in, and their coats torn off, and their faces
black and blue. "Is it fighting you've been? or mayhap you met the
police, ill luck to them?"

"We'll police you, you vagabond. It's mighty smart you thought
yourself, deluding us with your lying tales."

"Who deluded you? Didn't you see the gold with your own two eyes?"

But it was no use talking. Pay for it he must, and should. There was
a meal-sack handy, and into it Hudden and Dudden popped Donald
O'Neary, tied him up tight, ran a pole through the knot, and off
they started for the Brown Lake of the Bog, each with a pole-end on
his shoulder, and Donald O'Neary between.

But the Brown Lake was far, the road was dusty, Hudden and Dudden
were sore and weary, and parched with thirst. There was an inn by
the roadside.

"Let's go in," said Hudden; "I'm dead beat. It's heavy he is for the
little he had to eat."

If Hudden was willing, so was Dudden. As for Donald, you may be sure
his leave wasn't asked, but he was lumped down at the inn door for
all the world as if he had been a sack of potatoes.

"Sit still, you vagabond," said Dudden; "if we don't mind waiting,
you needn't."

Donald held his peace, but after a while he heard the glasses clink,
and Hudden singing away at the top of his voice.

"I won't have her, I tell you; I won't have her!" said Donald. But
nobody heeded what he said.

"I won't have her, I tell you; I won't have her!" said Donald, and
this time he said it louder; but nobody heeded what he said.

"I won't have her, I tell you; I won't have her!" said Donald; and
this time he said it as loud as he could.

"And who won't you have, may I be so bold as to ask?" said a farmer,
who had just come up with a drove of cattle, and was turning in for
a glass.

"It's the king's daughter. They are bothering the life out of me to
marry her."

"You're the lucky fellow. I'd give something to be in your shoes."

"Do you see that now! Wouldn't it be a fine thing for a farmer to be
marrying a princess, all dressed in gold and jewels?"

"Jewels, do you say? Ah, now, couldn't you take me with you?"

"Well, you're an honest fellow, and as I don't care for the king's
daughter, though she's as beautiful as the day, and is covered with
jewels from top to toe, you shall have her. Just undo the cord, and
let me out; they tied me up tight, as they knew I'd run away from
her."

Out crawled Donald; in crept the farmer.

"Now lie still, and don't mind the shaking; it's only rumbling over
the palace steps you'll be. And maybe they'll abuse you for a
vagabond, who won't have the king's daughter; but you needn't mind
that. Ah! it's a deal I'm giving up for you, sure as it is that I
don't care for the princess."

"Take my cattle in exchange," said the farmer; and you may guess it
wasn't long before Donald was at their tails driving them homewards.

Out came Hudden and Dudden, and the one took one end of the pole,
and the other the other.

"I'm thinking he's heavier," said Hudden.

"Ah, never mind," said Dudden; "it's only a step now to the Brown
Lake."

"I'll have her now! I'll have her now!" bawled the farmer, from
inside the sack.

"By my faith, and you shall though," said Hudden, and he laid his
stick across the sack.

"I'll have her! I'll have her!" bawled the farmer, louder than ever.

"Well, here you are," said Dudden, for they were now come to the
Brown Lake, and, unslinging the sack, they pitched it plump into the
lake.

"You'll not be playing your tricks on us any longer," said Hudden.

"True for you," said Dudden. "Ah, Donald, my boy, it was an ill day
when you borrowed my scales."

Off they went, with a light step and an easy heart, but when they
were near home, who should they see but Donald O'Neary, and all
around him the cows were grazing, and the calves were kicking up
their heels and butting their heads together.

"Is it you, Donald?" said Dudden. "Faith, you've been quicker than
we have."

"True for you, Dudden, and let me thank you kindly; the turn was
good, if the will was ill. You'll have heard, like me, that the
Brown Lake leads to the Land of Promise. I always put it down as
lies, but it is just as true as my word. Look at the cattle."

Hudden stared, and Dudden gaped; but they couldn't get over the
cattle; fine fat cattle they were too.

"It's only the worst I could bring up with me," said Donald O'Neary;
"the others were so fat, there was no driving them. Faith, too, it's
little wonder they didn't care to leave, with grass as far as you
could see, and as sweet and juicy as fresh butter."

"Ah, now, Donald, we haven't always been friends," said Dudden,
"but, as I was just saying, you were ever a decent lad, and you'll
show us the way, won't you?"

"I don't see that I'm called upon to do that; there is a power more
cattle down there. Why shouldn't I have them all to myself?"

"Faith, they may well say, the richer you get, the harder the heart.
You always were a neighbourly lad, Donald. You wouldn't wish to keep
the luck all to yourself?"

"True for you, Hudden, though 'tis a bad example you set me. But
I'll not be thinking of old times. There is plenty for all there, so
come along with me."

Off they trudged, with a light heart and an eager step. When they
came to the Brown Lake, the sky was full of little white clouds,
and, if the sky was full, the lake was as full.

"Ah! now, look, there they are," cried Donald, as he pointed to the
clouds in the lake.

"Where? where?" cried Hudden, and "Don't be greedy!" cried Dudden,
as he jumped his hardest to be up first with the fat cattle. But if
he jumped first, Hudden wasn't long behind.

They never came back. Maybe they got too fat, like the cattle. As
for Donald O'Neary, he had cattle and sheep all his days to his
heart's content.

