Still spake the swan-maiden: "Three hundred years must we float on this lone lake, three hundred years shall we be storm-tossed on the waters between Erin and Alba, and three hundred years on the wild Western Sea. Not until Decca be the Queen of Largnen, not until the good saint come to Erin and the chime of the Christ-bell be heard in the land, not until then shall we be saved from our doom."

Then great cries of sorrow went up from the Dedannans, and again Lir sobbed aloud. But at the last silence fell upon his grief, and Finola told how she and her brothers would keep forever their own sweet Gaelic speech, how they would sing songs so haunting that their music would bring peace to the souls of all who heard. She told how, beneath their snowy plumage, the human hearts of Finola, Aed, Fiacra, and Conn should still beat—the hearts of the children of Lir. "Stay with us to-night by the lone lake," she ended, "and our music will steal to you across its moonlit waters and lull you into peaceful slumber. Stay, stay with us."

And Lir and his people stayed on the shore that night and until the morning glimmered. Then, with the dim dawn, silence stole over the lake.

Speedily did Lir rise, and in haste did he bid farewell to his children, that he might seek Eva and see her tremble before him.

Swiftly did he drive and straight, until he came to the palace of Bove Derg, and there by the waters of the Great Lake did Bove Derg meet him. "Oh, Lir, wherefore have thy children come not hither?" And Eva stood by the King.

Stern and sad rang the answer of Lir: "Alas! Eva, your foster-child, hath by her wicked magic changed them into four snow-white swans. On the blue waters of Lake Darvra dwell Finola, Aed, Fiacra, and Conn, and thence come I that I may avenge their doom."

A silence as the silence of death fell upon the three, and all was still save that Eva trembled greatly. But ere long Bove Derg spake. Fierce and angry did he look, as, high above his foster-daughter, he held his magic wand. Awful was his voice as he pronounced her doom: "Wretched woman, henceforth shalt thou no longer darken this fair earth, but as a demon of the air shalt thou dwell in misery till the end of time." And of a sudden from out her shoulders grew black, shadowy wings, and, with a piercing scream, she swirled upward, until the awe-stricken Dedannans saw nought save a black speck vanish among the lowering clouds. And as a demon of the air do Eva's black wings swirl her through space to this day.

But great and good was Bove Derg. He laid aside his magic wand and so spake: "Let us, my people, leave the Great Lake, and let us pitch our tents on the shores of Lake Darvra. Exceeding dear unto us are the children of Lir, and I, Bove Derg, and Lir, their father, have vowed henceforth to make our home forever by the lone waters where they dwell."

And when it was told throughout the Green Island of Erin of the fate of the children of Lir and of the vow that Bove Derg had vowed, from north, south, east, and west did the Dedannans flock to the lake, until a mighty host dwelt by its shores.

And by day Finola and her brothers knew not loneliness, for in the sweet Gaelic speech they told of their joys and fears; and by night the mighty Dedannans knew no sorrowful memories, for by haunting songs were they lulled to sleep, and the music brought peace to their souls.

Slowly did the years go by, and upon the shoulders of Bove Derg and Lir fell the long white hair. Fearful grew the four swans, for the time was not far off when they must wing their flight north to the wild sea of Moyle.

And when at length the sad day dawned, Finola told her brothers how their three hundred happy years on Lake Darvra were at an end, and how they must now leave the peace of its lone waters for evermore.

Then, slowly and sadly, did the four swans glide to the margin of the lake. Never had the snowy whiteness of their plumage so dazzled the beholders, never had music so sweet and sorrowful floated to Lake Darvra's sunlit shores. As the swans reached the water's edge, silent were the three brothers, and alone Finola chanted a farewell song.

With bowed white heads did the Dedannan host listen to Finola's chant, and when the music ceased and only sobs broke the stillness, the four swans spread their wings, and, soaring high, paused but for one short moment to gaze on the kneeling forms of Lir and Bove Derg. Then, stretching their graceful necks toward the north, they winged their flight to the waters of the stormy sea that separates the blue Alba from the Green Island of Erin.

And when it was known throughout the Green Isle that the four white swans had flown, so great was the sorrow of the people that they made a law that no swan should be killed in Erin from that day forth.

With hearts that burned with longing for their father and their friends, did Finola and her brothers reach the sea of Moyle. Cold were its wintry waters, black and fearful were the steep rocks overhanging Alba's far-stretching coasts. From hunger, too, the swans suffered. Dark indeed was all, and darker yet as the children of Lir remembered the still waters of Lake Darvra and the fond Dedannan host on its peaceful shores. Here the sighing of the wind among the reeds no longer soothed their sorrow, but the roar of the breaking surf struck fresh terror in their souls. In misery and terror did their days pass, until one night the black, lowering clouds overhead told that a great tempest was nigh. Then did Finola call to her Aed, Fiacra, and Conn. "Beloved brothers, a great fear is at my heart, for, in the fury of the coming gale, we may be driven the one from the other. Therefore, let us say where we may hope to meet when the storm is spent."

And Aed answered: "Wise art thou, dear, gentle sister. If we be driven apart, may it be to meet again on the rocky isle that has ofttimes been our haven, for well known is it to us all, and from far can it be seen."

Darker grew the night, louder raged the wind, as the four swans dived and rose again on the giant billows. Yet fiercer blew the gale, until at midnight loud bursts of thunder mingled with the roaring wind, but, in the glare of the blue lightning's flashes, the children of Lir beheld each the snowy form of the other. The mad fury of the hurricane yet increased, and the force of it lifted one swan from its wild home on the billows, and swept it through the blackness of the night. Another blue lightning-flash, and each swan saw its loneliness, and uttered a great cry of desolation. Tossed hither and thither by wind and wave, the white birds were well-nigh dead when dawn broke. And with the dawn fell calm.

Swift as her tired wings would bear her, Finola sailed to the rocky isle, where she hoped to find her brothers. But alas! no sign was there of one of them. Then to the highest summit of the rocks she flew. North, south, east, and west did she look, yet nought saw she save a watery wilderness. Now did her heart fail her, and she sang the saddest song she had yet sung.

As the last notes died Finola raised her eyes, and lo! Conn came slowly swimming toward her with drenched plumage and head that drooped. And as she looked, behold! Fiacra appeared, but it was as though his strength failed. Then did Finola swim toward her fainting brother and lend him her aid, and soon the twins were safe on the sunlit rock, nestling for warmth beneath their sister's wings.

Yet Finola's heart still beat with alarm as she sheltered her younger brothers, for Aed came not, and she feared lest he were lost forever. But, at noon, sailing he came over the breast of the blue waters, with head erect and plumage sunlit. And under the feathers of her breast did Finola draw him, for Conn and Fiacra still cradled beneath her wings. "Rest here, while ye may, dear brothers," she said.

And she sang to them a lullaby so surpassing sweet that the sea-birds hushed their cries and flocked to listen to the sad, slow music. And when Aed and Fiacra and Conn were lulled to sleep, Finola's notes grew more and more faint and her head drooped, and soon she, too, slept peacefully in the warm sunlight.

But few were the sunny days on the sea of Moyle, and many were the tempests that ruffled its waters. Still keener grew the winter frosts, and the misery of the four white swans was greater than ever before. Even their most sorrowful Gaelic songs told not half their woe. From the fury of the storm they still sought shelter on that rocky isle where Finola had despaired of seeing her dear ones more.

Slowly passed the years of doom, until one midwinter a frost more keen than any known before froze the sea into a floor of solid black ice. By night the swans crouched together on the rocky isle for warmth, but each morning they were frozen to the ground and could free themselves only with sore pain, for they left clinging to the ice-bound rock the soft down of their breasts, the quills from their white wings, and the skin of their poor feet.

And when the sun melted the ice-bound surface of the waters, and the swans swam once more in the sea of Moyle, the salt water entered their wounds, and they well-nigh died of pain. But in time the down on their breasts and the feathers on their wings grew, and they were healed of their wounds.

The years dragged on, and by day Finola and her brothers would fly toward the shores of the Green Island of Erin, or to the rocky blue headlands of Alba, or they would swim far out into a dim gray wilderness of waters. But ever as night fell it was their doom to return to the sea of Moyle.

One day, as they looked toward the Green Isle, they saw coming to the coast a troop of horsemen mounted on snow-white steeds, and their armor glittered in the sun.

A cry of great joy went up from the children of Lir, for they had seen no human form since they spread their wings above Lake Darvra, and flew to the stormy sea of Moyle.

"Speak," said Finola to her brothers, "speak, and say if these be not our own Dedannan folk." And Aed and Fiacra and Conn strained their eyes, and Aed answered, "It seemeth, dear sister, to me, that it is indeed our own people."

