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O
CH, I thought all the world, far and near, had heerd of King O'Toole—well, well, but the darkness of mankind is untellable! Well, sir, you must know, as you didn't hear it afore, that there was a King, called King O'Toole, who was a fine old King in the old ancient times, long ago; and it was he that owned the churches in the early days. The King, you see was the right sort; he was the real boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and hunting in particular; and from the rising o' the sun, up he got, and away he went over the mountains after the deer; and fine times they were.
Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the King had his health; but, you see, in the course of time the King grew old, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got stricken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost entirely for want o' diversion, because he couldn't go a-hunting no longer; and, by dad the poor King was obliged at last to get a goose to divert him. Oh, you may laugh, if you like, but it's truth I'm telling you; and the way the goose diverted him was this-a-way: You see, the goose used to swim across the lake, and go diving for trout, and catch fish on a Friday for the King, and flew every other day round about the lake, diverting the poor King. All went on mighty well until, by dad, the goose got stricken in years like her master, and couldn't divert him no longer, and then it was that the poor King was lost entirely. The King was walkin' one mornin' by the edge of the lake, lamentin' his cruel fate, and thinking of drowning himself, that could get no diversion in life, when all of a sudden, turning round the corner, whom[page 371]should he meet but a mighty decent young man coming up to him.
"God save you," says the King to the young man.
"God save you kindly, King O'Toole," says the young man.
"True for you," says the King. "I am King O'Toole," says he, "prince and plennypennytinchery of these parts," says he; "but how came ye to know that?" says he.
"Oh, never mind," says Saint Kavin.
You see it was Saint Kavin, sure enough—the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. "Oh, never mind," says he, "I know more than that. May I make bold to ask how is your goose, King O'Toole?" says he.
"Blur-an-agers, how came ye to know about my goose?" says the King.
"Oh, no matter; I was given to understand it," says Saint Kavin.
After some more talk the King says, "What are you?"
"I'm an honest man," says Saint Kavin.
"Well, honest man," says the King, "and how is it you make your money so aisy?"
"By makin' old things as good as new," says Saint Kavin.
"Is it a tinker you are?" says the King.
"No," says the saint; "I'm no tinker by trade, King O'Toole; I've a better trade than a tinker," says he—"what would you say," says he, "If I made your old goose as good as new?"
My dear, at the word of making his goose as good as new, you'd think the poor old King's eyes were ready to jump out of his head. With that the King whistled, and down came the poor goose, just like a hound, waddling up to the poor cripple, her master, and as like him as two peas. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, "I'll do the job for you," says he, "King O'Toole."
"ByJaminee!" says King O'Toole, "if you do, I'll say you're the cleverest fellow in the seven parishes."
"Oh, by dad," says St. Kavin, "you must say more nor that—my horn's not so soft all out," says he, "as to repair your old goose for nothing; what'll you gi' me if I do the job for you?—that's the chat," says Saint Kavin.
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"I'll give you whatever you ask," says the King; "isn't that fair?"
"Divil a fairer," says the saint, "that's the way to do business. Now," says he, "this is the bargain I'll make with you, King O'Toole: will you gi' me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer, after I make her as good as new?"
"I will," says the King.
"You won't go back o' your word?" says Saint Kavin.
"Honor bright!" says King O'Toole, holding out his fist.
"Honor bright!" says Saint Kavin, back again, "it's a bargain. Come here!" says he to the poor old goose—"come here, you unfortunate ould cripple, and it's I that'll make you the sporting bird." With that, my dear, he took up the goose by the two wings—"Criss o' my cross an you," says he, markin' her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute—and throwing her up in the air, "whew," says he, jist givin' her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she took to her heels, flyin' like one o' the eagles themselves, and cutting as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain.
Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the King standing with his mouth open, looking at his poor old goose flying as light as a lark, and better than ever she was; and when she lit at his feet, patted her on the head, and "Mavourneen," says he, "but you are thedarlinto' the world."
"And what do you say to me," says Saint Kavin, "for making her the like?"
"By Jabers," says the King, "I say nothing beats the art o' man, barring the bees."
