Our tales

Tales as old as the curlew’s call are today listened to around the hearths of Donegal with the same keen and credulous eagerness with which they were hearkened to hundreds of years ago. Of a people whose only wealth is mental and spiritual, the thousand such tales are not the least significant heritage. Of those tales, the ten following are but the lightest.

The man who brings his shaggy pony to the forge “reharses a rale oul’ tale” for the boys, whilst he lazily works the bellows for Dan.

As she spins in the glow of the fir-blaze on the long winter nights, the old white-capped woman, with hair like a streak of lint, holds the fireside circle spellbound with such tales as these.

When at Taig, the tailor’s, on a Saturday night, an exasperated man clamors angrily for the long-promised coat, Taig says, “Arrah, Conal, man, have sense, and be quate, and sit down till ye hear a wondherful story of anshint happenin’s.” And the magic of the tale restores Conal to a Christian frame of mind, and sends him home forgetful of a great procrastinator’s deceit.

When the beggarman, coming in at dayli’gone, drops his staff and sheds his bags in token that he deigns to honor the good people with his presence for that night, among young and old there is anticipative joy for the grand stories with which he will certainly enchant them till (too soon) an bhean-an-tighe shakes her beads and says it is rosary-time.

The professional shanachy recites them to a charmed audience in the wake-house, in the potato field, on the green hillside on summer Sundays, and at the cross-roads in blissful autumn gloamings, whilst the green marge rests his hearers’ aching limbs.

Like generations of his people, one particular barefoot boy, being himself enchanted with them, longed to transmit their charm to others, and spent many, many delightful hours acquiring fresh ones, and recounting old ones to groups the most sceptical of whom more than half believed, like himself, in their literal truth. To a wider world and more cultured, he would fain tell them now. He would wish that this world might hear of the wonderful happenings with our ears, and see them with our eyes, and consent to experience for a few hours the charmed delight with which our simple, kindly people, at the feet of their own shanachies, hearken to them. He would wish that this world might, for a few hours, give him their credence on trust, consent to forget temporarily that life is hard and joyless, be foolish, simple children once more, and bring to the entertainment the fresh and fun- loving hearts they possessed ere the world’s wisdom came to them.

And if they return to the world’s wise ways with a lurking delight in their hearts, the shanachy will again feel rejoiced and proud for the triumph of our grand old tales.

SEUMAS MACMANUS.

Donegal, Old Lammas Day, 1900.

The Plaisham

Nancy and Shamus were man and wife, and they lived all alone together for forty years; but at length a good-for-nothing streel of a fellow named Rory, who lived close by, thought what a fine thing it would be if Shamus would die, and he could marry Nancy, and get the house, farm, and all the stock. So he up and said to Nancy:

“What a pity it is for such a fine-looking woman as you to be bothered with that ould, complainin’, good-for-nothing crony of a man that’s as full of pains and aches as an egg’s full of meat. If you were free of him the morrow, the finest and handsomest young man in the parish would be proud to have you for a wife.”

At first Nancy used to laugh at this; but at last, when he kept on at it, it began to prey on Nancy’s mind, and she said to young Rory one day: “I don’t believe a word, of what you say. Who would take me if Shamus was buried the morra?”

“Why,” says Rory, “you’d have the pick of the parish. I’d take you myself.”

“Is that true?” says Nancy.

“I pledge you my word,” says Rory, “I would.”

“Oh, well, even if you would yourself,” says Nancy, “Shamus won’t be buried to-morrow, or maybe, God help me, for ten years to come yet.”

“You’ve all that in your own hands,” says Rory.

“How’s that?” says Nancy.

“Why, you can kill him off,” says Rory.

“I wouldn’t have the ould crature’s blood on my head,” says Nancy.

“Neither you need,” says Rory.

And then he sat down and began to tell Nancy how she could do away with Shamus and still not have his blood on her head.

Now there was a prince called Connal, who lived in a wee sod house close by Nancy and Shamus, but whose fathers before him, ere their money was wasted, used to live in a grand castle. So, next day, over Nancy goes to this prince, and to him says: “Why, Prince Connal, isn’t it a shame to see the likes of you livin’ in the likes of that house?”

“I know it is,” said he, “but I cannot do any better.”

“Botheration,” says Nancy, “you easily can.”

“I wish you would tell me how,” says Prince Connal.

“Why,” says Nancy, “there’s my Shamus has little or nothing to do, an’ why don’t you make him build you a castle?”

“Ah,” says the prince, laughing, “sure, Shamus couldn’t build me a castle.”

Says Nancy: “You don’t know Shamus, for there’s not a thing in the wide world he couldn’t do if he likes to; but he’s that lazy, that if you don’t break every bone in his body to make him do it, he won’t do it.”

“Is that so?” says Prince Connal.

“That’s so,” says Nancy. “So if you order Shamus to build you a castle an’ have it up in three weeks, or that you’ll take his life if he doesn’t, you’ll soon have a grand castle to live in,” says she.

“Well, if that’s so,” says Prince Connal, “I’ll not be long wanting a castle.”

So on the very next morning, over he steps to Shamus’s, calls Shamus out, and takes him with him to the place he had marked out for the site of his castle, and shows it to Shamus, and tells him he wants him to have a grand castle built and finished on that spot in three weeks’ time.

“But,” says Shamus, says he, “I never built a castle in my life. I know nothing about it, an’ I couldn’t have you a castle there in thirty- three years, let alone three weeks.”

“O!” says the prince, says he, “I’m toul’ there’s no man in Ireland can build a castle better nor faster than you, if you only like to; and if you haven’t that castle built on that ground in three weeks,” says he, “I’ll have your life. So now choose for yourself.” And he walked away, and left Shamus standing there.

When Shamus heard this, he was a down-hearted man, for he knew that Prince Connal was a man of his word and would not stop at taking any man’s life any more than he would from putting the breath out of a beetle. So down he sits and begins to cry; and while Shamus was crying there, up to him comes a Wee Red Man, and says to Shamus: “What are you crying about?”

“Ah, my poor man,” says Shamus, says he, “don’t be asking me, for there’s no use in telling you, you could do nothing to help me.”

“You don’t know that,” says the Wee Red Man, says he. “It’s no harm to tell me anyhow.”

So Shamus, to relieve his mind, ups and tells the Wee Red Man what Prince Connal had threatened to do to him if he had not a grand castle finished on that spot in three weeks.

Says the little man, says he: “Go to the Fairies’ Glen at moonrise the night, and under the rockin’ stone at the head of the glen you’ll find a white rod. Take that rod with you, and mark out the plan of the castle on this ground with it; then go back and leave the rod where you got it, and by the time you get back again your castle will be finished.”