As the horsemen drew nearer and saw the four swans, each man shouted in the Gaelic tongue, "Behold the children of Lir!"

And when Finola and her brothers heard once more the sweet Gaelic speech, and saw the faces of their own people, their happiness was greater than can be told. For long they were silent, but at length Finola spake.

Of their life on the sea of Moyle she told, of the dreary rains and blustering winds, of the giant waves and the roaring thunder, of the black frost, and of their own poor battered and wounded bodies. Of their loneliness of soul, of that she could not speak. "But tell us," she went on, "tell us of our father, Lir. Lives he still, and Bove Derg, and our dear Dedannan friends?"

Scarce could the Dedannans speak for the sorrow they had for Finola and her brothers, but they told how Lir and Bove Derg were alive and well, and were even now celebrating the Feast of Age at the house of Lir. "But for their longing for you, your father and friends would be happy indeed."

Glad then and of great comfort were the hearts of Finola and her brothers. But they could not hear more, for they must hasten to fly from the pleasant shores of Erin to the sea-stream of Moyle, which was their doom. And as they flew, Finola sang, and faint floated her voice over the kneeling host.

As the sad song grew fainter and more faint, the Dedannans wept aloud. Then, as the snow-white birds faded from sight, the sorrowful company turned the heads of their white steeds from the shore, and rode southward to the home of Lir.

And when it was told there of the sufferings of Finola and her brothers, great was the sorrow of the Dedannans. Yet was Lir glad that his children were alive, and he thought of the day when the magic spell would be broken, and those so dear to him would be freed from their bitter woe.

Once more were ended three hundred years of doom, and glad were the four white swans to leave the cruel sea of Moyle. Yet might they fly only to the wild Western Sea, and tempest-tossed as before, here they in no way escaped the pitiless fury of wind and wave. Worse than aught they had before endured was a frost that drove the brothers to despair. Well-nigh frozen to a rock, they one night cried aloud to Finola that they longed for death. And she, too, would fain have died.

But that same night did a dream come to the swan-maiden, and, when she awoke, she cried to her brothers to take heart. "Believe, dear brothers, in the great God who hath created the earth with its fruits and the sea with its terrible wonders. Trust in him, and he will yet save you." And her brothers answered, "We will trust."

And Finola also put her trust in God, and they all fell into a deep slumber.

When the children of Lir awoke, behold! the sun shone, and thereafter, until the three hundred years on the Western Sea were ended, neither wind nor wave nor rain nor frost did hurt the four swans.

On a grassy isle they lived and sang their wondrous songs by day, and by night they nestled together on their soft couch, and awoke in the morning to sunshine and to peace. And there on the grassy island was their home, until the three hundred years were at an end. Then Finola called to her brothers, and tremblingly she told, and tremblingly they heard, that they might now fly eastward to seek their own old home.

Lightly did they rise on outstretched wings, and swiftly did they fly until they reached land. There they alighted and gazed each at the other, but too great for speech was their joy. Then again did they spread their wings and fly above the green grass on and on, until they reached the hills and trees that surrounded their old home. But, alas! only the ruins of Lir's dwelling were left. Around was a wilderness overgrown with rank grass, nettles, and weeds.

Too downhearted to stir, the swans slept that night within the ruined walls of their old home, but, when day broke, each could no longer bear the loneliness, and again they flew westward. And it was not until they came to Inis Glora that they alighted. On a small lake in the heart of the island they made their home, and, by their enchanting music, they drew to its shores all the birds of the west, until the lake came to be called "The Lake of the Bird-flocks."

Slowly passed the years, but a great longing filled the hearts of the children of Lir. When would the good saint come to Erin? When would the chime of the Christ-bell peal over land and sea?

One rosy dawn the swans awoke among the rushes of the Lake of the Bird-flocks, and strange and faint was the sound that floated to them from afar. Trembling, they nestled close the one to the other, until the brothers stretched their wings and fluttered hither and thither in great fear. Yet trembling they flew back to their sister, who had remained silent among the sedges. Crouching by her side they asked, "What, dear sister, can be the strange, faint sound that steals across our island?"

With quiet, deep joy Finola answered: "Dear brothers, it is the chime of the Christ-bell that ye hear, the Christ-bell of which we have dreamed through thrice three hundred years. Soon the spell will be broken, soon our sufferings will end." Then did Finola glide from the shelter of the sedges across the rose-lit lake, and there by the shore of the Western Sea she chanted a song of hope.

Calm crept into the hearts of the brothers as Finola sang, and, as she ended, once more the chime stole across the isle. No longer did it strike terror into the hearts of the children of Lir, rather as a note of peace did it sink into their souls.

Then, when the last chime died, Finola said, "Let us sing to the great King of Heaven and Earth."

Far stole the sweet strains of the white swans, far across Inis Glora, until they reached the good Saint Kemoc, for whose early prayers the Christ-bell had chimed.

And he, filled with wonder at the surpassing sweetness of the music, stood mute, but when it was revealed unto him that the voices he heard were the voices of Finola and Aed and Fiacra and Conn, who thanked the High God for the chime of the Christ-bell, he knelt and also gave thanks, for it was to seek the children of Lir that the saint had come to Inis Glora.

In the glory of noon, Kemoc reached the shore of the little lake, and saw four white swans gliding on its waters. And no need had the saint to ask whether these indeed were the children of Lir. Rather did he give thanks to the High God who had brought him hither.

Then gravely the good Kemoc said to the swans: "Come ye now to land, and put your trust in me, for it is in this place that ye shall be freed from your enchantment."

These words the four white swans heard with great joy, and coming to the shore they placed themselves under the care of the saint. And he led them to his cell, and there they dwelt with him. And Kemoc sent to Erin for a skilful workman, and ordered that two slender chains of shining silver be made. Betwixt Finola and Aed did he clasp one silver chain, and with the other did he bind Fiacra and Conn.

Then did the children of Lir dwell with the holy Kemoc, and he taught them the wonderful story of Christ that he and Saint Patrick had brought to the Green Isle. And the story so gladdened their hearts that the misery of their past sufferings was well-nigh forgotten, and they lived in great happiness with the saint. Dear to him were they, dear as though they had been his own children.

Thrice three hundred years had gone since Eva had chanted the fate of the children of Lir. "Until Decca be the Queen of Largnen, until the good saint come to Erin, and ye hear the chime of the Christ-bell, shall ye not be delivered from your doom."

The good saint had indeed come, and the sweet chimes of the Christ-bell had been heard, and the fair Decca was now the Queen of King Largnen.

Soon were tidings brought to Decca of the swan-maiden and her three swan-brothers. Strange tales did she hear of their haunting songs. It was told her, too, of their cruel miseries. Then begged she her husband, the King, that he would go to Kemoc and bring to her these human birds.

But Largnen did not wish to ask Kemoc to part with the swans, and therefore he did not go.

Then was Decca angry, and swore she would live no longer with Largnen, until he brought the singing swans to the palace. And that same night she set out for her father's kingdom in the south.

Nevertheless Largnen loved Decca, and great was his grief when he heard that she had fled. And he commanded messengers to go after her, saying he would send for the white swans if she would but come back. Therefore Decca returned to the palace, and Largnen sent to Kemoc to beg of him the four white swans. But the messenger returned without the birds.

Then was Largnen wroth, and set out himself for the cell of Kemoc. But he found the saint in the little church, and before the altar were the four white swans.

"Is it truly told me that you refused these birds to Queen Decca?" asked the King.

"It is truly told," replied Kemoc.

Then Largnen was more wroth than before, and seizing the silver chain of Finola and Aed in the one hand, and the chain of Fiacra and Conn in the other, he dragged the birds from the altar and down the aisle, and it seemed as though he would leave the church. And in great fear did the saint follow.

But lo! as they reached the door, the snow-white feathers of the four swans fell to the ground, and the children of Lir were delivered from their doom. For was not Decca the bride of Largnen, and the good saint had he not come, and the chime of the Christ-bell was it not heard in the land?

But aged and feeble were the children of Lir. Wrinkled were their once fair faces, and bent their little white bodies.

At the sight Largnen, affrighted, fled from the church, and the good Kemoc cried aloud, "Woe to thee, O King!"

Then did the children of Lir turn toward the saint, and thus Finola spake: "Baptize us now, we pray thee, for death is nigh. Heavy with sorrow are our hearts that we must part from thee, thou holy one, and that in loneliness must thy days on earth be spent. But such is the will of the high God. Here let our graves be digged, and here bury our four bodies, Conn standing at my right side, Fiacra at my left, and Aed before my face, for thus did I shelter my dear brothers for thrice three hundred years 'neath wing and breast."