THE SHEPHERD OF MYDDVAI

Up in the Black Mountains in Caermarthenshire lies the lake known as
Lyn y Van Vach. To the margin of this lake the shepherd of Myddvai
once led his lambs, and lay there whilst they sought pasture.
Suddenly, from the dark waters of the lake, he saw three maidens
rise. Shaking the bright drops from their hair and gliding to the
shore, they wandered about amongst his flock. They had more than
mortal beauty, and he was filled with love for her that came nearest
to him. He offered her the bread he had with him, and she took it
and tried it, but then sang to him:

Hard-baked is thy bread,
'Tis not easy to catch me,

and then ran off laughing to the lake.

Next day he took with him bread not so well done, and watched for
the maidens. When they came ashore he offered his bread as before,
and the maiden tasted it and sang:

Unbaked is thy bread,
I will not have thee,

and again disappeared in the waves.

A third time did the shepherd of Myddvai try to attract the maiden,
and this time he offered her bread that he had found floating about
near the shore. This pleased her, and she promised to become his
wife if he were able to pick her out from among her sisters on the
following day. When the time came the shepherd knew his love by the
strap of her sandal. Then she told him she would be as good a wife
to him as any earthly maiden could be unless he should strike her
three times without cause. Of course he deemed that this could never
be; and she, summoning from the lake three cows, two oxen, and a
bull, as her marriage portion, was led homeward by him as his bride.

The years passed happily, and three children were born to the
shepherd and the lake-maiden. But one day here were going to a
christening, and she said to her husband it was far to walk, so he
told her to go for the horses.

"I will," said she, "if you bring me my gloves which I've left in
the house."

But when he came back with the gloves, he found she had not gone for
the horses; so he tapped her lightly on the shoulder with the
gloves, and said, "Go, go."

"That's one," said she.

Another time they were at a wedding, when suddenly the lake-maiden
fell a-sobbing and a-weeping, amid the joy and mirth of all around
her.

Her husband tapped her on the shoulder, and asked her, "Why do you
weep?"

"Because they are entering into trouble; and trouble is upon you;
for that is the second causeless blow you have given me. Be careful;
the third is the last."

The husband was careful never to strike her again. But one day at a
funeral she suddenly burst out into fits of laughter. Her husband
forgot, and touched her rather roughly on the shoulder, saying, "Is
this a time for laughter?"

"I laugh," she said, "because those that die go out of trouble, but
your trouble has come. The last blow has been struck; our marriage
is at an end, and so farewell." And with that she rose up and left
the house and went to their home.

Then she, looking round upon her home, called to the cattle she had
brought with her:

Brindle cow, white speckled,
Spotted cow, bold freckled,
Old white face, and gray Geringer,
And the white bull from the king's coast,
Grey ox, and black calf,
All, all, follow me home,

Now the black calf had just been slaughtered, and was hanging on the
hook; but it got off the hook alive and well and followed her; and
the oxen, though they were ploughing, trailed the plough with them
and did her bidding. So she fled to the lake again, they following
her, and with them plunged into the dark waters.

And to this day is the furrow seen which the plough left as it was
dragged across the mountains to the tarn.

Only once did she come again, when her sons were grown to manhood,
and then she gave them gifts of healing by which they won the name
of Meddygon Myddvai, the physicians of Myddvai.

THE SPRIGHTLY TAILOR

A sprightly tailor was employed by the great Macdonald, in his
castle at Saddell, in order to make the laird a pair of trews, used
in olden time. And trews being the vest and breeches united in one
piece, and ornamented with fringes, were very comfortable, and
suitable to be worn in walking or dancing. And Macdonald had said to
the tailor, that if he would make the trews by night in the church,
he would get a handsome reward. For it was thought that the old
ruined church was haunted, and that fearsome things were to be seen
there at night.

The tailor was well aware of this; but he was a sprightly man, and
when the laird dared him to make the trews by night in the church,
the tailor was not to be daunted, but took it in hand to gain the
prize. So, when night came, away he went up the glen, about half a
mile distance from the castle, till he came to the old church. Then
he chose him a nice gravestone for a seat and he lighted his candle,
and put on his thimble, and set to work at the trews; plying his
needle nimbly, and thinking about the hire that the laird would have
to give him.

For some time he got on pretty well, until he felt the floor all of
a tremble under his feet; and looking about him, but keeping his
fingers at work, he saw the appearance of a great human head rising
up through the stone pavement of the church. And when the head had
risen above the surface, there came from it a great, great voice.
And the voice said: "Do you see this great head of mine?"

"I see that, but I'll sew this!" replied the sprightly tailor; and
he stitched away at the trews.

Then the head rose higher up through the pavement, until its neck
appeared. And when its neck was shown, the thundering voice came
again and said: "Do you see this great neck of mine?"

"I see that, but I'll sew this!" said the sprightly tailor; and he
stitched away at his trews.

Then the head and neck rose higher still, until the great shoulders
and chest were shown above the ground. And again the mighty voice
thundered: "Do you see this great chest of mine?"

And again the sprightly tailor replied: "I see that, but I'll sew
this!" and stitched away at his trews.

And still it kept rising through the pavement, until it shook a
great pair of arms in the tailor's face, and said: "Do you see these
great arms of mine?"

"I see those, but I'll sew this!" answered the tailor; and he

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