"And do you say no more nor that?" says Saint Kavin.
"And that I'm beholden to you," says the King.
"But will you gi' me all the ground the goose flew over?" says Saint Kavin.
"I will," says King O'Toole, "and you're welcome to it," says he, "though it's the last acre I have to give."
"But you'll keep your word true," says the saint.
"As true as the sun," says the King.
"It's well for you, King O'Toole, that you said that word,"[page 373]says he; "for if you didn't say that word, the divil the bit o' your goose would ever fly agin."
When the King was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was pleased with him, and then it was that he made himself known to the King. "And," says he, "King O'Toole, you're a dacent man, for I only came here to try you. You don't know me," says he, "because I'm disguised."
"Musha! then," says the King, "who are you?"
"I'm Saint Kavin," said the saint, blessing himself.
"Oh, queen of heaven!" says the King, making the sign of the cross between his eyes, and falling down on his knees before the saint; "is it the great Saint Kavin," says he, "that I've been discoursing all this time without knowing it," says he, "all as one as if he was a lump of agossoon?—and so you're a saint?" says the King.
"I am," says Saint Kavin.
"By Jabers, I thought I was only talking to a dacent boy," says the King.
"Well, you know the difference now," says the saint. "I'm Saint Kavin," says he, "the greatest of all the saints."
And so the King had his goose as good as new, to divert him as long as he lived; and the saint supported him after he came into his property, as I told you, until the day of his death—and that was soon after; for the poor goose thought he was catching a trout one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made—and instead of a trout, it was a thieving horse-eel; and instead of the goose killing a trout for the King's supper—by dad, the eel killed the King's goose—and small blame to him; but he didn't ate her, because he darn't ate what Saint Kavin had laid his blessed hands on.
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T
HEREwas once a very worthy King, whose daughter was the greatest beauty that could be seen far or near, but she was as proud as Lucifer, and no king or prince would she agree to marry.[page 374]Her father was tired out at last, and invited every king, and prince, and duke, and earl that he knew or didn't know to come to his court to give her one trial more. They all came, and next day after breakfast they stood in a row in the lawn, and the Princess walked along in the front of them to make her choice. One was fat, and says she: "I won't have you, Beer-barrel!" One was tall and thin, and to him she said, "I won't have you, Ramrod!" To a white-faced man she said, "I won't have you, Pale Death;" and to a red-cheeked man she said, "I won't have you, Cockscomb!" She stopped a little before the last of all, for he was a fine man in face and form. She wanted to find some defect in him, but he had nothing remarkable but a ring of brown curling hair under his chin. She admired him a little, and then carried it off with, "I won't have you, Whiskers!"
So all went away, and the King was so vexed, he said to her, "Now to punish yourimpedence, I'll give you to the first beggar-man or singingsthronshuchthat calls;" and, as sure as the hearth-money, a fellow all over rags, with hair that came to his shoulders, and a bushy red beard all over his face, came next morning, and began to sing before the parlor window.
When the song was over, the hall-door was opened, the singer asked in, the priest brought, and the Princess married to Beardy. She roared and she bawled, but her father didn't mind her. "There," says he to the bridegroom, "is five guineas for you. Take your wife out of my sight, and never let me lay eyes on you or her again."
Off he led her, and dismal enough she was. The only thing that gave her relief was the tones of her husband's voice and his genteel manners. "Whose wood is this?" said she, as they were going through one. "It belongs to the King you called Whiskers yesterday." He gave her the same answer about meadows and cornfields, and at last a fine city. "Ah, what a fool I was!" said she to herself. "He was a fine man, and I might have him for a husband." At last they were coming up to a poor cabin. "Why are you bringing me here?" says the poor lady. "This was my house," said he, "and now it's yours." She began to cry, but she was tired and hungry, and she went in with him.