Then did the good Kemoc baptize the children of Lir, and thereafter the saint looked up, and lo! he saw a vision of four lovely children with silvery wings, and faces radiant as the sun; and as he gazed they floated ever upward, until they were lost in a mist of blue. Then was the good Kemoc glad, for he knew that they had gone to heaven.

But, when he looked downward, four worn bodies lay at the church door, and Kemoc wept sore.

And the saint ordered a wide grave to be digged close by the little church, and there were the children of Lir buried, Conn standing at Finola's right hand, and Fiacra at her left, and before her face her twin brother Aed.

And the grass grew green above them, and a white tombstone bore their names, and across the grave floated morning and evening the chime of the sweet Christ-bell.



THE MISHAPS OF HANDY ANDY

Andy Rooney was a fellow who had the most singularly ingenious knack of doing everything the wrong way. He grew up in his humble Irish home full of mischief to the eyes of every one save his admiring mother. But, to do him justice, he never meant harm in the course of his life, and he was most anxious to offer his services on every occasion to all who would accept them. Here is the account of how Andy first went into service:

When Andy grew up to be what in country parlance is called "a brave lump of a boy," and his mother thought he was old enough to do something for himself, she took him one day along with her to the squire's, and waited outside the door, loitering up and down the yard behind the house, among a crowd of beggars and great lazy dogs that were thrusting their heads into every iron pot that stood outside the kitchen door, until chance might give her "a sight of the squire afore he wint out, or afore he wint in"; and, after spending her entire day in this idle way, at last the squire made his appearance, and Judy presented her son, who kept scraping his foot, and pulling his forelock, that stuck out like a piece of ragged thatch from his forehead, making his obeisance to the squire, while his mother was sounding his praises for being the "handiest craythur alive, and so willin'—nothin' comes wrong to him."

"I suppose the English of all this is, you want me to take him?" said the squire.

"Throth, an' your honor, that's just it—if your honor would be plazed."

"What can he do?"

"Anything, your honor."

"That means nothing, I suppose," said the squire.

"Oh, no, sir! Everything, I mane, that you would desire him to do."

To every one of these assurances on his mother's part Andy made a bow and a scrape.

"Can he take care of horses?"

"The best of care, sir," said the mother.

"Let him come, then, and help in the stables, and we'll see what we can do."

The next day found Andy duly installed in the office of stable-helper; and, as he was a good rider, he was soon made whipper-in to the hounds, and became a favorite with the squire, who was one of those rollicking "boys" of the old school, who let any one that chance threw in his way bring him his boots, or his hot water for shaving, or brush his coat, whenever it was brushed. The squire, you see, scorned the attentions of a regular valet. But Andy knew a great deal more about horses than about the duties of a valet. One morning he came to his master's room with hot water and tapped at the door.

"Who's that?" said the squire, who had just risen.

"It's me, sir."

"Oh, Andy! Come in."

"Here's the hot water, sir," said Andy, bearing an enormous tin can.

"Why, what brings that enormous tin can here? You might as well bring the stable-bucket."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Andy, retreating. In two minutes more Andy came back, and, tapping at the door, put in his head cautiously.

HOW ANDY BROUGHT HIS MASTER'S HOT WATER IN THE MORNING

"The maids in the kitchen, your honor, say there's not so much hot water ready."

"Did I not see it a moment since in your hand?"

"Yes, sir; but that's not nigh the full o' the stable-bucket."

"Go along, you stupid thief, and get me some hot water directly."

"Will the can do, sir?"

"Ay, anything, so you make haste."

Off posted Andy, and back he came with the can.

"Where'll I put it, sir?"

"Throw this out," said the squire, handing Andy a jug containing some cold water, meaning the jug to be replenished with the hot.

Andy took the jug, and the window of the room being open, he very deliberately threw the jug out. The squire stared with wonder, and at last said:

"What did you do that for?"

"Sure, you towld me to throw it out, sir."

"Go out of this, you thick-headed villain," said the squire, throwing his boots at Andy's head; whereupon Andy retreated, and, like all stupid people, thought himself a very ill-used person.

WHAT HAPPENED WHEN ANDY OPENED A BOTTLE OF SODA AT THE DINNER

Andy was soon the laughing-stock of the household. When, for example, he first saw silver forks he declared that "he had never seen a silver spoon split that way before." When told to "cut the cord" of a soda-water bottle on one occasion when the squire was entertaining a number of guests at dinner, he "did as he was desired."

He happened at that time to hold the bottle on the level with the candles that shed light over the festive board from a large silver branch, and the moment he made the incision, bang went the bottle of soda, knocking out two of the lights with the projected cork, which struck the squire himself in the eye at the foot of the table; while the hostess, at the head, had a cold bath down her back. Andy, when he saw the soda-water jumping out of the bottle, held it from him at arm's length, at every fizz it made, exclaiming: "Ow! Ow! Ow!" and at last, when the bottle was empty, he roared out: "Oh, oh, it's all gone!"

Great was the commotion. Few could resist laughter, except the ladies, who all looked at their gowns, not liking the mixture of satin and soda-water. The extinguished candles were relighted, the squire got his eyes open again, and the next time he perceived the butler sufficiently near to speak to him, he said, in a low and hurried tone of deep anger, while he knit his brow:

"Send that fellow out of the room." Suspended from indoor service, Andy was not long before he distinguished himself out of doors in such a way as to involve his master in a coil of trouble, and, incidentally, to retard the good fortune that came to himself in the end.

THE SQUIRE SENDS ANDY TO THE POST-OFFICE FOR A LETTER

The squire said to him one day:

"Ride into the town and see if there's a letter for me."

"Yes, sir," said Andy.

"Do you know where to go?" inquired his master.

"To the town, sir," was the reply.

"But do you know where to go in the town?"

"No, sir."

"And why don't you ask, you stupid thief?"

"Sure, I'd find out, sir."

"Didn't I often tell you to ask what you're to do when you don't know?"

"Yes, sir."

"And why don't you?"

"I don't like to be troublesome, sir."

"Confound you!" said the squire, though he could not help laughing at Andy's excuse for remaining in ignorance. "Well, go to the post-office. You know the post-office, I suppose?" continued his master in sarcastic tones.

"Yes, sir; where they sell gunpowder."

"You're right for once," said the squire—for his Majesty's postmaster was the person who had the privilege of dealing in the aforesaid combustible. "Go, then, to the post-office, and ask for a letter for me. Remember, not gunpowder, but a letter."

"Yes, sir," said Andy, who got astride of his hack, and trotted away to the post-office.

On arriving at the shop of the postmaster (for that person carried on a brisk trade in groceries, gimlets, broadcloth, and linen-drapery), Andy presented himself at the counter, and said:

"I want a letther, sir, if you plaze."

"Who do you want it for?" said the postmaster, in a tone which Andy considered an aggression upon the sacredness of private life. So Andy, in his ignorance and pride, thought the coolest contempt he could throw upon the prying impertinence of the postmaster was to repeat his question.

ANDY HAS A VERY FOOLISH QUARREL WITH THE POSTMASTER

"I want a letther, sir, if you plaze."

"And who do you want it for?" repeated the postmaster.

"What's that to you?" said Andy.

The postmaster, laughing at his simplicity, told him he could not tell what letter to give him unless he told him the direction.

"The directions I got was to get a letther here—that's the directions."

"Who gave you those directions?"

"The master."

"And who's your master?"

"What consarn is that of yours?"

"Why, you stupid rascal, if you don't tell me his name, how can I give you a letter?"

"You could give it if you liked; but you're fond of axin' impident questions, bekase you think I'm simple."

"Go along out o' this! Your master must be as great a goose as yourself, to send such a messenger."

"Bad luck to your impidence!" said Andy. "Is it Squire Egan you dare to say goose to?"

"Oh, Squire Egan's your master, then?"

"Yes. Have you anything to say agin it?"

"Only that I never saw you before."

"Faith, then, you'll never see me agin if I have my own consint."

"I won't give you any letter for the squire unless I know you're his servant. Is there any one in the town knows you?"

"Plenty," said Andy. "It's not every one is as ignorant as you."

WHY ANDY WOULD NOT PAY ELEVEN PENCE FOR A LETTER

Just at this moment a person to whom Andy was known entered the house, who vouched to the postmaster that he might give Andy the squire's letter. "Have you one for me?"

"Yes, sir," said the postmaster, producing one. "Fourpence."

The gentleman paid the fourpence postage (the story, it must be remembered, belongs to the earlier half of the last century, before the days of the penny post), and left the shop with his letter.

"Here's a letter for the squire," said the postmaster. "You've to pay me elevenpence postage."