At moonrise that night Shamus, as you may be well assured, was at the rockin’ stone at the head of the Glen of the Fairies, and from under it he got a little white rod. He went to the hill where the Prince’s castle was to be built, and with the point of the rod he marked out the plan of the castle, and then he went back and left the rod where he got it.

The next morning, when Prince Connal got up out of bed and went out of his little sod hut to take the air, his eyes were opened, I tell you, to see the magnificent castle that was standing finished and with the coping-stones on it on the hill above. He lost no time till he went over to thank Shamus for building him such a beautiful castle; and when Nancy heard that the castle was finished, it was she that was the angry woman.

She went out and looked at the castle, and she wondered and wondered, too, but she said nothing. She had a long chat with Rory that day again, and from Rory she went off to Prince Connal, and says she: “Now, didn’t I tell you right well what Shamus could do?”

“I see you did,” says Prince Connal, “and it is very thankful to you I am. I’m contented now for life,” says he, “and I’ll never forget yourself and Shamus.”

“Contented!” says she; “why, that place isn’t half finished yet.”

“How’s that?” says Prince Connal.

“Why,” says she, “you need a beautiful river flowing past that castle, with lovely trees, and birds singing in the branches, and you should have the ocean roaring up beside it.”

“But still,” says Prince Connal, says he, “one can’t have everything. This is a hundred miles from a river and a hundred miles from an ocean, and no trees ever grew on this hill, nor ever could grow on it, and no bird ever sang on it for the last three hundred years.”

“Then all the more reason,” says she, “why you should have all them things.”

“But I can’t have them,” says Prince Connal.

“Can’t you ? ”says she. “Yes, you can. If you promise to have Shamus’s life unless he has you all those things by your castle in three days, you’ll soon have all you want,” says Nancy.

“Well, well, that’s wonderful,” says Prince Connal, says he, “and I’ll do it.”

So he sets out, and goes to Shamus’s house, and calls Shamus out to him to tell him that his castle was very bare-looking without something about it. Says he: “Shamus, I want you to put a beautiful river flowing past it, with plenty of trees and bushes along the banks, and also birds singing in them; and I want you to have the ocean roaring up by it also.”

“But, Prince Connal,” says Shamus, says he, “you know very well that I couldn’t get you them things.”

“Right well I know you can,” says Prince Connal, “and I’ll give you three days to have all them things done; and if you haven’t them done at the end of three days, then I’ll have your life.” And away goes Prince Connal.

Poor Shamus, he sat down and began to cry at this, because he knew that he could not do one of these things. And as he was crying and crying he heard a voice in his ear, and looking up he saw the Wee Red Man.

“Shamus, Shamus,” says he, “what’s the matter with you?”

“O,” says Shamus, says he, “there’s no use in telling you what’s the matter with me this time. Although you helped me before, there’s not a man in all the world could do what I’ve got to do now.”

“Well, anyhow,” says the Wee Red Man, “if I can’t do you any good, I’ll do you no harm.”

So Shamus, to relieve his mind, ups and tells the Wee Red Man what’s the matter with him.

“Shamus,” says the Wee Red Man, says he, “I’ll tell you what you’ll do. When the moon’s rising to-night, be at the head of the Glen of the Fairies, and at the spring well there you’ll find a cup and a leaf and a feather. Take the leaf and the feather with you, and a cup of water, and go back to the castle. Throw the water from you as far as you can throw it, and then blow the leaf off your right hand, and the feather off your left hand, and see what you’ll see.”

Shamus promised to do this. And when the moon rose that night, Shamus was at the spring well of the Glen of the Fairies, and he found there a cup, a leaf, and a feather. He lifted a cup of water and took it with him, and the leaf and the feather, and started for the castle. When he came there, he pitched the cup of water from him as far as he could pitch it, and at once the ocean, that was a hundred miles away, came roaring up beside the castle, and a beautiful river that had been flowing a hundred miles on the other side of the castle came flowing down past it into the ocean. Then he blew the leaf off his right hand, and all sorts of lovely trees and bushes sprang up along the river banks. Then he blew the feather off his left hand, and the trees and the bushes were filled with all sorts and varieties of lovely singing birds, that made the most beautiful music he ever had heard.

And maybe that was not a surprise to Prince Connal when he got up in the morning and went out. Off he tramped to Shamus’s to thank Shamus and Nancy, and when Nancy heard this she was the angry woman.

That day she had another long confab with Rory, and from him she went off again to Prince Connal, and asked him how he liked his castle and all its surroundings.

He said he was a pleased and proud man, that he was thankful to her and her man, Shamus, and that he would never forget it to them the longest day of his life.

“O, but,” says she, “you’re not content. This night you’ll have a great gathering of princes and lords and gentlemen feasting in your castle, and you’ll surely want something to amuse them with. You must get a plaisham.”

“What’s a plaisham? ”said Prince Connal.

“O,” says Nancy, “it’s the most wonderful and most amusing thing in the world; it will keep your guests in good humor for nine days and nine nights after they have seen it.”

“Well,” says Prince Connal, “that must be a fine thing entirely, and I’m sure I would be mighty anxious to have it. But,” says he, “where would I get it or how would I get it?”

“Well,” says Nancy, “that’s easy. If you order Shamus to bring a plaisham to your castle by supper time this night, and promise to have his life if he hasn’t it there, he’ll soon get it for you.”

“Well, if that’s so,” says Prince Connal, “I’ll not be long wanting a plaisham.”

So home went Nancy rejoicing this time, for she said to herself that poor old Shamus would not be long living now, because there was no such thing known in the whole wide world as a plaisham; and though Shamus might build castles, and bring oceans and rivers and trees and birds to them, all in one night, he could not get a thing that did not exist and was only invented by Rory.

Well, off to Shamus went Prince Connal without much loss of time, and called Shamus out of his little cabin. He told him he was heartily well pleased with all he had done for him. “But there’s one thing more I want you to do, Shamus, and then I’ll be content,” says he. “This night I give a grand supper to the lords, ladies, and gentry of the country, and I want something to amuse them with; so at supper time you must bring me a plaisham.”

“A plaisham! What’s that?” says Shamus.

“I don’t know,” says Prince Connal.

“No more do I,” says Shamus, “an’ how do you expect me to fetch it to you then?”

“Well,” says Prince Connal, says he, “this is all there is to be said about it -- if you haven’t a plaisham at my castle door at supper time the night, you’ll be a dead man.”

“O, O,” says Shamus, says he, and sat down on the ditch and began to cry, while Prince Connal went off home.

“Shamus, Shamus,” says a voice in his ears, “what are you cryin’ about now?”

Poor Shamus lifted his head and looked around, and there beside him stood the Wee Red Man.