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Ovoch! there was neither a table laid out, nor a fire burning, and she was obliged to help her husband to light it, and boil their dinner, and clean up the place after; and next day he made her put on a stuff gown and a cotton handkerchief. When she had her house readied up, and no business to keep her employed, he brought home sallies [willows], peeled them, and showed her how to make baskets. But the hard twigs bruised her delicate fingers, and she began to cry. Well, then he asked her to mend their clothes, but the needle drew blood from her fingers, and she cried again. He couldn't bear to see her tears, so he bought a creel of earthenware, and sent her to the market to sell them. This was the hardest trial of all, but she looked so handsome and sorrowful, and had such a nice air about her, that all her pans, and jugs, and plates, and dishes were gone before noon, and the only mark of her old pride she showed was a slap she gave a buckeen across the face when he axed her an impudent question.
Well, her husband was so glad, he sent her with another creel the next day; but, faith! her luck was after deserting her. A drunken huntsman came up riding, and his beast got in among her ware, and madebrisheof every mother's son of 'em. She went home cryin', and her husband wasn't at all pleased. "I see," said he, "you're not fit for business. Come along, I'll get you a kitchen-maid's place in the palace. I know the cook."
So the poor thing was obliged to stifle her pride once more. She was kept very busy, and the footman and the butler would be very impudent about looking for a kiss, but she let a screech out of her the first attempt was made, and the cook gave the fellow such a lambasting with the besom that he made no second offer. She went home to her husband every night, and she carried broken victuals wrapped in papers in her side pockets.
A week after she got service there was great bustle in the kitchen. The King was going to be married, but no one knew who the bride was to be. Well, in the evening the cook filled the Princess's pockets with cold meat and puddens, and, says she, "Before you go, let us have a look at the great doings in the big parlor." So they came near the door to get a peep, and who should come out but the King himself, as handsome as you please,[page 376]and no other but King Whiskers himself. "Your handsome helper must pay for her peeping," said he to the cook, "and dance a jig with me." Whether she would or no, he held her hand and brought her into the parlor. The fiddlers struck up, and away wenthimwithher. But they hadn't danced two steps when the meat and the puddens flew out of her pockets. Every one roared out, and she flew to the door, crying piteously. But she was soon caught by the King, and taken into the back parlor. "Don't you know me, my darling?" said he. "I'm both King Whiskers, your husband the ballad-singer, and the drunken huntsman. Your father knew me well enough when he gave you to me, and all was to drive your pride out of you." Well, she didn't know how she was, with fright, and shame, and joy. Love was uppermost, anyhow, for she laid her head on her husband's breast and cried like a child. The maids-of-honor soon had her away and dressed her as fine as hands and pins could do it; and there were her mother and father, too. While the company were wondering what would be the end of the handsome girl and the King, he and his Queen,whothey didn't know in her fine clothes, came in, and such rejoicings and fine doings as there was, none of us will ever see, anyway.
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A
POORwoman had three sons. The eldest and second eldest were cunning, clever fellows, but they called the youngest Jack the Fool, because they thought he was no better than a simpleton. The eldest got tired of staying at home, and said he'd go look for service. He stayed away a whole year, and then came back one day, dragging one foot after the other, and a poor, wizened face on him, and he was as cross as two sticks. When he was rested and had got something to eat, he told them how he had taken service with the Gray Churl of the Townland of Mischance, and that the agreement was whoever would first say he[page 377]was sorry for his bargain should get an inch wide of the skin of his back, from shoulder to hips, taken off. If it was the master, he should also pay double wages; if it was the servant, he should get no wages at all. "But the thief," says he, "gave me so little to eat, and kept me so hard at work, that flesh and blood couldn't stand it; and when he asked me once, when I was in a passion, if I was sorry for my bargain, I was mad enough to say I was, and here I am disabled for life."
Vexed enough were the poor mother and brothers; and the second eldest said on the spot he'd go and take service with the Gray Churl, and punish him by all the annoyance he'd give him till he'd make him say he was sorry for his agreement. "Oh, won't I be glad to see the skin coming off the old villain's back!" said he. All they could say had no effect: he started off for the Townland of Mischance, and in a twelvemonth he was back just as miserable and helpless as his brother.
All the poor mother could say didn't prevent Jack the Fool from starting to see if he was able to regulate the Gray Churl. He agreed with him for a year for twenty pounds, and the terms were the same.