"What 'ud I pay elevenpence for?"

"For postage."

"Get out wid you! Didn't I see you give Mr. Durfy a letther for fourpence this minit, and a bigger letther than this? And now you want me to pay elevenpence for this scrap of a thing? Do you think I'm a fool?"

"No; but I'm sure of it," said the postmaster.

"Well, you're welkum, to be sure; but don't be delayin' me now. Here's fourpence for you, and gi' me the letther."

"Go along, you stupid thief!" (the word "thief" was often used in Ireland in the humorous way we sometimes use the word "rascal") said the postmaster, taking up the letter, and going to serve a customer with a mouse-trap.

WHY ANDY WENT BACK TO THE SQUIRE WITHOUT HIS LETTER

While this person and many others were served, Andy lounged up and down the shop, every now and then putting in his head in the middle of the customers and saying:

"Will you gi' me the letther?"

He waited for above half an hour, and at last left, when he found it impossible to get common justice for his master, which he thought he deserved as well as another man; for, under this impression, Andy determined to give no more than the fourpence. The squire, in the meantime, was getting impatient for his return, and when Andy made his appearance, asked if there was a letter for him.

"There is, sir," said Andy.

"Then give it to me."

"I haven't it, sir."

"What do you mean?"

"He wouldn't give it to me, sir."

"Who wouldn't give it to you?"

ANDY IS SENT BACK TO THE POST-OFFICE BY HIS ANGRY MASTER

"That owld chate beyant in the town—wanting to charge double for it."

"Maybe it's a double letter. Why didn't you pay what he asked, sir?"

"Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated? It's not a double letther at all; not above half the size o' one Mr. Durfy got before my face for fourpence."

"You'll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vagabond! Ride back for your life, and pay whatever he asks, and get me the letter."

"Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin' them before my face for fourpence apiece."

"Go back, you scoundrel, or I'll horsewhip you; and if you're longer than an hour, I'll have you ducked in the horsepond!"

Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he arrived two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was selecting the epistles for each from a large parcel that lay before him on the counter. At the same time many shop customers were waiting to be served.

"I've come for that letther," said Andy.

"I'll attend to you by and by."

"The masther's in a hurry."

"Let him wait till his hurry's over."

"He'll murther me if I'm not back soon."

"I'm glad to hear it."

CALLED A "THIEF" IN JEST, ANDY DOES A LITTLE THIEVING IN EARNEST

While the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these appeals for despatch, Andy's eye caught the heap of letters which lay on the counter. So, while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap, and, having effected that, waited patiently enough until it was the great man's pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master.

Then did Andy bestride his hack, and, in triumph at his trick on the postmaster, rattled along the road homeward as fast as the beast could carry him. He came into the squire's presence; his face beaming with delight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite unaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had been grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket, and, holding three letters over his head while he said: "Look at that!" he next slapped them down under his broad fist on the table before the squire, saying:

"Well, if he did make me pay elevenpence, I brought your honor the worth o' your money, anyhow."

Now, the letter addressed to the squire was from his law-agent, and concerned an approaching election in the county. His old friend, Mr. Gustavus O'Grady, the master of Neck-or-Nothing Hall, was, it appeared, working in the interest of the honorable Sackville Scatterbrain, and against Squire Egan.

THE TROUBLE THAT CAME OF ANDY'S FAMOUS VISITS TO THE POST-OFFICE

This unexpected information threw him into a great rage, in the midst of which his eye caught sight of one of the letters Andy had taken from the post-office. This was addressed to Mr. O'Grady, and as it bore the Dublin postmark, Mr. Egan yielded to the temptation of making the letter gape at its extremities—this was before the days of the envelope—and so read its contents, which were highly uncomplimentary to the reader. As Mr. O'Grady was much in debt financially to Mr. Egan, the latter decided to put all the pressure of the law upon his one-time friend, and, to save trouble with the authorities, destroyed both of the stolen letters and pledged Andy to secrecy.

Neck-or-Nothing Hall was carefully guarded from intruders, and Mr. Egan's agent, Mr. Murphy, greatly doubted if it would be possible to serve its master with a writ. Our friend Andy, however, unconsciously solved the difficulty.

Being sent over to the law-agent's for the writ, and at the same time bidden to call at the apothecary's for a prescription, he managed to mix up the two documents, leaving the writ, without its accompanying letter, at the apothecary's, whence it was duly forwarded to Neck-or-Nothing Hall with certain medicines for Mr. O'Grady, who was then lying ill in bed. The law-agent's letter, in its turn, was brought to Squire Egan by Andy, together with a blister which was meant for Mr. O'Grady. Imagine the recipient's anger when he read the following missive and, on opening the package it was with, found a real and not a figurative blister:

"MY DEAR SQUIRE: I send you the blister for O'Grady as you insist on it; but I think you won't find it easy to serve him with it.

"Your obedient and obliged, "MURTOUGH MURPHY."

The result in his case was a hurried ride to the law-agent's and the administration to that devoted personage of a severe hiding. This was followed by a duel, in which, happily, neither combatant was hurt. Then, after the firing, satisfactory explanations were made. On Mr. O'Grady's part, there was an almost simultaneous descent upon the unsuspecting apothecary, and the administration to the man of drugs and blisters of a terrible drubbing. Next a duel was arranged between the two old friends. Andy again distinguished himself.

HOW ANDY WAS FINALLY DISCHARGED FROM THE SERVICE OF SQUIRE EGAN

When his employer's second was not looking, Andy thought he would do Squire Egan a good turn by inserting bullets in his pistols before they were loaded. The intention of Andy was to give Mr. Egan the advantage of double bullets, but the result was that, when the weapons were loaded, Andy's bullets lay between the powder and the touch-hole. Mr. O'Grady missed his aim twice, and Mr. Egan missed his fire. The cause being discovered, Andy was unmercifully chased and punished by the second, and ignominiously dismissed from Mr. Egan's service.

By an accident, Andy shortly afterward was the means of driving a Mr. Furlong to Squire Egan's place instead of to Squire O'Grady's. Mr. Furlong was an agent from Dublin Castle, whose commission it was to aid the cause of the Honorable Mr. Scatterbrain. Of course, Andy, when he was told, on taking the place of the driver of the vehicle in which Mr. Furlong was traveling, to drive this important personage to "the squire's," at once jumped to the conclusion that by "the squire's" was meant Mr. Egan's. Here, before the mistake was found out by the victim, Mr. Furlong was unburdened of much important information. While this process was going on at Mr. Egan's, a hue and cry was on foot at Mr. O'Grady's, for the lost Mr. Furlong, and poor, blundering Andy was arrested and charged with murdering him.

ANOTHER OF ANDY'S BLUNDERS HAS A HAPPY RESULT FOR HIS OLD MASTER

He was soon set free and taken into Mr. O'Grady's service when Mr. Furlong had made his appearance before the owner of Neck-or-Nothing Hall. But a clever rascal named Larry Hogan divined by accident and the help of his native wit the secret of the stolen letters, and Andy was forced by terror to flee from Neck-or-Nothing Hall.

His subsequent adventures took him through the heat of the election, at which his ingenuity was displayed in unwittingly stopping up the mouth of the trumpet on which the Honorable Mr. Scatterbrain's supporters relied to drown Mr. Egan's speeches and those of his men. He thus did a good turn to his old master without knowing it, having merely imitated the action of the trumpeter, who had pretended to cork up the instrument before momentarily laying it aside.

When his fortunes seemed to be at their lowest ebb, Andy was discovered to be the rightful heir to the Scatterbrain title and estates, his claims to which were set forth in the second of the two letters stolen from the post-office, which had been destroyed by the squire without his reading it.

ANDY TURNS OUT TO BE OF GENTLE BIRTH AND COMES INTO HIS OWN

Soon afterward, through his old master's influence, Andy was taken to London, and by dint of much effort remedied many of the defects of his early education. Then, marrying his cousin, Onoah, who had shared his mother's cabin in the old days, and to save whom from a desperado Andy had, this time knowingly, braved great personal danger, our hero settled down to the enjoyment of a life such as he had never dreamed of in his humble days.



THE GREEDY SHEPHERD

Once upon a time there lived in the South Country two brothers, whose business it was to keep sheep. No one lived on that plain but shepherds, who watched their sheep so carefully that no lamb was ever lost.

There was none among them more careful than these two brothers, one of whom was called Clutch, and the other Kind. Though brothers, no two men could be more unlike in disposition. Clutch thought of nothing but how to make some profit for himself, while Kind would have shared his last morsel with a hungry dog. This covetous mind made Clutch keep all his father's sheep when the old man was dead, because he was the eldest brother, allowing Kind nothing but the place of a servant to help him in looking after them.