“O!” says Shamus, says he, “don’t mind asking me,” he says, “for it’s no use in telling you what’s the matter with me now. You may build a castle for me,” says he, “and you may bring oceans and rivers to it, and trees and birds; but you couldn’t do anything to help me now.”

“How do you know that?” said the Wee Red Man.

“O, I know it well,” says Shamus, says he, “you couldn’t give me the thing that never was an’ never will be!”

“Well,” says the Wee Red Man, says he, “tell me what it is anyhow. If I can’t do you any good, sure I can’t do you any harm.”

So, to relieve his mind, Shamus ups and tells him that Prince Connal had ordered him, within twenty-four hours, to have at his castle door a plaisham. “But,” says Shamus, says he, “there never was such a thing as that.”

“Sure enough,” says the Wee Red Man, “there never was. But still, if Prince Connal wants it, we must try to get it for him. This night, Shamus,” says the Wee Red Man, says he, “go to the head of the Glen of the Fairies, to the sciog bush [Fairy thorn], where you’ll find a bone ring hanging on a branch of the thorn. Take it with you back home. When you get home, young Rory will be chatting with your wife in the kitchen. Don’t you go in there, but go into the byre [cowshed], and put the ring in the cow’s nose; then lie quiet, and you’ll soon have a plaisham to drive to Prince Connal’s castle door.”

Shamus thanked the Wee Red Man, and that night he went to the head of the Glen of the Fairies, and sure enough, he found the ring hanging from one of the branches of the sciog bush. He took it with him, and started for home. When he looked in through the kitchen window, there he saw Nancy and Rory sitting over the fire, chatting and confabbing about how they would get rid of him; but he said nothing, only went into the byre. He put the ring into the brannet cow’s nose, and as soon as the ring went into it, the cow began to kick and rear and create a great tendherary of a noise entirely. Then Shamus got in under some hay in the corner.

It was no time at all until Nancy was out to find what was wrong with the brannet cow. She struck the cow with her fist to quiet her, but when she hit her, her fist stuck to the cow, and she could not get away.

Rory had come running out after Nancy to help her, and Nancy called: “Rory, Rory, pull me away from the cow.”

Rory got hold of her to pull her away, but as he did so his hands stuck to Nancy, and he could not get away himself.

Up then jumped Shamus from under the hay in the corner. “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.”

And out of the byre starts the cow with Nancy stuck to her, and Rory stuck to that, and heads toward the castle, with the cow rearing and rowting, and Nancy and Rory yelling and bawling. They made a terrible din entirely, and roused the whole countryside, who flocked out to see what was the matter.

Down past Rory’s house the cow went, and Rory’s mother, seeing him sticking to Nancy, ran out to pull him away; but when she laid her hand on Rory, she stuck to him; and “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.”

So on they went. And Rory’s father ran after them to pull the mother away; but when he laid his hands on the mother, he stuck to her; and “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, “drive on the plaisham.”

On again they went, and next they passed where a man was cleaning out his byre. When the man saw the ridiculous string of them, he flung a graip [fork] and a graipful of manure at them, and it stuck to Rory’s father; and “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.” But the man ran after to save his graip, and when he got hold of the graip, he stuck to it; and “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.”

On they went; and a tailor came flying out of his house with his lap-board in his hand. He struck the string of them with the lap-board, the lap-board stuck to the last man, and the tailor stuck to it; and “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.”

Then they passed a cobbler’s. He ran out with his heel-stick, and struck the tailor; but the heel-stick stuck to the tailor, and the cobbler stuck to the heel-stick; and “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.”

Then on they went, and they next passed a blacksmith’s forge. The blacksmith ran out, and struck the cobbler with his sledge. The sledge stuck to the cobbler, and the blacksmith stuck to the sledge; and “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.”

When they came near the castle, they passed a great gentleman’s house entirely, and the gentleman came running out, and got hold of the blacksmith to pull him away; but the gentleman stuck to the blacksmith, and could not get away himself; and “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.”

The gentleman’s wife, seeing him stuck, ran after her man to pull him away; but the wife stuck to the gentleman; and “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.”

Then their children ran after them to pull the mother away, and they stuck to the mother; and “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.”

Then the butler ran to get hold of the children, and he stuck to them; and the footman ran to get hold of the butler, and stuck to him; and the cook ran to get hold of the footman, and stuck to him; and the servants all ran to get hold of the cook, and they stuck to her; and “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.” And on they went; and when they came up to the castle, the plaisham was a mile long, and the yelling and bawling and noise that they made could be heard anywhere within the four seas of Ireland. The racket was so terrible that Prince Connal and all his guests and all his servants and all in his house came running to the windows to see what was the matter, at all, at all; and when Prince Connal saw what was coming to his house, and heard the racket they were raising, he yelled to his Prime Minister to go and drive them off with a whip.

The Prime Minister ran meeting them, and took the whip to them; but the whip stuck to them, and he stuck to the whip; and “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.”

Then Prince Connal ordered out all his other ministers and all of his servants to head it off and turn it away from his castle; but every one of the servants that got hold of it stuck to it; and “Hup, Hup!”says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.”

And the plaisham moved on still for the castle. Then Prince Connal himself, with all his guests, ran out to turn it away ; but when Prince Connal laid hands on the plaisham, he stuck to it; and when his guest laid hands on him, they stuck one by one to him; and “Hup, Hup!” says Shamus, says he, “drive on the plaisham.”

And with all the racket and all the noise of the ranting, roaring, rearing, and rawting, in through the castle hall-door drove the plaisham, through and through and out at the other side. The castle itself fell down and disappeared, the bone ring rolled away from the cow’s nose, and the plaisham all at once broke up, and when Prince Connal looked around, there was no castle at all, only the sod hut, and he went into it a sorry man.

And all the others slunk off home, right headily ashamed of themselves, for the whole world was laughing at them. Nancy, she went east; and Rory, he went west; and neither one of them was ever heard of more. As for Shamus, he went home to his own little cabin, and lived all alone, happy and contented, for the rest of his life, and may you and I do the same.

The Amadan of the Dough

THERE was a king once on a time that had a son that was an Amadan [half-foolish fellow]. The Amadan’s mother died, and the king married again.

The Amadan’s step-mother was always afraid of him beating her children, he was growing so big and strong. So to keep him from growing and to weaken him, she had him fed on dough made of raw meal and water, and for that he was called “The Amadan of the Dough.” But instead of getting weaker, it was getting stronger the Amadan was on this fare, and he was able to thrash all of his step-brothers together.

At length his step-mother told his father that he would have to drive the Amadan away. The father consented to put him away; but the Amadan refused to go till his father would give him a sword so sharp that it would cut a pack of wool falling on it.

After a great deal of time and trouble the father got such a sword and gave it to the Amadan; and when the Amadan had tried it and found it what he wanted, he bade them all goodby and set off.

