 Preface. Last year, in giving the young ones a volume of English fairytales, my difficulty was one of collection—this time in offering them specimens of the rich folk fancy of the Celts of these islands, my trouble has rather been one of selection. Ireland began to collect her folk tales almost as early as any country in Europe, and Croker has found a whole school of successors in Carleton, Griffin, Kennedy, Curtin, and Douglas Hyde. Scotland had the great name of Campbell, and has still efficient followers in McDougal, McInnes, Carmichael, McLeod, and Campbell of Tyree. Gallant Little Wales has no name to rank alongside these, in this department the Coomery have shown less figure than the Gadel. Perhaps the Iceland Fod, by offering prizes for the collection of Welsh folk tales, may remove this inferiority. Meanwhile, Wales must be content to be somewhat scantily represented among the fairytales of the Celts, while the extinct Cornish tongue has only contributed one tale. In making my selection I have chiefly tried to make the story's characteristic. It would have been easy, especially from Kennedy, to have made up a volume entirely filled with Grimm's goblins, a la Celtique. But one can have too much even of that very good thing, and I have therefore avoided, as far as possible, the more familiar formulae of folk tale literature. To do this I had to withdraw from the English-speaking pale both in Scotland and Ireland, and I laid down the rule to include only tales that have been taken down from Celtic peasants ignorant of English. Having laid down the rule I immediately proceeded to break it. The success of a fairy-book, I am convinced, depends on the due mixture of the comic and the romantic. Grimm and As Bjornsson knew this secret, and they alone. But the Celtic peasant, who speaks Gaelic, takes the pleasure of telling tales somewhat sadly. So far as he has been printed and translated, I found him, to my surprise, conspicuously lacking in humour. For the comic relief of this volume I have therefore had to turn mainly to the Irish peasant of the pale, and what richer source could I draw from? For the more romantic tales I have depended on the Gaelic, and as I know about as much of Gaelic as an Irish nationalist MP, I have had to depend on translators. But I have felt myself more at liberty than the translators themselves, who have generally been over-literal in changing, exercising, or modifying the original. I have even gone further. In order that the tales should be characteristically Celtic I have paid more attention to tales that are to be found on both sides of the North Channel. In retelling them I have had no scruple in interpolating now and then a scotch incident into an Irish variant of the same story, or vice versa. Where the translators appeal to English folklorists and scholars, I am trying to attract English children. They translated, I endeavor to transfer. In short, I have tried to put myself into the position of an Olam or Shinaki, familiar with both forms of Gaelic, and anxious to put his stories in the best way to attract English children. I trust I shall be forgiven by Celtic scholars for the changes I have had to make to affect this end. The stories collected in this volume are longer and more detailed than the English ones I brought together last Christmas. The romantic ones are certainly more romantic, and the comic ones perhaps more comic, though there may be room for a difference of opinion on this latter point. This superiority of the Celtic folk tales is too as much to the conditions under which they have been collected as to any innate superiority of the folk imagination. The folk tale in England is in the last stages of exhaustion. The Celtic folk tales have been collected while the practice of storytelling is still in full vigor, though there are every signs that its term of life is already numbered, though more reason why they should be collected and put on record while there is yet still time. On the whole, the industry of the collectors of Celtic folk glories to be commended, as may be seen from the survey of it, I have prefixed to the notes and references at the end of this volume. Among these I would call attention to the study of the Legend of Beth Galert, the origin of which I believe I have settled. While I have endeavored to render the language of the tales simple and free from bookish artifice, I have not felt at liberty to retell the tales in the English way. I have not scrupled to retain a Celtic turn of speech, and here and there a Celtic word, which I have not explained within brackets, a practice to be adored of all good men. A few words unknown to the reader only add effectiveness and local color to a narrative, as Mr. Kipling well knows. One characteristic of the Celtic folklore I have endeavored to represent in my selection, because it is nearly unique at the present