For some time the brothers lived peaceably in their father's cottage, and kept their flock on the grassy plain, till new troubles arose through Clutch's covetousness.

One midsummer it so happened that the traders praised the wool of Clutch's flock more than all they found on the plain, and gave him the highest price for it. That was an unlucky thing for the sheep, for after that Clutch thought he could never get enough wool off them. At shearing time nobody clipped so close as Clutch, and, in spite of all Kind could do or say, he left the poor sheep as bare as if they had been shaven. Kind didn't like these doings, but Clutch always tried to persuade him that close clipping was good for the sheep, and Kind always tried to make him think he had got all the wool. Still Clutch sold the wool, and stored up his profits, and one midsummer after another passed. The shepherds began to think him a rich man, and close clipping might have become the fashion but for a strange thing which happened to his flock.

The wool had grown well that summer. He had taken two crops off the sheep, and was thinking of a third, when first the lambs, and then the ewes, began to stray away; and, search as the brothers would, none of them was ever found again. The flocks grew smaller every day, and all the brothers could find out was that the closest clipped were the first to go.

Kind grew tired of watching, and Clutch lost his sleep with vexation. The other shepherds, to whom he had boasted of his wool and his profits, were not sorry to see pride having a fall. Still the flock melted away as the months wore on, and when the spring came back nothing remained with Clutch and Kind but three old ewes. The two brothers were watching these ewes one evening when Clutch said:

"Brother, there is wool to be had on their backs."

"It is too little to keep them warm," said Kind. "The east wind still blows sometimes." But Clutch was off to the cottage for the bag and shears.

Kind was grieved to see his brother so covetous, and to divert his mind he looked up at the great hills. As he looked, three creatures like sheep scoured up a cleft in one of the hills, as fleet as any deer; and when Kind turned he saw his brother coming with the bag and shears, but not a single ewe was to be seen. Clutch's first question was, what had become of them; and when Kind told him what he saw, the eldest brother scolded him for not watching better.

"Now we have not a single sheep," said he, "and the other shepherds will hardly give us room among them at shearing time or harvest. If you like to come with me, we shall get service somewhere. I have heard my father say that there were great shepherds living in old times beyond the hills; let us go and see if they will take us for sheep-boys."

Accordingly, next morning Clutch took his bag and shears, Kind took his crook and pipe, and away they went over the plain and up the hills. All who saw them thought that they had lost their senses, for no shepherd had gone there for a hundred years, and nothing was to be seen but wide moorlands, full of rugged rocks, and sloping up, it seemed, to the very sky.

By noon they came to the stony cleft up which the three old ewes had scoured like deer; but both were tired, and sat down to rest. As they sat there, there came a sound of music down the hills as if a thousand shepherds had been playing on their pipes. Clutch and Kind had never heard such music before, and, getting up, they followed the sound up the cleft, and over a wide heath, till at sunset they came to the hill-top, where they saw a flock of thousands of snow-white sheep feeding, while an old man sat in the midst of them playing merrily on his pipe.

"Good father," said Kind, for his eldest brother hung back and was afraid, "tell us what land is this, and where we can find service; for my brother and I are shepherds, and can keep flocks from straying, though we have lost our own."

"These are the hill pastures," said the old man, "and I am the ancient shepherd. My flocks never stray, but I have employment for you. Which of you can shear best?"

"Good father," said Clutch, taking courage, "I am the closest shearer in all the plain country; you would not find enough wool to make a thread on a sheep when I have done with it."

"You are the man for my business," said the old shepherd. "When the moon rises, I will call the flock you have to shear."

The sun went down and the moon rose, and all the snow-white sheep laid themselves down behind him. Then up the hills came a troop of shaggy wolves, with hair so long that their eyes could scarcely be seen. Clutch would have fled for fear, but the wolves stopped, and the old man said:

"Rise and shear—this flock of mine have too much wool on them."

Clutch had never shorn wolves before, yet he went forward bravely; but the first of the wolves showed its teeth, and all the rest raised such a howl that Clutch was glad to throw down his shears and run behind the old man for safety.

"Good father," cried he, "I will shear sheep, but not wolves!"

"They must be shorn," said the old man, "or you go back to the plains, and them after you; but whichever of you can shear them will get the whole flock."

On hearing this, Kind caught up the shears Clutch had thrown away in his fright, and went boldly up to the nearest wolf. To his great surprise, the wild creature seemed to know him, and stood quietly to be shorn. Kind clipped neatly, but not too closely, and when he had done with one, another came forward, till the whole flock were shorn. Then the man said:

"You have done well; take the wool and the flock for your wages, return with them to the plain, and take this brother of yours for a boy to keep them."

Kind did not much like keeping wolves, but before he could answer they had all changed into the very sheep which had strayed away, and the hair he had cut off was now a heap of fine and soft wool.

Clutch gathered it up in his bag, and went back to the plain with his brother. They keep the sheep together till this day, but Clutch has grown less greedy, and Kind alone uses the shears.



THE COBBLERS AND THE CUCKOO

Once upon a time there stood in the midst of a bleak moor, in the North Country, a certain village; all its inhabitants were poor, for their fields were barren, and they had little trade. But the poorest of them all were two brothers called Scrub and Spare, who followed the cobbler's craft, and had but one stall between them. It was a hut built of clay and wattles. There they worked in most brotherly friendship, though with little encouragement.

The people of that village were not extravagant in shoes, and better cobblers than Scrub and Spare might be found. Nevertheless, Scrub and Spare managed to live between their own trade, a small barley-field, and a cottage-garden, till one unlucky day when a new cobbler arrived in the village. He had lived in the capital city of the kingdom, and, by his own account, cobbled for the queen and the princesses. His awls were sharp, his lasts were new; he set up his stall in a neat cottage with two windows.

The villagers soon found out that one patch of his would outwear two of the brothers'. In short, all the mending left Scrub and Spare, and went to the new cobbler. So the brothers were poor that winter, and when Christmas came they had nothing to feast on but a barley loaf, a piece of musty bacon, and some small beer of their own brewing. But they made a great fire of logs, which crackled and blazed with red embers, and in high glee the cobblers sat down to their beer and bacon. The door was shut, for there was nothing but cold moonlight and snow outside; but the hut, strewn with fir boughs, and ornamented with holly, looked cheerful as the ruddy blaze flared up and rejoiced their hearts.

"Long life and good fortune to ourselves, brother!" said Spare. "I hope you will drink that toast, and may we never have a worse fire on Christmas—but what is that?"

Spare set down the drinking-horn, and the brothers listened astonished, for out of the blazing root they heard "Cuckoo! cuckoo!" as plain as ever the spring bird's voice came over the moor on a May morning.

"It is something bad," said Scrub, terribly frightened.

"May be not," said Spare.

And out of the deep hole at the side which the fire had not reached flew a large gray cuckoo, and lit on the table before them. Much as the cobblers had been surprised, they were still more so when the bird began to speak.

"Good gentlemen," it said slowly, "can you tell me what season this is?"

"It's Christmas," answered Spare.

"Then a merry Christmas to you!" said the cuckoo. "I went to sleep in the hollow of that old root one evening last summer, and never woke till the heat of your fire made me think it was summer again; but now, since you have burned my lodging, let me stay in your hut till the spring comes round—I only want a hole to sleep in—and when I go on my travels next summer be assured that I will bring you some present for your trouble."

"Stay, and welcome," said Spare.

"I'll make you a good warm hole in the thatch. But you must be hungry after that long sleep. Here is a slice of barley bread. Come, help us to keep Christmas!"

The cuckoo ate up the slice, drank water from the brown jug—for he would take no beer—and flew into a snug hole which Spare scooped for him in the thatch of the hut. So the snow melted, the heavy rains came, the cold grew less, the days lengthened, and one sunny morning the brothers were awakened by the cuckoo shouting its own cry to let them know that at last the spring had come.

"Now," said the bird, "I am going on my travels over the world to tell men of the spring. There is no country where trees bud or flowers bloom that I will not cry in before the year goes round. Give me another slice of barley bread to keep me on my journey, and tell me what present I shall bring you at the end of the twelve months."

"Good Master Cuckoo," said Scrub, "a diamond or pearl would help such poor men as my brother and I to provide something better than barley bread for your next entertainment."

"I know nothing of diamonds or pearls," said the cuckoo; "they are in the hearts of rocks and the sands of rivers. My knowledge is only of that which grows on the earth. But there are two trees hard by the well that lies at the world's end. One of them is called the golden tree, for its leaves are all of beaten gold. As for the other, it is always green, like a laurel. Some call it the wise, and some the merry tree. Its leaves never fall, but they that get one of them keep a blithe heart in spite of all misfortunes, and can make themselves as merry in a poor hut as in a handsome palace."