For seven days and seven nights he traveled away before him without meeting anything wonderful, but on the seventh night he came up to a great castle. He went in and found no one there, but he found a great dinner spread on the table in the hall. So to be making the most of his time, down the Amadan sat at the table and whacked away.

When he had finished with his dinner, up to the castle came three young princes, stout, strong, able fellows, but very, very tired, and bleeding from wounds all over them.

They struck the castle with a flint, and all at once the whole castle shone as if it were on fire. The Amadan sprang at the three of them to kill them. He said, “What do you mean by putting the castle on fire?”

“O Amadan,” they said, “don’t interfere with us, for we are nearly killed as it is. The castle isn’t on fire. Every day we have to go out to fight three giants -- Slat Mor, Slat Marr and Slat Beag. We fight them all day long, and just as night is falling we have them killed. But however it comes, in the night they always come to life again, and if they didn’t see this castle lit up, they’d come in on top of us and murder us while we slept. So every night, when we come back from the fight, we light up the castle. Then we can sleep in peace until morning, and in the morning go off and fight the giants again.”

When the Amadan heard this, he wondered; and he said he would very much like to help them kill the giants. They said they would be very glad to have such a fine fellow’s help; and so it was agreed that the Amadan should go with them to the fight next day.

Then the three princes washed themselves and took their supper, and they and the Amadan went to bed.

In the morning all four of them set off, and traveled to the Glen of the Echoes, where they met the three giants.

“Now,” says the Amadan, “if you three will engage the two smaller giants, Slat Marr and Slat Beag, I’ll engage Slat Mor myself and kill him.”

They agreed to this.

Now the smallest of the giants was far bigger and more terrible than anything ever the Amadan had seen or heard of in his life before, so you can fancy what Slat Mor must have been like.

But the Amadan was little concerned at this. He went to meet Slat Mor, and the two of them fell to the fight, and a great, great fight they had. They made the hard ground into soft, and the soft into spring wells; they made the rocks into pebbles, and the pebbles into gravel, and the gravel fell over the country like hailstones. All the birds of the air from the lower end of the world to the upper end of the world, and all the wild beasts and tame from the four ends of the earth, came flocking to see the fight; and in the end the Amadan ran Slat Mor through with his sword and laid him down dead.

Then he turned to help the three princes, and very soon he laid the other two giants down dead for them also.

Then the three princes said they would all go home. The Amadan told them to go, but warned them not to light up the castle this night, and said he would sit by the giants’ corpses and watch if they came to life again.

The three princes begged of him not to do this, for the three giants would come to life, and then he, having no help, would be killed.

The Amadan was angry with them, and ordered them off instantly. Then he sat down by the giants’ corpses to watch. But he was so tired from his great day’s fighting that by and by he fell asleep.

About twelve o’clock at night, when the Amadan was sleeping soundly, up comes a cailliach [old hag] and four badachs [unwieldy big fellows], and the cailliach carried with her a feather and a bottle of iocshlainte [ointment of health], with which she began to rub the giants’ wounds. Two of the giants were already alive when the Amadan awoke, and the third was just opening his eyes. Up sprang the Amadan, and at him leaped them all -- Slat Mor, Slat Marr, Slat Beag, the cailliach, and the four badachs.

If the Amadan had had a hard fight during the day, this one was surely ten times harder. But a brave and a bold fellow he was, and not to be daunted by numbers or showers of blows. They fought for long and long. They made the hard ground into soft, and the soft into spring wells; they made the rocks into pebbles, and the pebbles into gravel, and the gravel fell over the country like hailstones. All the birds of the air from the lower end of the world to the upper end of the world, and all the wild beasts and tame from the four ends of the earth, came flocking to see the fight; and one after the other of them the Amadan ran his sword through, until he had every one of them stretched on the ground, dying or dead.

And when the old cailliach was dying, she called the Amadan to her and put him under geasa [an obligation that he could not shirk] to lose the power of his feet, of his strength, of his sight, and of his memory if he did not go to meet and fight the Black Bull of the Brown Wood.

When the old hag died outright, the Amadan rubbed some of the iochslainte to his wounds with the feather, and at once he was as hale and as fresh as when the fight began. Then he took the feather and the bottle of iocshlainte, buckled on his sword, and started away before him to fulfil his geasa.

He traveled for the length of all that lee-long day, and when night was falling, he came to a little hut on the edge of a wood; and the hut had no shelter inside or out but one feather over it, and there was a rough, red woman standing in the door.

“You’re welcome,” says she, “Amadan of the Dough, the King of Ireland’s son. What have you been doing or where are you going?”

“Last night,” says the Amadan, “I fought a great fight, and killed Slat Mor, Slat Marr, Slat Beag, the Cailliach of the Rocks, and four badachs. Now I’m under geasa to meet and to fight the Black Bull of the Brown Wood. Can you tell me where to find him?”

“I can that,” says she, “but it’s now night. Come in and eat and sleep.”

So she spread for the Amadan a fine supper, and made a soft bed, and he ate heartily and slept heartily that night.

In the morning she called him early, and she directed him on his way to meet the Black Bull of the Brown Wood. “But my poor Amadan,” she said, “no one has ever yet met that bull and come back alive.”

She told him that when he reached the place of meeting, the bull would come tearing down the hill like a hurricane. “Here’s a cloak,” says she, “to throw upon the rock that is standing there. You hide yourself behind the rock, and when the bull comes tearing down, he will dash at the cloak, and blind himself with the crash against the rock. Then you jump on the bull’s back and fight for life. If, after the fight, you are living, come back and see me; and if you are dead, I’ll go and see you.”

The Amadan took the cloak, thanked her, and set off, and traveled on and on until he came to the place of meeting.

When the Amadan came there, he saw the Bull of the Brown Wood come tearing down the hill like a hurricane, and he threw the cloak on the rock and hid behind it, and with the fury of his dash against the cloak the bull blinded himself, and the roar of his fury split the rock.

The Amadan lost no time jumping on his back, and with his sword began hacking and slashing him; but he was no easy bull to conquer, and a great fight the Amadan had. They made the hard ground into soft, and the soft into spring wells; they made the rocks into pebbles, and the pebbles into gravel, and the gravel fell over the country like hailstones. All the birds of the air from the lower end of the world to the upper end of the world, and all the wild beasts and tame from the four ends of the earth, came flocking to see the fight; at length, after a long time, the Amadan ran his sword right through the bull’s heart, and the bull fell down dead. But before he died he put the Amadan under geasa to meet and to fight the White Wether of the Hill of the Waterfalls.

Then the Amadan rubbed his own wounds with the iocshlainte, and he was as fresh and hale as when he went into the fight. Then he set out and traveled back again to the little hut that had no shelter without or within, only one feather over it, and the rough, red woman was standing in the door, and she welcomed the Amadan and asked him the news.