"Now, Jack," said the Gray Churl, "if you refuse to do anything you are able to do, you must lose a month's wages."
"I'm satisfied," said Jack; "and if you stop me from doing a thing after telling me to do it, you are to give me an additional month's wages."
"I am satisfied," said the master.
"Or if you blame me for obeying your orders, you must give me the same."
"I am satisfied," said the master again.
The first day that Jack served he was fed very poorly, and was worked to the saddleskirts. Next day he came into the parlor just before the dinner was served up. They were taking the goose off the spit, but, well becomes Jack, he whipped a knife off the dresser, and cut off one side of the breast, one leg and thigh, and one wing, and fell to. In came the master, and began to abuse him for his assurance. "Oh, you know, master, you're to feed me, and wherever the goose goes won't have to be filled again till supper. Are you sorry for our agreement?"
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The master was going to cry out he was, but he bethought himself in time. "Oh; no, not at all," said he.
"That's well," said Jack.
Next day Jack was to go clamp turf on the bog. They weren't sorry to have him away from the kitchen at dinner time. He didn't find his breakfast very heavy on his stomach; so he said to the mistress, "I think, ma'am, it will be better for me to get my dinner now, and not lose time coming home from the bog."
"That's true, Jack," said she. So she brought out a good cake, and a print of butter, and a bottle of milk, thinking he'd take them away to the bog. But Jack kept his seat, and never drew rein till bread, butter, and milk had gone down the red lane.
"Now, mistress," said he, "I'll be earlier at my work tomorrow if I sleep comfortably on the sheltery side of a pile of dry peat on dry grass, and not be coming here and going back. So you may as well give me my supper, and be done with the day's trouble." She gave him that, thinking he'd take it to the bog; but he fell to on the spot, and did not leave a scrap to tell tales on him; and the mistress was a little astonished.
He called to speak to the master in the haggard, and said he, "What are servants asked to do in this country after aten their supper?"
"Nothing at all, but to go to bed."
"Oh, very well, sir." He went up on the stable-loft, stripped, and lay down, and some one that saw him told the master. He came up.
"Jack, you anointed scoundrel, what do you mean?"
"To go to sleep, master. The mistress, God bless her, is after giving me my breakfast, dinner, and supper, and yourself told me that bed was the next thing. Do you blame me, sir?"
"Yes, you rascal, I do."
"Hand me out one pound thirteen and fourpence, if you please, sir."
"One divil and thirteen imps, you tinker! what for?"
"Oh, I see, you've forgot your bargain. Are you sorry for it?"
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"Oh, ya—NO, I mean. I'll give you the money after your nap."
Next morning early Jack asked how he'd be employed that day. "You are to be holding the plow in that fallow, outside the paddock." The master went over about nine o'clock to see what kind of a plowman was Jack, and what did he see but the little boy driving the bastes, and the sock and coulter of the plow skimming along the sod, and Jack pulling ding-dong agin' the horses.
"What are you doing, you contrary thief?" said the master.
"An' ain't I strivin' to hold this divil of a plow, as you told me; but that ounkrawn of a boy keeps whipping on the bastes in spite of all I say; will you speak to him?"
"No, but I'll speak to you. Didn't you know, you bosthoon, that when I said 'holding the plow,' I meant reddening [plowing up] the ground?"
"Faith, an' if you did, I wish you had said so. Do you blame me for what I have done?"
The master caught himself in time, but he was so stomached [disconcerted], he said nothing.
"Go on and redden the ground now, you knave, as other plowmen do."
"An' are you sorry for our agreement?"
"Oh, not at all, not at all!"
Jack plowed away like a good workman all the rest of the day.
In a day or two the master bade him go and mind the cows in a field that had half of it under young corn. "Be sure, particularly," said he, "to keep Browney from the wheat; while she's out of mischief there's no fear of the rest."
About noon he went to see how Jack was doing his duty, and what did he find but Jack asleep with his face to the sod, Browney grazing near a thorn-tree, one end of a long rope round her horns, and the other end round the tree, and the rest of the beasts all trampling and eating the green wheat. Down came the switch on Jack.