"Good Master Cuckoo, bring me a leaf off that tree!" cried Spare.

"Now, brother, don't be foolish!" said Scrub. "Think of the leaves of beaten gold! Dear Master Cuckoo, bring me one of them."

Before another word could be spoken, the cuckoo had flown.

The brothers were poorer than ever that year; nobody would send them a single shoe to mend. The new cobbler said, in scorn, they should come to be his apprentices; and Scrub and Spare would have left the village but for their barley field, their cabbage garden, and a maid called Fairfeather, whom both the cobblers had courted for more than seven years.

At the end of the winter Scrub and Spare had grown so poor and ragged that Fairfeather thought them beneath her notice. Old neighbors forgot to invite them to wedding feasts or merry-makings; and they thought the cuckoo had forgotten them, too, when at daybreak, on the first of April, they heard a hard beak knocking at their door, and a voice crying:

"Cuckoo! cuckoo! Let me in."

Spare ran to open the door, and in came the cuckoo, carrying on one side of his bill a golden leaf, larger than that of any tree in the North Country; and in the other, one like that of the common laurel, only it had a fresher green.

"Here!" it said, giving the gold to Scrub and the green to Spare.

So much gold had never been in the cobbler's hands before, and he could not help exulting over his brother.

"See the wisdom of my choice," he said, holding up the large leaf of gold. "As for yours, as good might be plucked from any hedge. I wonder a sensible bird should carry the like so far."

"Good Master Cobbler," cried the cuckoo, finishing the slice, "your conclusions are more hasty than courteous. If your brother be disappointed this time, I go on the same journey every year, and, for your hospitable entertainment, will think it no trouble to bring each of you whichever leaf you desire."

"Darling cuckoo," cried Scrub, "bring me a golden one."

And Spare, looking up from the green leaf on which he gazed, said:

"Be sure to bring me one from the merry tree."

And away flew the cuckoo once again.

Scrub vowed that his brother was not fit to live with a respectable man; and taking his lasts, his awls, and his golden leaf, he left the wattle hut, and went to tell the villagers.

They were astonished at the folly of Spare, and charmed with Scrub's good sense, particularly when he showed them the golden leaf, and told them that the cuckoo would bring him one every spring. The new cobbler immediately took him into partnership; the greatest people sent him their shoes to mend; Fairfeather smiled graciously upon him, and in the course of that summer they were married, with a grand wedding feast, at which the whole village danced, except Spare, who was not invited.

As for Scrub, he established himself with Fairfeather in a cottage close by that of the new cobbler, and quite as fine. There he mended shoes to everybody's satisfaction, had a scarlet coat for holidays, and a fat goose for dinner every wedding-day anniversary. Spare lived on in the old hut and worked in the cabbage garden. Every day his coat grew more ragged, and the hut more weather-beaten; but people remarked that he never looked sad or sour; and the wonder was that, from the time they began to keep his company the tinker grew kinder to the poor ass with which he traveled the country, the beggar-boy kept out of mischief, and the old woman was never cross to her cat or angry with the children.

I know not how many years passed in this manner, when a certain great lord, who owned that village, came to the neighborhood. His castle was ancient and strong, with high towers and a deep moat. All the country, as far as one could see from the highest turret, belonged to this lord; but he had not been there for twenty years, and would not have come then, only he was melancholy.

The cause of his grief and sorrow was that he had been prime minister at court, and in high favor, till somebody told the Crown Prince that he had spoken disrespectfully concerning the turning out of his Royal Highness's toes, whereon the North Country lord was turned out of office, and banished to his own estate. There he lived for some weeks in very bad temper; but one day in the harvest time his lordship chanced to meet Spare gathering watercresses at a meadow stream, and fell into talk.

How it was nobody could tell, but from the hour of that discourse the great lord cast away his melancholy, and went about with a noble train, making merry in his hall, where all travelers were entertained and all the poor were welcome.

This strange story soon spread through the North Country, and a great company came to the cobbler's hut—rich men who had lost their money, poor men who had lost their friends, beauties who had grown old, wits who had gone out of fashion—all came to talk with Spare, and, whatever their troubles, all went home merry. The rich gave him presents, the poor gave him thanks.

By this time his fame had reached the Court. There were a great many discontented people there besides the King, who had lately fallen into ill humor because a neighboring princess, with seven islands for her dowry, would not marry his eldest son. So a royal messenger was sent to Spare, with a command that he should go to court.

"To-morrow is the first of April," said Spare, "and I will go with you two hours after sunrise."

The messenger lodged all night at the castle, and the cuckoo came at sunrise with the merry leaf.

"Court is a fine place," he said, when the cobbler told him he was going; "but I cannot go there—they would lay snares and catch me. So be careful of the leaves I have brought you, and give me a farewell slice of barley bread."

Spare was sorry to part with the cuckoo, but he gave him a thick slice, and, having sewed up the leaves in the lining of his leather doublet, he set out with the messenger on his way to the royal court.

His coming caused great surprise; but scarce had his Majesty conversed with him half an hour when the princess and her seven islands were forgotten, and orders given that a feast for all comers should be spread in the banquet-hall. The princes of the blood, the great lords and ladies, ministers of state, and judges of the land, after that discoursed with Spare, and the more they talked the lighter grew their hearts, so that such changes had never been seen.

As for Spare, he had a chamber assigned him in the palace, and a seat at the King's table; one sent him rich robes and another costly jewels; but in the midst of all his grandeur he still wore the leathern doublet, which the palace servants thought remarkably mean. One day the King's attention being drawn to it by the chief page, his Majesty inquired why Spare didn't give it to a beggar. But the cobbler said:

"High and mighty monarch, this doublet was with me before silk and velvet came—I find it easier to wear than the court cut; moreover, it serves to keep me humble, by recalling the days when it was my holiday garment."



The King thought this a wise speech, and commanded that no one should find fault with the leathern doublet. So things went, and Spare prospered at court until the day when he lost his doublet, of which we read in the next story.



THE MERRY COBBLER AND HIS COAT

Spare, the merry cobbler, of whom we read in the last story, was treated like a prince at the King's court; and the news of his good fortune reached his brother Scrub in the moorland cottage one first of April, when the cuckoo came again with two golden leaves.

"Think of that!" said Fairfeather. "Here we are spending our lives in this humdrum place, and Spare making his fortune at court with two or three paltry green leaves! What would they say to our golden ones? Let us make our way to the King's palace."

Scrub thought this excellent reasoning. So, putting on their holiday clothes, Fairfeather took her looking-glass and Scrub his drinking-horn, which happened to have a very thin rim of silver, and, each carrying a golden leaf carefully wrapped up that none might see it till they reached the palace, the pair set out in great expectation.

How far Scrub and Fairfeather journeyed we cannot say, but when the sun was high and warm at noon they came into a wood feeling both tired and hungry.

"Let us rest ourselves under this tree," said Fairfeather, "and look at our golden leaves to see if they are quite safe."

In looking at the leaves, and talking of their fine prospects, Scrub and Fairfeather did not perceive that a very thin old woman had slipped from behind the tree, with a long staff in her hand and a great wallet by her side.

"Noble lord and lady," she said, "will ye condescend to tell me where I may find some water to mix a bottle of mead which I carry in my wallet, because it is too strong for me?"

As the old woman spoke, she pulled out a large wooden bottle such as shepherds used in the ancient times, corked with leaves rolled together, and having a small wooden cup hanging from its handle.

"Perhaps ye will do me the favor to taste," she said. "It is only made of the best honey. I have also cream cheese and a wheaten loaf here, if such honorable persons as you would not think it beneath you to eat the like."

Scrub and Fairfeather became very condescending after this speech. They were now sure that there must be some appearance of nobility about them; besides, they were very hungry, and, having hastily wrapped up the golden leaves, they assured the old woman they were not at all proud, notwithstanding the lands and castles they had left behind them in the North Country, and would willingly help to lighten the wallet.

The old woman was a wood-witch; her name was Buttertongue; and all her time was spent in making mead, which, being boiled with curious herbs and spells, had the power of making all who drank it fall asleep and dream with their eyes open. She had two dwarfs of sons; one was named Spy, and the other Pounce. Wherever their mother went, they were not far behind; and whoever tasted her mead was sure to be robbed by the dwarfs.

Scrub and Fairfeather sat leaning against the old tree. The cobbler had a lump of cheese in his hand; his wife held fast a hunch of bread. Their eyes and mouths were both open, but they were dreaming of great grandeur at court, when the old woman raised her shrill voice:

"What ho, my sons! Come here, and carry home the harvest!"