He told her all about the fight, and that the Black Bull of the Wood had put him under geasa to meet and to fight the White Wether of the Hill of the Waterfalls.

“I’m sorry for you, my poor Amadan,” says she, “for no one ever before met that White Wether and came back alive. But come in and eat and rest anyhow, for you must be both hungry and sleepy.”

So she spread him a hearty meal and made him a soft bed, and the Amadan ate and slept heartily; and in the morning she directed him to where he would meet the White Wether of the Hill of the Waterfalls. And she told him that no steel was tougher than the hide of the White Wether, that a sword was never yet made that could go through it, and that there was only one place -- a little white spot just over the wether’s heart -- where he could be killed or sword could cut through. And she told the Amadan that his only chance was to hit this spot.

The Amadan thanked her, and set out. He traveled away and away before him until he came to the Hill of the Waterfalls, and as soon as he reached it he saw the White Wether coming tearing toward him in a furious rage, and the earth he was throwing up with his horns was shutting out the sun.

And when the wether came up and asked the Amadan what great feats he had done that made him impudent enough to dare to come there, the Amadan said: “With this sword I have killed Slat Mor, Slatt Marr, Slatt Beag, the Cailliach of the Rocks and her four badachs, and likewise the Black Bull of the Brown Wood.”

“Then,” said the White Wether, “you’ll never kill any other.” And at the Amadan he sprang.

The Amadan struck at him with his sword, and the sword glanced off as it might off steel. Both of them fell to the fight with all their hearts, and such a fight never was before or since. They made the hard ground into soft, and the soft into spring wells; they made the rocks into pebbles, and the pebbles into gravel, and the gravel fell over the country like hailstones. All the birds of the air from the lower end of the world to the upper end of the world, and all the wild beasts and tame from the four ends of the earth, came flocking to see the fight. But at length and at last, after a long and terrible fight, the Amadan seeing the little spot above the heart that the red woman had told him of, struck for it and hit it, and drove his sword through the White Wether’s heart, and he fell down. And when he was dying, he called the Amadan and put him under a geasa to meet and fight the Beggarman of the King of Sweden.

The Amadan took out his bottle of iochslainte and rubbed himself with the iochslainte, and he was as fresh and hale as when he began the fight. Then he set out again, and when night was falling, he reached the hut that had no shelter within or without, only one feather over it, and the rough, red woman was standing in the door.

Right glad she was to see the Amadan coming back alive, and she welcomed him heartily and asked him the news.

He told her of the wonderful fight he had had, and that he was now under geasa to meet and fight the Beggarman of the King of Sweden.

She made him come in and eat and sleep, for he was tired and hungry. And heartily the Amadan ate and heartily he slept; and in the morning she called him early, and directed him on his way to meet the Beggarman of the King of Sweden.

She told him that when he reached a certain hill, the beggarman would come down from the sky in a cloud; and that he would see the whole world between the beggarman’s legs and nothing above his head. “If ever he finds himself beaten,” she said, “he goes up into the sky in a mist, and stays there to refresh himself. You may let him go up once; but if you let him go up the second time, he will surely kill you when he comes down. Remember that. If you are alive when the fight is over, come to see me. If you are dead, I will go to see you.”

The Amadan thanked her, parted with her, and traveled away and away before him until he reached the hill which she had told him of. And when he came there, he saw a great cloud that shot out of the sky, descending on the hill, and when it came down on the hill and melted away, there it left the Beggarman of the King of Sweden standing, and between his legs the Amadan saw the whole world and nothing over his head.

And with a roar and a run the beggarman made for the Amadan, and the roar of him rattled the stars in the sky. He asked the Amadan who he was, and what he had done to have the impudence to come there and meet him.

The Amadan said: “They call me the Amadan of the Dough, and I have killed Slat Mor, Slat Marr, Slat Beag, the Cailliach of the Rocks and her four badachs, the Black Bull of the Brown Wood, and the White Wether of the Hill of the Waterfalls, and before night I’ll have killed the Beggarman of the King of Sweden.”

“That you never will, you miserable object,” says the beggarman. “You’re going to die now, and I’ll give you your choice to die either by a hard squeeze of wrestling or a stroke of the sword.”

“Well,” says the Amadan, “if I have to die, I’d sooner die by a stroke of the sword.”

“All right,” says the beggarman, and drew his sword.

But the Amadan drew his sword at the same time, and both went to it. And if his fights before had been hard, this one was harder and greater and more terrible than the others put together. They made the hard ground into soft, and the soft into spring wells; they made the rocks into pebbles, and the pebbles into gravel, and the gravel fell over the country like hailstones. All the birds of the air from the lower end of the world to the upper end of the world, and, all the wild beasts and tame from the four ends of the earth, came flocking to see the fight. And at length the fight was putting so hard upon the beggarman, and he was getting so weak, that he whistled, and the mist came around him, and he went up into the sky before the Amadan knew. He remained there until he refreshed himself and then came down again, and at it again he went for the Amadan, and fought harder and harder than before, and again it was putting too hard on him, and he whistled as before for the mist to come down and take him up.

But the Amadan remembered what the red woman had warned him; he gave one leap into the air, and coming down, drove the sword through the beggarman’s heart, and the beggarman fell dead. But before he died he put geasa on the Amadan to meet and fight the Silver Cat of the Seven Glens.

The Amadan rubbed his wounds with the iocshlainte, and he was as fresh and hale as when he began the fight; and then he set out, and when night was falling, he reached the hut that had no shelter within or without, only one feather over it, and the rough, red woman was standing in the door.

Right glad she was to see the Amadan coming back alive, and she welcomed him right heartily, and asked him the news.

He told her that he had killed the beggarman, and said he was now under geasa to meet and fight the Silver Cat of the Seven Glens.

“Well,” she said, “I’m sorry for you, for no one ever before went to meet the Silver Cat and came back alive. But,” she says, “you’re both tired and hungry; come in and rest and sleep.”

So in the Amadan went, and had a hearty supper and a soft bed; and in the morning she called him up early, and she gave him directions where to meet the cat and how to find it, and she told him there was only one vital spot on that cat, and it was a black speck on the bottom of the cat’s stomach, and unless he could happen to run his sword right through this, the cat would surely kill him. She said:

“My poor Amadan, I’m very much afraid you’ll not come back alive. I cannot go to help you myself or I would; but there is a well in my garden, and by watching that well I will know how the fight goes with you. While there is honey on top of the well, I will know you are getting the better of the cat; but if the blood comes on top, then the cat is getting the better of you; and if the blood stays there, I will know, my poor Amadan, that you are dead.”