"Jack, you vagabone, do you see what the cows are at?"
"And do you blame me, master?"
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"To be sure, you lazy sluggard, I do."
"Hand me out one pound thirteen and fourpence, master. You said if I only kept Browney out of mischief, the rest would, do no harm. There she is as harmless as a lamb. Are you sorry for hiring me, master?"
"To be—that is, not at all. I'll give you your money when you go to dinner. Now, understand me; don't let a cow go out of the field nor into the wheat the rest of the day."
"Never fear, master!" and neither did he. But the churl would rather than a great deal he had not hired him.
The next day three heifers were missing, and the master bade Jack go in search of them.
"Where shall I look for them?" said Jack.
"Oh, every place likely and unlikely for them all to be in."
The churl was getting very exact in his words. When he was coming into the yard at dinner time, what work did he find Jack at but pulling armfuls of the thatch off the roof, and peeping into the holes he was making.
"What are you doing there, you rascal?"
"Sure, I'm looking for the heifers, poor things!"
"What would bring them there?"
"I don't think anything could bring them in it; but I looked first into the likely places, that is the cowhouses, and the pastures, and the fields next 'em, and now I'm looking in the unlikeliest place I can think of. Maybe it's not pleasing to you it is."
"And to be sure it isn't pleasing to me, you aggravating goose-cap!"
"Please, sir, hand me one pound thirteen and fourpence before you sit down to your dinner. I'm afraid it's sorrow that's on you for hiring me at all."
"May the div—oh, no; I'm not sorry. Will you begin, if you please, and put in the thatch again, just as if you were doing it for your mother's cabin?"
"Oh, faith I will, sir, with a heart and a half;" and by the time the farmer came out from his dinner, Jack had the roof better than it was before, for he made the boy give him new straw.
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Says the master when he came out: "Go, Jack, and look for the heifers, and bring them home."
"And where shall I look for 'em?"
"Go and search for them as if they were your own." The heifers were all in the paddock before sunset.
Next morning says the master: "Jack, the path across the bog to the pasture is very bad; the sheep does be sinking in it every step; go and make the sheep's feet a good path." About an hour after he came to the edge of the bog, and what did he find Jack at but sharpening a carving knife, and the sheep standing or grazing around.
"Is this the way you are mending the path, Jack?" said he.
"Everything must have a beginning, master," said Jack, "and a thing well begun is half done. I am sharpening the knife, and I'll have the feet off every sheep in the flock while you'd be blessing yourself."
"Feet off my sheep, you anointed rogue! and what would you be taking their feet off for?"
"An', sure, to mend the path as you told me. Says you, 'Jack, make a path with the foot of the sheep.'"
"Oh, you fool, I meant make good the path for the sheep's feet."
"It's a pity you didn't say so, master. Hand me out one pound thirteen and fourpence if you don't like me to finish my job."
"Divil do you good with your one pound thirteen and four-pence!"
"It's better pray than curse, master. Maybe you're sorry for your bargain?"
"And to be sure I am—not yet, anyway."
The next night the master was going to a wedding; and says he to Jack, before he set out: "I'll leave at midnight, and I wish you to come and be with me home, for fear I might be overtaken with the drink. If you're there before, you may throw a sheep's eye at me, and I'll be sure to see that they'll give you something for yourself."
About eleven o'clock, while the master was in great spirits, he felt something clammy hit him on the cheek. It fell beside[page 382]his tumbler, and when he looked at it, what was it but the eye of a sheep. Well, he couldn't imagine who threw it at him, or why it was thrown at him. After a little he got a blow on the other cheek, and still it was by another sheep's eye. Well, he was much vexed, but he thought better to say nothing. In two minutes more, when he was opening his mouth to take a sup, another sheep's eye was slapped into it. He sputtered it out, and cried, "Man o' the house, isn't it a great shame for you to have any one in the room that would do such a nasty thing?"
"Master," says Jack, "don't blame the honest man. Sure it's only myself that was throwin' them sheep's eyes at you, to remind you I was here, and that I wanted to drink the bride and bridegroom's health. You know yourself bade me."