No sooner had she spoken than the two little dwarfs darted out of the neighboring thicket.

"Idle boys!" cried the mother. "What have ye done to-day to help our living?"

"I have been to the city," said Spy, "and could see nothing. These are hard times for us—everybody minds his business so contentedly since that cobbler came. But here is a leathern doublet which his page threw out of the window; it's of no use, but I brought it to let you see I was not idle." And he tossed down Spare's doublet, with the merry leaves in it, which he had been carrying like a bundle on his little back.

To explain how Spy came by it, it must be said that the forest was not far from the great city where Spare lived in such high esteem. All things had gone well with the cobbler till the King thought that it was quite unbecoming to see such a worthy man without a servant. His Majesty therefore appointed one of his own pages to wait upon him. The name of this youth was Tinseltoes, and nobody in all the court had grander notions. Nothing could please him that had not gold or silver about it, and his grandmother feared he would hang himself for being appointed page to a cobbler. As for Spare, the honest man had been so used to serve himself that the page was always in the way, but his merry leaves came to his assistance.

Tinseltoes took wonderfully to the new service. Some said it was because Spare gave him nothing to do but play at bowls all day on the palace green. Yet one thing grieved the heart of Tinseltoes, and that was his master's leathern doublet, and at last, finding nothing better would do, the page got up one fine morning earlier than his master, and tossed the leathern doublet out of the window into a lane, where Spy found it.

"That nasty thing!" said the old woman. "Where is the good in it?"

By this time Pounce had taken everything of value from Scrub and Fairfeather—the looking-glass, the silver-rimmed horn, the husband's scarlet coat, the wife's gay mantle, and, above all, the golden leaves, which so rejoiced old Buttertongue and her sons that they threw the leathern doublet over the sleeping cobbler for a jest, and went off to their hut in the heart of the forest.

The sun was going down when Scrub and Fairfeather awoke from dreaming that they had been made a lord and a lady, and sat clothed in silk and velvet, feasting with the King in his palace hall. It was a great disappointment to find their golden leaves and all their best things gone. Scrub tore his hair, and vowed to take the old woman's life; while Fairfeather lamented sore. But Scrub, feeling cold for want of his coat, put on the leathern doublet without asking whence it came.

Scarcely was it buttoned on when a change came over him. He addressed such merry discourse to Fairfeather that, instead of lamentations, she made the wood ring with laughter. Both busied themselves in setting up a hut of boughs, in which Scrub kindled a fire with a flint of steel, which, together with his pipe, he had brought unknown to Fairfeather, who had told him the like was never heard of at court. Then they found a pheasant's nest at the root of an old oak, made a meal of roasted eggs, and went to sleep on a heap of long green grass which they had gathered, with nightingales singing all night long in the old trees about them.

In the meantime Spare had got up and missed his doublet. Tinseltoes, of course, said he knew nothing about it. The whole palace was searched, and every servant questioned, till all the court wondered why such a fuss was made about an old leathern doublet. That very day things came back to their old fashion. Quarrels began among the lords, and jealousies among the ladies. The King said his subjects did not pay him half enough taxes, the Queen wanted more jewels, the servants took to their old bickerings and got up some new ones. Spare found himself getting wonderfully dull, and very much out of place, and nobles began to ask what business a cobbler had at the King's table; till at last his Majesty issued a decree banishing the cobbler forever from court, and confiscating all his goods in favor of Tinseltoes.

That royal edict was scarcely published before the page was in full possession of his rich chamber, his costly garments, and all the presents the courtiers had given him; while Spare was glad to make his escape out of the back window, for fear of the angry people.

The window from which Spare let himself down with a strong rope was that from which Tinseltoes had tossed the doublet, and as the cobbler came down late in the twilight, a poor woodman, with a heavy load of fagots, stopped and stared in astonishment.

"What's the matter, friend?" said Spare. "Did you never see a man coming down from a back window before?"

"Why," said the woodman, "the last morning I passed here a leathern doublet came out of that window, and I'll be bound you are the owner of it."

"That I am, friend," said the cobbler with great eagerness. "Can you tell me which way that doublet went?"

"As I walked on," the woodman said, "a dwarf called Spy, bundled it up and ran off into the forest."

Determined to find his doublet, Spare went on his way, and was soon among the tall trees; but neither hut nor dwarf could he see. At last the red light of a fire, gleaming through a thicket, led him to the door of a low hut. It stood half open, as if there was nothing to fear, and within he saw his brother Scrub snoring loudly on a bed of grass, at the foot of which lay his own leathern doublet; while Fairfeather, in a kirtle made of plaited rushes, sat roasting pheasants' eggs by the fire.

"Good evening, mistress!" said Spare.

The blaze shone on him, but so changed was her brother-in-law with his court life that Fairfeather did not know him, and she answered far more courteously than was her wont.

"Good evening, master! Whence come ye so late? But speak low, for my good man has sorely tired himself cleaving wood, and is taking a sleep, as you see, before supper."

"A good rest to him," said Spare, perceiving he was not known. "I come from the court for a day's hunting, and have lost my way in the forest."

"Sit down and have a share of our supper," said Fairfeather; "I will put some more eggs in the ashes; and tell me the news of court."

"Did you never go there?" said the cobbler. "So fair a dame as you would make the ladies marvel."

"You are pleased to flatter," said Fairfeather; "but my husband has a brother there, and we left our moorland village to try our fortune also. An old woman enticed us with fair words and strong drink at the entrance of this forest, where we fell asleep and dreamt of great things; but when we woke everything had been robbed from us, and, in place of all, the robbers left him that old leathern doublet, which he has worn ever since, and never was so merry in all his life, though we live in this poor hut."

"It is a shabby doublet, that," said Spare, taking up the garment, and seeing that it was his own, for the merry leaves were still sewed in its lining. "It would be good for hunting in, however. Your husband would be glad to part with it, I dare say, in exchange for this handsome cloak." And he pulled off the green mantle and buttoned on the doublet, much to Fairfeather's delight, for she shook Scrub, crying:

"Husband, husband, rise and see what a good bargain I have made!"

Scrub rubbed his eyes, gazed up at his brother, and said:

"Spare, is that really you? How did you like the court, and have you made your fortune?"

"That I have, brother," said Spare, "in getting back my own good leathern doublet. Come, let us eat eggs, and rest ourselves here this night. In the morning we will return to our own old hut, at the end of the moorland village, where the Christmas cuckoo will come and bring us leaves."

Scrub and Fairfeather agreed. So in the morning they all returned, and found the old hut little the worse for wear and weather. The neighbors came about them to ask the news of court, and see if they had made their fortune. Everybody was astonished to find the three poorer than ever, but somehow they liked to be back to the hut. Spare brought out the lasts and awls he had hidden in a corner; Scrub and he began their old trade, and the whole North Country found out that there never were such cobblers. Everybody wondered why the brothers had not been more appreciated before they went away to the court of the King, but, from the highest to the lowest, all were glad to have Spare and Scrub back again.

They mended the shoes of lords and ladies as well as the common people; everybody was satisfied. Their custom increased from day to day, and all that were disappointed, discontented, or unlucky, came to the hut as in old times, before Spare went to court.

The hut itself changed, no one knew how. Flowering honeysuckle grew over its roof; red and white roses grew thick about its door. Moreover, the Christmas cuckoo always came on the first of April, bringing three leaves of the merry tree—for Scrub and Fairfeather would have no more golden ones. So it was with them when the last news came from the North Country.





"Here you have the faery songs, the golden, glad, and airy songs, When all the world was morning, and when every heart was true; Songs of darling Childhood, all a-wander in the wildwood— Songs of life's first loveliness—songs that speak of you!"

Thomas Burke



THE STORY OF CHILD CHARITY

BY FRANCES BROWNE

Once upon a time there lived a little girl who had neither father nor mother: they both died when she was very young, and left their daughter to the care of her uncle, who was the richest farmer in all that country. He had houses and lands, flocks and herds, many servants to work about his house and fields, a wife who had brought him a great dowry, and two fair daughters.

Now, it happened that though she was their near relation, they despised the orphan girl, partly because she had no fortune, and partly because of her humble, kindly disposition. It was said that the more needy and despised any creature was, the more ready was she to befriend it; on which account the people of the West Country called her Child Charity. Her uncle would not own her for his niece, her cousins would not keep her company, and her aunt sent her to work in the dairy, and to sleep in the back garret. All the day she scoured pails, scrubbed dishes, and washed crockery-ware; but every night she slept in the back garret as sound as a princess could sleep in her palace.