The Amadan bade her good-by, and set out to travel to where the Seven Glens met at the sea. Here there was a precipice, and under the precipice a cave. In this cave the Silver Cat lived, and once a day she came out to sun herself on the rocks.

The Amadan let himself down over the precipice by a rope, and he waited until the cat came out to sun herself.

When the cat came out at twelve o’clock and saw the Amadan, she let a roar out of her that drove back the waters of the sea and piled them up a quarter of a mile high, and she asked him who he was and how he had the impudence to come there to meet her.

The Amadan said: “They call me the Amadan of the Dough, and I have killed Slat Mor, Slat Marr, Slat Beag, the Cailliach of the Rocks and her four badachs, the Black Bull of the Brown Woods, the White Wether of the Hill of the Waterfalls, and the Beggarman of the King of Sweden, and before night I will have killed the Silver Cat of the Seven Glens.”

“That you never will,” says she, “for a dead man you will be yourself.” And at him she sprang.

But the Amadan raised his sword and struck at her, and both of them fell to the fight, and a great, great fight they had. They made the hard ground into soft, and the soft into spring wells; they made the rocks into pebbles, and the pebbles into gravel, and the gravel fell over the country like hailstones. All the birds of the air from the lower end of the world to the upper end of the world, and all the wild beasts and tame from the four ends of the earth, came flocking to see the fight; and if the fights that the Amadan had had on the other days were great and terrible, this one was far greater and far more terrible than all the others put together, and the poor Amadan sorely feared that before night fell he would be a dead man.

The red woman was watching at the well in her garden, and she was sorely distressed, for though at one time the honey was uppermost, at another time it was all blood, and again the blood and the honey would be mixed; so she felt bad for the poor Amadan.

At length the blood and the honey got mixed again, and it remained that. way until night; so she cried, for she believed the Amadan himself was dead as well as the Silver Cat.

And so he was. For when the fight had gone on for long and long, the cat, with a great long nail which she had in the end of her tail, tore him open from his mouth to his toes; and as she tore the Amadan open and he was about to fall, she opened her mouth so wide that the Amadan saw down to the very bottom of her stomach, and there he saw the black speck that the red woman had told him of. And just before he dropped he drove his sword through this spot, and the Silver Cat, too, fell over dead.

It was not long now till the red woman arrived at the place and found both the Amadan and the cat lying side by side dead. At this the poor woman was frantic with sorrow, but suddenly she saw by the Amadan’s side the bottle of iocshlainte and the feather. She took them up and rubbed the Amadan with the iocshlainte, and he jumped to his feet alive and well, and fresh as when he began the fight.

He smothered her with kisses and drowned her with tears. He took the red woman with him, and set out on his journey back, and traveled and traveled on and on till he came to the Castle of Fire.

Here he met the three young princes, who were now living happily with no giants to molest them. They had one sister, the most beautiful young maiden that the Amadan had ever beheld. They gave her to the Amadan in marriage, and gave her half of all they owned for fortune.

The marriage lasted nine days and nine nights. There were nine hundred fiddlers, nine hundred fluters, and nine hundred pipers, and the last day and night of the wedding were better than the first.

Conal and Donal and Taig

ONCE there were three brothers named Conal, Donal and Taig, and they fell out regarding which of them owned a field of land. One of them had as good a claim to it as the other, and the claims of all of them were so equal that none of the judges, whomsoever they went before, could decide in favor of one more than the other.

At length they went to one judge who was very wise indeed and had a great name, and every one of them stated his case to him.

He sat on the bench, and heard Conal’s case and Donal’s case and Taig’s case all through, with very great patience. When the three of them had finished, he said he would take a day and a night to think it all over, and on the day after, When they were all called into court again, the Judge said that he had weighed the evidence on all sides, with all the deliberation it was possible to give it, and he decided that one of them hadn’t the shadow of a shade of a claim more than the others, so that he found himself facing the greatest puzzle he had ever faced in his life.

“But,” says he, “no puzzle puzzles me long. I’ll very soon decide which of you will get the field. You seem to me to be three pretty lazy-looking fellows, and I’ll give the field to whichever of the three of you is the laziest.”

“Well, at that rate,” says Conal, “it’s me gets the field, for I’m the laziest man of the lot.”

“How lazy are you?” says the Judge.

“Well,” said Conal, “if I were lying in the middle of the road, and there was a regiment of troopers come galloping down it, I’d sooner let them ride over me than take the bother of getting up and going to the one side.”

“Well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “you are a lazy man surely, and I doubt if Donal or Taig can be as lazy as that.”

“Oh, faith,” says Donal, “I’m just every bit as lazy.”

“Are you ?” says the Judge. “How lazy are you?”

“Well,” said Donal, “if I was sitting right close to a big fire, and you piled on it all the turf in a townland and all the wood in a barony, sooner than have to move I’d sit there till the boiling marrow would run out of my bones.”

“Well,” says the Judge, “you’re a pretty lazy man, Donal, and I doubt if Taig is as lazy as either of you.”

“Indeed, then,” says Taig, “I’m every bit as lazy.”

“How can that be ?” says the Judge.

“Well,” says Taig, “if I was lying on the broad of my back in the middle of the floor and looking up at the rafters, and if soot drops were falling as thick as hailstones from the rafters into my open eyes, I would let them drop there for the length of the lee-long day sooner than take the bother of closing the eyes.”

“Well,” says the Judge, “that’s very wonderful entirely, and” says he, “I’m in as great a quandary as before, for I see you are the three laziest men that ever were known since the world began, and which of you is the laziest it certainly beats me to say. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” says the Judge, “I’ll give the field to the oldest man of you.”

“Then,” says Conal, “it’s me gets the field.”

“How is that ?” says the Judge; “how old are you ?”

“Well, I’m that old,” says Conal, “that when I was twenty-one years of age I got a shipload of awls and never lost nor broke one of them, and I wore out the last of them yesterday mending my shoes.”

“Well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “you’re surely an old man, and I doubt very much that Donal and Taig can catch up to you.”

“Can’t I?” says Donal; “take care of that.”

“Why,” said the Judge, “how old are you ?”

“When I was twenty-one years of age,” says Donal, “I got a shipload of needles, and yesterday I wore out the last of them mending my clothes.”

“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he “you’re two very, very old men, to be sure, and I’m afraid poor Taig is out of his chance anyhow.”

“Take care of that,” says Taig.

“Why,” said the Judge, “how old are you, Taig ?”

Says Taig, “When I was twenty-one years of age I got a shipload of razors, and yesterday I had the last of them worn to a stump shaving myself.”

“Well,” says the Judge, says he, “I’ve often heard tell of old men,” he says, “but anything as old as what you three are never was known since Methusalem’s cat died. The like of your ages,” he says, “I never heard tell of, and which of you is the oldest, that surely beats me to decide, and I’m in a quandary again. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” says the Judge, says he, “I’ll give the field to whichever of you minds [remembers] the longest.”