"I know that you are a great rascal; and where did you get the eyes?"
"An' where would I get 'em but in the heads of your own sheep? Would you have me meddle with the bastes of any neighbor, who might put me in the Stone Jug for it?"
"Sorrow on me that ever I had the bad luck to meet with you."
"You're all witness," said Jack, "that my master says he is sorry for having met with me. My time is up. Master, hand me over double wages, and come into the next room, and lay yourself out like a man that has some decency in him, till I take a strip of skin an inch broad from your shoulder to your hip."
Every one shouted out against that; but, says Jack, "You didn't hinder him when he took the same strips from the backs of my two brothers, and sent them home in that state, and penniless, to their poor mother."
When the company heard the rights of the business, they were only too eager to see the job done. The master bawled and roared, but there was no help at hand. He was stripped to his hips, and laid on the floor in the next room, and Jack had the carving-knife in his hand ready to begin.
"Now you cruel old villain," said he, giving the knife a couple of scrapes along the floor: "I'll make you an offer. Give me, along with my double wages, two hundred guineas to support my poor brothers, and I'll do without the strip."
"No!" said he, "I'd let you skin me from head to foot first."
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"Here goes, then," said Jack with a grin; but the first little scar he gave, Churl roared out, "Stop your hand; I'll give the money."
"Now, neighbors," said Jack, "you mustn't think worse of me than I deserve. I wouldn't have the heart to take an eye out of a rat itself; I got half a dozen of them from the butcher, and only used three of them."
So all came again into the other room, and Jack was made to sit down, and everybody drank his health, and he drank everybody's health at one offer. And six stout fellows saw himself and the master home, and waited in the parlor while he went up and brought down the two hundred guineas, and double wages for Jack himself. When he got home, he brought the summer along with him to the poor mother and the disabled brothers; and he was no more Jack the Fool in the people's mouths, but "Skin-Churl Jack."
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T
HEREwas once upon a time two farmers, and their names were Hudden and Dudden. They had poultry in their yards, sheep on the uplands, and scores of cattle in the meadow land alongside the river. But for all that they weren't happy, for just between their two farms there lived a poor man by the name of Donald O'Neary. He had a hovel over his head and a strip of grass that was barely enough to keep his one cow, Daisy, from starving, and, though she did her best, it was but seldom that Donald got a drink of milk or a roll of butter from Daisy. You would think there was little here to make Hudden and Dudden jealous, but so it is, the more one has the more one wants, and Donald's neighbors lay awake of nights scheming how they might get hold of his little strip of grass land.
One day Hudden met Dudden, and they were soon grumbling[page 384]as usual, and all to the tune of, "If only we could get that vagabond, Donald O'Neary, out of the country."
"Let's kill Daisy," said Hudden at last; "if that doesn't make him clear out, nothing will."
No sooner said than agreed; and it wasn't dark before Hudden and Dudden crept up to the little shed where lay poor Daisy, trying her best to chew the cud, though she hadn't had as much grass in the day as would cover your hand. And when Donald came to see if Daisy was all snug for the night, the poor beast had only time to lick his hand once before she died.
Well, Donald was a shrewd fellow, and, downhearted though he was, began to think if he could get any good out of Daisy's death. He thought and he thought, and the next day you might have seen him trudging off early to the fair, Daisy's hide over his shoulder, every penny he had jingling in his pockets. Just before he got to the fair, he made several slits in the hide, put a penny in each slit, walked into the best inn of the town as bold as if it belonged to him, and, hanging the hide up to a nail in the wall, sat down.
"Some of your best whisky," says he to the landlord. But the landlord didn't like his looks. "Is it fearing I won't pay you, you are?" says Donald; "why, I have a hide here that gives me all the money I want." And with that he hit it a whack with his stick, and out hopped a penny. The landlord opened his eyes, as you may fancy.
"What'll you take for that hide?"
"It's not for sale, my good man."
"Will you take a gold piece?"
"It's not for sale, I tell you. Hasn't it kept me and mine for years?" and with that Donald hit the hide another whack, and out jumped a second penny.