day in Europe. Nowhere else is there so large and consistent a body of oral tradition about the national and mythical heroes as amongst the gales. Only the byline, or hero songs of Russia, equal in extent the amount of knowledge about the heroes of the past that still exist among the Gaelic-speaking peasantry of Scotland and Ireland. And the Irish tales and ballads have this peculiarity, that some of them have been extant and can be traced for well-nigh a thousand years. I have selected as a specimen of this class the story of Deirdre, collected among the Scotch peasantry a few years ago, into which I have been able to insert a passage taken from an Irish vellum of the twelfth century. I could have more than filled this volume with similar oral traditions about Finn, the Fingal of McPherson's Oisien, but the story of Finn, as told by the Gaelic peasantry of today, deserves a volume by itself, while the adventures of the Yltonian hero, Cúcalán, could easily fill another. I have endeavored to include in this volume the best and most typical stories told by the chief masters of the Celtic folktale, Campbell, Kennedy, Hyde, and Curtin, and to these I have added the best tales scattered elsewhere. By this means I hope I have put together a volume containing both the best and the best known folktales of the Celts. I have only been enabled to do this by the courtesy of those who own the copyright of these stories. Lady Wilde has kindly granted me the use of her effective version of the horned woman, and I have specially to thank Messers McMillan for the right to use Kennedy's legendary fictions, and Messers Sampson and Lohan Company for the use of Mr. Curtin's tales. In making my selection, and in all the doubtful points of treatment, I have had resource to the wide knowledge of my friend Mr. Alfred Nutt in all branches of Celtic folklore. If this volume does anything to represent to English children the vision and color, the magic and charm of the Celtic folk imagination, this is due in large measure to the care with which Mr. Nutt has watched its inception in progress. With him by my side I could venture into regions where the non-Celt wanders at his own risk. Lastly I have again to rejoice in the cooperation of my friend, Mr. J. D. Batten, in giving form to the creations of folk fancy. He is endeavored in his illustrations to retain as much as possible of Celtic ornamentation, for all details of Celtic archaeology he has authority. Yet both he and I have striven to give Celtic things as they appear to, and attract to the English mind, rather than attempt the hopeless task of representing them as they are to Celts. The fate of the Celts in the British Empire bids fair to resemble that of the Greeks among the Romans. They went forth to battle, but they always fell. Yet the captive Celt has enslaved his captor in the realm of imagination. The present volume attempts to begin the pleasant captivity from the earliest years. If it could conceive in giving a common fund of imaginative wealth to the Celtic and the Saxon children of these isles, it might do more for a true union of hearts than all your politics. One day, as he stood by the side of his father, on the height of Usna, he saw a maiden clad in strange attire towards him coming. Whence comest thou, maiden? said Conla. I come from the plains of the ever-living, she said. There where is neither death nor sin. There we keep holiday all the way, nor need we help from any in our joy, and in all our pleasure we have no strife, and because we have our homes in the round green hills, men call us the hill folk. The king and all with him wondered much to hear a voice when they saw no one, for save Conla alone, none saw the fairy maiden. To whom art thou talking, my son? said Conla the king. Then the maiden answered, Conla speaks to a young fair maid, whom neither death nor old age awaits. I love Conla, and now I call him away to the plain of pleasure Moimel, where Boadag is king, for I. Nor has there been sorrow or complaint in that land since he held the kingship. Oh, come with me, Conla, the fiery hair, ready as the dawn with thy tawny skin. A fairy crown awaits thee to grace thy commonly face in royal form. Come, and never shall thy comeliness fade nor thy youth till the last awful day of judgment. The king in fear of what the maiden said, which he heard, though he could not see her, called aloud to his druid, Koran by name. O Koran, of the many spells, he said, and of thy cunning magic I call upon thy aid. A task is upon me too great for all my skill and wit, greater than any laid upon me since I seized the kingship. A maiden unseen as Metis and by her power would take from me my dear, my comely son. If thou help not, he will be taken from thy king by women's wiles and witchery. Then Koran, the druid, stood forth and chanted his spells towards the spot where the maiden's