“Well, if that’s it,” says Conal, “it’s me gets the field, for I mind the time when if a man tramped on a cat he usen’t to give it a kick to console it.”

“Well, well, well,”says the Judge, “that must be a long mind entirely; and I’m afraid, Conal, you have the field.”

“Not so quick,” says Donal, says he, “for I mind the time when a woman wouldn’t speak an ill word of her best friend.”

“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, “your memory, Donal, must certainly be a very wonderful one, if you can mind that time. Taig,” says the Judge, says he, “I’m afraid your memory can’t compare with Conal’s and Donal’s.”

“Can’t it,” says Taig, says he. “Take care of that, for I mind the time when you wouldn’t find nine liars in a crowd of ten men.”

“Oh, Oh, Oh!” says theJudge, says he, “that memory of yours, Taig, must be a wonderful one.” Says he “Such memories as you three men have were never known before, and which of you has the greatest memory it beats me to say. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do now,” says he; “I’ll give the field to whichever of you has the keenest sight.”

“Then,” says Conal, says he, “it’s me gets the field; because,” says he, “if there was a fly perched on the top of yon mountain, ten miles away, I could tell you every time he blinked.”

“You have wonderful sight, Conal,” says the Judge, says he, “and I’m afraid you’ve got the field.”

“Take care,” says Donal, says he, “but I’ve got as good. For I could tell you whether it was a mote in his eye that made him blink or not.”

“Ah, ha, ha!” says the Judge, says he, “this is wonderful sight surely. Taig,” says he, “I pity you, for you have no chance for the field now.”

“Have I not?” says Taig. “I could tell you from here whether that fly was in good health or not by counting his heart beats.”

“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “I’m in as great a quandary as ever. You are three of the most wonderful men that ever I met, and no mistake. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” says he; “I’ll give the field to the supplest man of you.”

“Thank you,” says Conal. “Then the field is mine.”

“Why so?” says the Judge.

“Because,” says Conal, says he, “if you filled that field with hares, and put a dog in the middle of them, and then tied one of my legs up my back, I would not let one of the hares get out.”

“Then, Conal,” says the Judge, says he, “I think the field is yours.”

“By the leave of your judgeship, not yet,” says Donal.

“Why, Donal,” says the Judge, says he, “surely you are not as supple as that?”

“Am I not ?” says Donal. “Do you see that old castle over there without door, or window, or roof in it, and the wind blowing in and out through it like an iron gate ?”

“I do,” says the Judge. “What about that?”

“Well,” says Donal, says he, “if on the stormiest day of the year you had that castle filled with feathers, I would not let a feather be lost, or go ten yards from the castle until I had caught and put it in again.”

“Well, surely,” says the Judge, says he, “you are a supple man, Donal, and no mistake. Taig,” says he, “there’s no chance for you now.”

“Don’t be too sure,” says Taig, says he.

“Why,” says the Judge, “you couldn’t surely do anything to equal these things, Taig?”

Says Taig, says he: “I can shoe the swiftest race-horse in the land when he is galloping at his topmost speed, by driving a nail every time he lifts his foot.”

“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “surely you are the three most wonderful men that ever I did meet. The likes of you never was known before, and I suppose the likes of you will never be on the earth again. There is only one other trial,” says he, “and if this doesn’t decide, I’ll have to give it up. I’ll give the field,” says he, “to the cleverest man amongst you.”

“Then,” says Conal, says he, “you may as well give it to me at once.”

“Why? Are you that clever, Conal?” says the Judge, says he.

“I am that clever,” says Conal, “I am that clever, that I would make a skin-fit suit of clothes for a man without any more measurement than to tell me the color of his hair.”

“Then, boys,” says the Judge, says he, “I think the case is decided.”

“Not so quick, my friend,” says Donal, “not so quick.”

“Why, Donal,” says the Judge, says he, “you are surely not cleverer than that?”

“Am I not?” says Donal.

“Why,” says the Judge, says he, “what can you do, Donal?”

“Why,” says Donal, says he, “I would make a skin-fit suit for a man and give me no more measurement than let me hear him cough.”

“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “the cleverness of you two boys beats all I ever heard of. Taig,” says he, “poor Taig, whatever chance either of these two may have for the field, I’m very, very sorry for you, for you have no chance.”

“Don’t be so very sure of that,” says Taig, says he.

“Why,” says the Judge, says he, “surely, Taig, you can’t be as clever as either of them. How clever are you, Taig?”

“Well,” says Taig, says he, “if I was a judge, and too stupid to decide a case that came up before me, I’d be that clever that I’d look wise and give some decision.”

“Taig,” says the Judge, says he, “I’ve gone into this case and deliberated upon it, and by all the laws of right and justice, I find and decide that you get the field.”

Manis the Miller

THERE was a man from the mountain, named Donal, once married the daughter of a stingy old couple who lived on the lowlands. He used to stay and work on his own wee patch of land all the week round, till it came to Saturday evening, and on Saturday evening he went to his wife’s father’s to spend Sunday with him.

Coming and going he always passed the mill of Manis, the miller, and Manis, who used to be watching him passing, always noticed, and thought it strange, that while he jumped the mill-race going to his wife’s father’s on a Saturday evening, he had always to wade through it coming back. And at last he stopped Donal one Monday morning, and asked him the meaning of it.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” says Donal, says he. “It’s this: My old father-in-law is such a very small eater, that he says grace and blesses himself when I’ve only got a few pieces out of my meals; so I’m always weak coming back on Monday morning.”

Manis, he thought over this to himself for a whuile, and then says he: “Would you mind letting me go with you next Saturday evening? If you do, I promise you that you’ll leap the mill-race coming back.”

“I’ll be glad to have you,” says Donal.

“Very well and good. When Saturday evening came, Manis joined Donal, and off they both trudged to Donal’s father-in-law’s.”

The old man was not too well pleased at seeing Donal bringing a fresh hand, but Manis, he didn’t pretend to see this, but made himself as welcome as the flowers in May. And when supper was laid down on Saturday night, Manis gave Donal the nudge, and both of them began to tie their shoes as if they had got loose, and they tied and tied away at their shoes, till the old man had eaten a couple of minutes, and then said grace and finished and got up from the table, thinking they wouldn’t have the ill-manners to sit down after the meal was over.

But down to the table my brave Manis and Donal sat, and ate their hearty skinful. And when the old fellow saw this, he was gruff and grumpy enough, and it was little they could get out of him between that and bedtime.

But Manis kept a lively chat going, and told good stories, that passed away the night; and when bedtime came and they offered Manis a bed in the room, Manis said no, that there was no place he could sleep only one, and that was along the fireside.