Well, the long and the short of it was that Donald let the hide go, and, that very evening, who but he should walk up to Hudden's door?
"Good evening, Hudden. Will you lend me your best pair of scales?"
Hudden stared and Hudden scratched his head, but he lent the scales.
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When Donald was safe at home, he pulled out his pocketful of bright gold and began to weigh each piece in the scales. But Hudden had put a lump of butter at the bottom, and so the last piece of gold stuck fast to the scales when he took them back to Hudden.
If Hudden had stared before, he stared ten times more now, and no sooner was Donald's back turned, than he was off as hard as he could pelt to Dudden's.
"Good-evening, Dudden. That vagabond, bad luck to him——"
"You mean Donald O'Neary?"
"And who else should I mean? He's back here weighing out sackfuls of gold."
"How do you know that?"
"Here are my scales that he borrowed, and here's a gold piece still sticking to them."
Off they went together, and they came to Donald's door. Donald had finished making the last pile of ten gold pieces. And he couldn't finish, because a piece had stuck to the scales.
In they walked without an "If you please" or "By your leave."
"Well,Inever!" that was alltheycould say.
"Good evening, Hudden; good evening, Dudden. Ah! you thought you had played me a fine trick, but you never did me a better turn in all your lives. When I found poor Daisy dead, I thought to myself: 'Well, her hide may fetch something'; and it did. Hides are worth their weight in gold in the market just now."
Hudden nudged Dudden, and Dudden winked at Hudden.
"Good evening, Donald O'Neary."
"Good evening, kind friends."
The next day there wasn't a cow or a calf that belonged to Hudden or Dudden but her hide was going to the fair in Hudden's biggest cart, drawn by Dudden's strongest pair of horses.
When they came to the fair, each one took a hide over his arm, and there they were walking through the fair, bawling out at the top of their voices, "Hides to sell! hides to sell.'"
Out came the tanner:
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"How much for your hides, my good men?"
"Their weight in gold."
"It's early in the day to come out of the tavern." That was all the tanner said, and back he went to his yard.
"Hides to sell! Fine fresh hides to sell!"
Out came the cobbler:
"How much for your hides, my men?"
"Their weight in gold."
"Is it making game of me you are? Take that for your pains," and the cobbler dealt Hudden a blow that made him stagger.
Up the people came running from one end of the fair to the other. "What's the matter? What's the matter?" cried they.
"Here are a couple of vagabonds selling hides at their weight in gold," said the cobbler.
"Hold 'em fast; hold 'em fast!" bawled the innkeeper, who was the last to come up, he was so fat. "I'll wager it's one of the rogues who tricked me out of thirty gold pieces yesterday for a wretched hide."
It was more kicks than halfpence that Hudden and Dudden got before they were well on their way home again, and they didn't run the slower because all the dogs of the town were at their heels.
Well, as you may fancy, if they loved Donald little before, they loved him less now.
"What's the matter, friends?" said he, as he saw them tearing along, their hats knocked in, and their coats torn off, and their faces black and blue. "Is it fighting you've been? or mayhap you met the police, ill luck to them?"
"We'll police you, you vagabond. It's mighty smart you thought yourself, deluding us with your lying tales."
"Who deluded you? Didn't you see the gold with your own two eyes?"
But it was no use talking. Pay for it he must and should. There was a meal-sack handy, and into it Hudden and Dudden popped Donald O'Neary, tied him up tight, ran a pole through the knot, and off they started for the Brown Lake of the Bog, each with a pole-end on his shoulder, and Donald O'Neary between.
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But the Brown Lake was far, the road was dusty, Hudden and Dudden were sore and weary, and parched with thirst. There was an inn by the roadside.
"Let's go in," said Hudden; "I'm dead beat. It's heavy he is for the little he had to eat."
If Hudden was willing, so was Dudden. As for Donald, you may be sure his leave wasn't asked, but he was dumped down at the inn door for all the world as if he had been a sack of potatoes.
"Sit still, you vagabond," said Dudden; "if we don't mind waiting, you needn't."
Donald held his peace, but after a while he heard the glasses clink, and Hudden singing away at the top of his voice.