voice had been heard. And none heard her voice again, nor could Conla see her longer, only as she vanished before the druid's mighty spell she threw an apple to Conla. For a whole month from that day, Conla would take nothing, either to eat or to drink, save only from that apple, but as he ate it, it grew again and always kept whole, and all the while there grew within him a mighty yearning and longing after the maiden he had seen. But when the last day of the month of waiting came, Conla stood by the side of the king's father on the plain of Arkomen, and again he saw the maiden come towards him, and again she spoke to him. Tis a glorious place for suit that Conla holds among short-lived mortals awaiting the day of death. But now the folk of life, the ever-living ones, beg and bid they come to moimel the plain of pleasure, for they have learnt to know thee, seeing thee in thy home among thy dear ones. When Conla the king heard the maiden's voice, he called to his men aloud and said, Summon swift my druid Koran, for I see she has again this day the power of speech. Then the maiden said, O mighty Con, fighter of a hundred fights, the druid's power is little loved, it has little honour in the mighty land, peopled with so many of the upright. When the law comes, it will do away with the druid's magic spells that issue from the lips of the false black demon. Then Con the king observed that since the coming of the maiden, Conla his son spoke to none that spake to him. So Con of the hundred fights said to him, Is it to thy mind what the woman says my son? Tis hard upon me, said Conla, I love my own folk above all things, but yet a longing seizes me for the maiden. When the maiden heard this she answered and said, The ocean is not so strong as the waves of thy longing. Come with me in my kura, the gleaming straight gliding crystal canoe. Soon can we reach Boadag's realm. I see the bright sun sink, yet far as it is, we can reach it before dark. There is, too, another land worthy of thy journey, a land joyous to all that seek it. Only wives and maidens dwell there. If thou wilt, we can seek it, and live there alone together in joy. When the maiden ceased to speak, Conla of the fiery hair rushed away from his kinsmen and sprang into the kura, the gleaming straight gliding crystal canoe. And then they all, king and court, saw it glide away over the bright sea towards the setting sun, away in the way, till I could see it no longer. So Conla and the fairy maiden went forth on the sea, and were no more seen, nor did any no wither they came. Chapter 2 This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Lars Rulander Celtic fairy tales selected and edited by Joseph Jacobs Chapter 2 Gullish There was once a boy in the county Mayo, Gullish was his name. There was the finest wrath and a little way off from the gable of the house, and he was often in the habit of seating himself on the fine grass bank that was running round it. One night he stood half leaning against the gable of the house and looking up into the sky, and watching the beautiful white moon over his head. After he had been standing that way for a couple of hours, he said to himself, My bitter grief that I am not gone away out of this place altogether, I'd sooner be any place in the world than here. Oh, it's well for you white moons as he, that's turning round, turning round as you please yourself, and no man can put you back. I wish I was the same as you. Hardly was the word out of his mouth when he heard the great noise coming like the sound of many people running together, and talking and laughing and making sport, and the sound went by him like a whirl of wind, and he was listening to it going into the wrath. Mousha by my soul says he, but year merry enough, and I'll follow ye. What was in it put the fairy host, though he did not know at first that it was they who were in it, but he followed them into the wrath. It's there he heard the fullparni and the fullparni, the raplihuta and the rolyabolya that they had there, and every man of them crying out as loud as he could, my horse and bridle and saddle, my horse and bridle and saddle. By my hand, said Gulish, my boy, that's not bad. I'll imitate ye, and he cried out as well as they, my horse and bridle and saddle, my horse and bridle and saddle. And on the moment there was a fine horse with a bridle of gold and a saddle of silver standing before him, he leaped up on it, and the moment he was on his back he saw clearly that the wrath was full of horses and of little people going riding on them. Said a man of them to him, are you coming with us tonight, Gulish? I'm surely, said Gulish. If you are come along, said the little man, and out they went all together, riding like the wind faster than the fastest horse ever you saw hunting, and faster than the fox and the hounds at his tail. The cold winter's wind that was before