One day during the harvest season, when this rich farmer's corn had been all cut down and housed, he invited the neighbors to a harvest supper. The West Country people came in their holiday clothes, and they were making merry, when a poor old woman came to the back door, begging for broken victuals and a night's lodging. Her clothes were coarse and ragged; her hair was scanty and gray; her back was bent; her teeth were gone. In short she was the poorest and ugliest old woman that ever came begging. The first who saw her was the kitchen-maid, and she ordered her off; but Child Charity, hearing the noise, came out from her seat at the foot of the lowest table, and asked the old woman to take her share of the supper, and sleep that night in her bed in the back garret. The old woman sat down without a word of thanks. Child Charity scraped the pots for her supper that night, and slept on a sack among the lumber, while the old woman rested in her warm bed; and next morning, before the little girl awoke, she was up and gone, without so much as saying thank you.

Next day, at supper-time, who should come to the back door but the old woman, again asking for broken victuals and a night's lodging. No one would listen to her, till Child Charity rose from her seat and kindly asked her to take her supper, and sleep in her bed. Again the old woman sat down without a word. Child Charity scraped the pots for her supper, and slept on the sack. In the morning the old woman was gone; but for six nights after, as sure as the supper was spread, there was she at the door, and the little girl regularly asked her in.

Sometimes the old woman said, "Child, why don't you make this bed softer? and why are your blankets so thin?" But she never gave her a word of thanks nor a civil good-morning. At last, on the ninth night from her first coming, her accustomed knock came to the door, and there she stood with an ugly dog that no herd-boy would keep.

"Good-evening, my little girl," she said, when Child Charity opened the door. "I will not have your supper and bed to-night—I am going on a long journey to see a friend; but here is a dog of mine, whom nobody in all the West Country will keep for me. He is a little cross, and not very handsome; but I leave him to your care till the shortest day in all the year."

When the old woman had said the last word, she set off with such speed that Child Charity lost sight of her in a minute. The ugly dog began to fawn upon her, but he snarled at everybody else. It was with great trouble that Child Charity got leave to keep him in an old ruined cow-house. The little girl gave him part of all her meals; and when the hard frost came, took him to her own back garret, because the cow-house was damp and cold in the long nights. The dog lay quietly on some straw in a corner. Child Charity slept soundly, but every morning the servants said to her:

"What great light and fine talking was that in your back garret?"

"There was no light but the moon shining in through the shutterless window, and no talk that I heard," said Child Charity, and she thought they must have been dreaming. But night after night, when any of them awoke in the dark, they saw a light brighter and clearer than the Christmas fire, and heard voices like those of lords and ladies in the back garret.

At length, when the nights were longest, the little parlor-maid crept out of bed when all the rest were sleeping, and set herself to watch at the keyhole. She saw the dog lying quietly in the corner, Child Charity sleeping soundly in her bed, and the moon shining through the shutterless window; but an hour before daybreak the window opened, and in marched a troop of little men clothed in crimson and gold. They marched up with great reverence to the dog, where he lay on the straw, and the most richly clothed among them said:

"Royal Prince, we have prepared the banquet hall. What will your Highness please that we do next?"

"You have done well," said the dog. "Now prepare the feast, and see that all things are in the best style, for the Princess and I mean to bring a stranger, who never feasted in our halls before."

"Your Highness's commands shall be obeyed," said the little man, making another reverence; and he and his company passed out of the window. By-and-by there came in a company of little ladies clad in rose-colored velvet, and each carrying a crystal lamp. They also walked with great reverence up to the dog, and the gayest among them said:

"Royal Prince, we have prepared the tapestry. What will your Highness please that we do next?"

"You have done well," said the dog. "Now prepare the robes, and let all things be in the first fashion, for the Princess and I will bring with us a stranger, who never feasted in our halls before."

"Your Highness's commands shall be obeyed," said the little lady, making a low curtsey; and she and her company passed out through the window, which closed quietly behind them. The dog stretched himself out upon the straw, the little girl turned in her sleep, and the moon shone in on the back garret. The parlor-maid was much amazed, and told the story to her mistress; but her mistress called her a silly girl to have such foolish dreams, and scolded her.

Nevertheless, Child Charity's aunt thought there might be something in it worth knowing; so next night, when all the house was asleep she crept out of bed, and watched at the back garret door. There she saw exactly what the maid had told her.

The mistress could not close her eyes any more than the maid, from eagerness to tell the story. She woke up Child Charity's rich uncle before daybreak; but when he heard it he laughed at her for a foolish woman. But that night the master thought he would like to see what went on in the back garret; so when all the house was asleep he set himself to watch at the crevice in the door. The same thing happened that the maid and the mistress saw.

The master could not close his eyes any more than the maid or the mistress for thinking of this strange sight. He remembered having heard his grandfather say that somewhere near his meadows there lay a path, which led to the fairies' country, and he concluded that the doings in his back garret must be fairy business, and the ugly dog a person of very great account.

Accordingly, he made it his first business that morning to get ready a fine breakfast of roast mutton for the ugly dog, and carry it to him in the old cow-house; but not a morsel would the dog taste. On the contrary, he snarled at the master, and would have bitten him if he had not run away with his mutton.

Just as the family were sitting down to supper that night, the ugly dog began to bark, and the old woman's knock was heard at the back door. Child Charity opened it, when the old woman said:

"This is the shortest day in all the year, and I am going home to hold a feast after my travels. I see you have taken good care of my dog, and now, if you will come with me to my house, he and I will do our best to entertain you. Here is our company."

As the old woman spoke, there was a sound of far-off flutes and bugles, then a glare of lights; and a great company, clad so grandly that they shone with gold and jewels, came in open chariots, covered with gilding and drawn by snow-white horses. The first and finest of the chariots was empty. The old woman led Child Charity to it by the hand, and the ugly dog jumped in before her. No sooner were the old woman and her dog within the chariot than a marvelous change passed over them, for the ugly old woman turned at once to a beautiful young Princess, while the ugly dog at her side started up a fair young Prince, with nut-brown hair and a robe of purple and silver.

"We are," said they, as the chariots drove on, and the little girl sat astonished, "a Prince and Princess of Fairy-land; and there was a wager between us whether or not there were good people still to be found in these false and greedy times. One said 'Yes,' and the other said 'No'; and I have lost," said the Prince, "and must pay for the feast and presents."

Child Charity went with that noble company into a country such as she had never seen. They took her to a royal palace, where there was nothing but feasting and dancing for seven days. She had robes of pale-green velvet to wear, and slept in a chamber inlaid with ivory. When the feast was done, the Prince and Princess gave her such heaps of gold and jewels that she could not carry them, but they gave her a chariot to go home in, drawn by six white horses, and on the seventh night, when the farmer's family had settled in their own minds that she would never come back, and were sitting down to supper, they heard the sound of her coachman's bugle, and saw her alight with all the jewels and gold at the very back door where she had brought in the ugly old woman. The fairy chariot drove away, and never came back to that farmhouse after. But Child Charity scrubbed and scoured no more, for she became a great lady even in the eyes of her proud cousins, who were now eager to pay her homage.



THE SELFISH GIANT

BY OSCAR WILDE

Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden.

It was a large, lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flower-like stars; and there were twelve peach-trees that in the Springtime broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the Autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. "How happy we are here!" they cried to each other.

One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish Ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived, he saw the children playing in the garden.

"What are you doing there?" he cried in a gruff voice, and the children ran away.

"My own garden is my own garden," said the Giant; "anyone can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself." So he built a high wall all around it, and put up a notice board:

TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

He was a very selfish Giant.

The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty, and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. "How happy we were there," they said to one another.

Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still Winter. The birds did not care to sing in it, as there were no children; and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. "Spring has forgotten this garden," they cried "so we will live here all the year round." The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. "This is a delightful spot," he said, "we must ask the Hail on a visit." So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in gray, and his breath was like ice.

"I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming," said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold, white garden; "I hope there will be a change in the weather."

But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. "He is too selfish," she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.

One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. "I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.

What did he see?

He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in and they were sitting in the branches of trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still Winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all around it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. "Climb up! little boy," said the tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.

And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. "How selfish I have been!" he said; "now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's playground for ever and ever." He was really very sorry for what he had done.

So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they all ran away. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. "It is your garden now, little children," said the Giant, and he took a great ax and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at 12 o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.

All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-by.

"But where is your little companion?" he said, "the boy I put into the tree." The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.

"We don't know," answered the children; "he has gone away."

"You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow," said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.

Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. "How I would like to see him!" he used to say.

Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge, armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. "I have many beautiful flowers," he said, "but the children are the most beautiful of all."

One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the pretty flowers were resting.

Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvelous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.

Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said: "Who hath dared to wound thee?" For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.