"I won't have her, I tell you; I won't have her!" said Donald. But nobody heeded what he said.
"I won't have her, I tell you; I won't have her!" said Donald; and this time he said it louder; but nobody heeded what he said.
"I won't have her, I tell you; I won't have her!" said Donald; and this time he said it as loud as he could.
"And who won't you have, may I be so bold as to ask?" said a farmer, who had just come up with a drove of cattle, and was turning in for a glass.
"It's the King's daughter. They are bothering the life out of me to marry her."
"You're the lucky fellow. I'd give something to be in your shoes."
"Do you see that, now! Wouldn't it be a fine thing for a farmer to be marrying a Princess, all dressed in gold and jewels?"
"Jewels, you say? Ah, now, couldn't you take me with you?"
"Well, you're an honest fellow, and as I don't care for the King's daughter, though she's as beautiful as the day, and is covered with jewels from top to toe, you shall have her. Just undo the cord and let me out; they tied me up tight, as they knew I'd run away from her."
Out crawled Donald; in crept the farmer.
"Now lie still, and don't mind the shaking; it's only rumbling[page 388]over the palace steps you'll be. And maybe they'll abuse you for a vagabond, who won't have the King's daughter; but you needn't mind that. Ah, it's a deal I'm giving up for you, sure as it is that I don't care for the Princess."
"Take my cattle in exchange," said the farmer; and you may guess it wasn't long before Donald was at their tails, driving them homeward.
Out came Hudden and Dudden, and the one took one end of the pole, and the other the other.
"I'm thinking he's heavier," said Hudden.
"Ah, never mind," said Dudden; "it's only a step now to the Brown Lake."
"I'll have her now! I'll have her now!" bawled the farmer from inside the sack.
"By my faith and you shall, though," said Hudden, and he laid his stick across the sack.
"I'll have her! I'll have her!" bawled the farmer, louder than ever.
"Well, here you are," said Dudden, for they were now come to the Brown Lake, and, unslinging the sack, they pitched it plump into the lake.
"You'll not be playing your tricks on us any longer," said Hudden.
"True for you," said Dudden. "Ah, Donald, my boy, it was an ill day when you borrowed my scales!"
Off they went, with a light step and an easy heart, but when they were near home, whom should they see but Donald O'Neary, and all around him the cows were grazing, and the calves were kicking up their heels and butting their heads together.
"Is it you, Donald?" said Dudden. "Faith, you've been quicker than we have."
"True for you, Dudden, and let me thank you kindly; the turn was good, if the will was ill. You'll have heard, like me, that the Brown Lake leads to the Land of Promise. I always put it down as lies, but it is just as true as my word. Look at the cattle."
Hudden stared, and Dudden gaped; but they couldn't get over the cattle; fine, fat cattle they were, too.
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"It's only the worst I could bring up with me," said Donald O'Neary; "the others were so fat, there was no driving them. Faith, too, it's little wonder they didn't care to leave, with grass as far as you could see, and as sweet and juicy as fresh butter."
"Ah now, Donald, we haven't always been friends," said Dudden, "but, as I was just saying, you were ever a decent lad, and you'll show us the way, won't you?"
"I don't see that I'm called upon to do that; there is a power more cattle down there. Why shouldn't I have them all to myself?"
"Faith, they may well say, the richer you get, the harder the heart. You always were a neighborly lad, Donald. You wouldn't wish to keep the luck all to yourself?"
"True for you, Hudden, though it's a bad example you set me. But I'll not be thinking of old times. There is plenty for all there, so come along with me."
Off they trudged, with a light heart and an eager step. When they came to the Brown Lake the sky was full of little white clouds, and, if the sky was full, the lake was as full.
"Ah, now, look! there they are!" cried Donald as he pointed to the clouds in the lake.
"Where? where?" cried Hudden, and "Don't be greedy!" cried Dudden, as he jumped his hardest to be up first with the fat cattle. But if he jumped first, Hudden wasn't long behind.
They never came back. Maybe they got too fat, like the cattle. As for Donald O'Neary, he had cattle and sheep all his days to his heart's content.