The old man and the old woman both objected to this, and said they couldn’t think of allowing a stranger to sleep there; but all they could say or do wasn’t any use, and Manis said he couldn’t and wouldn’t sleep in any other place, and insisted on lying down there, and lie down there he did in spite of them all, and they all went off to their beds.

But though Manis lay down, he was very careful not to let himself go to sleep; and when he was near about two hours lying he hears the room door open easy, and the old woman puts her head out and listens, and Manis he snored as if he hadn’t slept for ten days and ten nights before.

When the old woman heard this, she came on up the floor and looked at him, and saw him like as if he was dead asleep. Then she hastened to put a pot of water on the fire, and began to make a pot of stir-about for herself and the old man, for this was the way, as Manis had well suspected, that they used to cheat Donal.

But just in the middle of the cooking of the pot of stir-about, doesn’t Manis roll over and pretend to waken up? Up he sits, and rubs his eyes, and looks about him, and looks at the woman and at the pot on the fire.

“Ah,” says he, “is it here ye are, or is it mornin’ with ye?”

“Well, no,” says she, “it isn’t mornin’, but we have a cow that’s not well, and I had to put a mash on the fire here for her. I’m sorry I wakened ye.”

“O, no, no!” says Manis, says he, “you haven’t wakened me at all. It’s this sore ankle I have here,” says he, rubbing his ankle. “I’ve a very, very sore ankle,” says he, “and it troubles me sometimes at night,” he says, “and no matter how sound asleep I may be, it wakens me up, and I’ve got to sit up until I cure it.” Says he: “There’s nothin’ cures it but soot -- till I rub plenty of soot out of the chimney to it.”

And Manis takes hold of the tongs, and he begins pulling the soot down out of the chimney from above the pot, and for every one piece that fell on the fire, there were five pieces that fell into the pot. And when Manis thought he had the posset well enough spiced with the soot, he raised up a little of the soot from the fire and rubbed his ankle with it.

“And now,” says he, “that’s all right, and I’ll sleep sound and not waken again till mornin’.” And he stretched himself out again, and began to snore.

The old woman was pretty well vexed that she had had her night’s work spoiled, and she went up to the room to the old man and told him what had happened to the stir-about. He got into a bad rage entirely, and asked her was Manis asleep again, and she said he was. Then he ordered her to go down and make an oat scowder [a hastily baked oat-cake] and put it on the ashes for him.

She went down, and got the oatmeal, and made a good scowder, and set it on the ashes, and then sat by it for the short while it would be doing.

But she hadn’t it many minutes on the ashes when Manis let a cry out of him, as if it was in his sleep, and up he jumps and rubs his eyes and looks about him; and when he saw her, he said: “Och! is it here ye are? And I’m glad ye are,” says he; “because I’ve a great trouble on me mind, that’s lying a load over me heart and wouldn’t let me sleep, and I want to relieve me mind to ye,” says Manis; “an’ then I’ll sleep hearty and sound all the night after. I’ll tell you the story,” says he.

So he catches hold of the tongs in his two hands, and as he told the story he would stir them about through the ashes.

Says he, “I want to tell you that my father afore he died was a very rich man and owned no end of land. He had three sons, my self and Teddy and Tom; and the three of us were three good, hard workers. I always liked Teddy and Tom; but howewer it came out, Tom and Teddy hated me, and they never lost a chance of trying to damage me with my father and turn him against me. He sent Teddy and Tom to school and gave them a grand education, but he only gave me the spade in my fist and sent me out to the fields. And when Teddy and Tom came back from school, they were two gentlemen, and use to ride their horses and hunt with their hounds; and me they always made look after the horses and groom them and saddle them and bridle them, and be there in the yard to meet them when they would come in from their riding, and take charge of their horses, give them a rubbing down, and stable them for them.”

“In my own mind, I use to think that this wasn’t exactly fair or brotherly treatment: but I said nothing, for I liked both Teddy and Tom. And prouder and prouder of them every day got my father, and more and more every day he disliked me, until at long and at last, when he came to die, he liked Teddy and Tom that much, and he liked poor Manis that little, that he drew up his will and divided his land into four parts and left it in this way”

“Now, supposin’,” says Manis, says he, digging the point of the tongs into the scowder, “supposin’,” says he, “there was my father’s farm. He cut it across this way,” says he, drawing the tongs through the scowder in one way. “Then he cut it across this way,” says he, drawing the tongs through the scowder in the other direction; “and that quarter,” says he, tossing away a quarter of the scowder with the point of the tongs, “he gave to my mother. And that quarter there,” says he, tossing off the other quarter into the dirt, “he gave to Teddy, and this quarter here,” says he, tossing the third quarter, “he gave to Tom. And this last quarter,” says Manis, says he, digging the point of the tongs right into the heart of the other quarter of the scowder, and lifting it up and looking at it, “this quarter,” says he, “he gave to the priest,” and he pitched it as far from him down the floor as he could. “And there,” says he, throwing down the tongs, “he left poor Manis what he is today -- a beggar and an outcast! That, ma’am,” says he, “is my story, and now that I’ve relieved my mind, I’ll sleep sound and well till morning.” And down he stretched himself by the fireside, and begins to snore again.

And the old woman she started up to the room, and she told the old man what had happened to the scowder; and the old fellow got into a mighty rage entirely, and was for getting up and going down to have the life of Manis, for he was starving with the hunger. But she tried to soothe him as well as she could. And then he told her to go down to the kitchen and make something else on the fire for him.

“O, it’s no use,” says she, “a-trying to make anything on the fire, for there’ll be some other ache coming on that fellow’s ankle or some other trouble on his mind, and he’ll be getting up in the middle of it all to tell me about it. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” says she, “I’ll go out and I’ll milk the cow, and give you a good jug of sweet milk to drink, and that will take the hunger off you till morning.”

He told her to get up quick and do it, or she would find him dead of the hunger.

And off she went as quickly as she could, and took a jug off the kitchen dresser, and slipped out, leaving Manis snoring loudly in the kitchen. But when Manis thought that she had had time to have the jug near filled from the cow, he slips out to the byre, and as it was dark he talked like the old man: “And,”says he, “I’ll die with the hunger if you don’t hurry with that.”

So she filled the jug, and she reached it to him in the dark, and he drank it off, and gave her back the empty jug, and went in and lay down.

Then she milked off another jug for herself and drank it, and came slipping in, and put the jug easy on the dresser, so as not to waken Manis, and went up to the room.

When she came up, the old fellow was raging there. Says he: “You might have milked all the cows in the county since, an’ me dead with hunger here waitin’ on it. Give me my jug of milk,” says he.

“And what do ye mean?” says she.