them, they overtook her, and the cold winter's wind that was behind them, she did not overtake them, and stopped nor stay of that full race did they make none, until they came to the brink of the sea. Then every one of them said, high over cup, high over cup, and that moment they were up in the air, and before Gulish had time to remember where he was, they were down on dry land again, and were going like the wind. At last they stood still, and a man of them said to Gulish, Gulish, do you know where you are now? Not to know, says Gulish. You are in France, Gulish, said he. The daughter of the king of France is to be married tonight, the handsomest woman that son ever saw, and we must do our best to bring her with us, if we are only able to carry her up, and you must come with us that we may be able to put the young girl up behind you on the horse, when we'll bring her away, for it is not lawful for us to put her sitting behind ourselves, but your flesh and blood, and she can take a good grip of you, so that she won't fall off the horse. Are you satisfied, Gulish, and will you do what we are telling you? Why shouldn't I be satisfied, said Gulish? I'm satisfied surely, and anything that he will tell me to do, I'll do it without doubt. They got off their horses there, and a man of them said a word that Gulish did not understand, and on the moment they were lifted up, and Gulish found himself and his companions in the palace. There was a great feast going on there, and there was not a noble man or a gentle man in the kingdom, but was gathered there dressed in silk and satin, and gold and silver, and the night was so bright as the day with all the lamps and candles that were lit, and Gulish had to shut his two eyes at the brightness. When he opened them again and looked from him, he thought he never saw anything as fine as all he saw there. There were a hundred tables spread out, and there full of meat and drink on each table of them, flesh meat and cakes and sweet meats, and wine and ale, and every drink that every man saw. The musicians were at the two ends of the hall, and they were playing the sweetest music that every man's ear heard, and there were young women and fine youths in the middle of the hall dancing and turning, and going around so quickly and so lightly that he'd put a sarong in Gulash's head to be looking at them. There were more there playing tricks and more making fun and laughing, for such a feast as there was that day had not been in France for twenty years, because the old king had no children alive but only the one daughter, and she was to be married to the son of another king that night. Three days the feast was going on, and the third night she was to be married, and that was the night that Gulash and the she-os came, hoping if they could to carry off with them the king's young daughter. Gulash and his companions were standing together at the end of the hall, where there was a fine altar dressed up and two bishops behind it waiting to marry the girl, as soon as the right time should come. Now nobody could see the she-os, for they said a word as they came in that made them all invisible as if they had not been in it at all. Tell me which of them is the king's daughter, said Gulash, when he was becoming a little used to the noise and the light. Don't you see her there away from you? said the little man that he was talking to. Gulash looked where the little man was pointing with his finger, and there he saw the loveliest woman that was, he thought, upon the ridge of the world. The rose and the lily were fighting together in her face, and one could not tell which of them got the victory. Her arms and hands were like the lime, her mouth as red as strawberry when it is ripe, her foot was as small and as light as another one's hand, her form was smooth and slender, and her hair was falling down from her head in buckles of gold, her garments and dress were woven with gold and silver, and the bright stone that was in the ring on her hand was as shining as the sun. Gulash was nearly blinded with all the loveliness and beauty that was in her, but when he looked again he saw that she was crying and that there was the trace of tears in her eyes. It can't be, said Gulash, that there's grief on her when everybody around her is so full of sport and merriment. Mousha then, she is creed, said the little man, for it's against her own will she's marrying, and she has no love for the husband she is to marry. The king was going to give her to him three years ago when she was only fifteen, but she said she was too young and requested him to leave her as she was yet. The king gave her a year's grace, and when that year was up he gave her another year's grace, and then another, but a week or a day he would not give her longer, and she is eighteen years old tonight, and it's time for her to marry. But indeed, says he, and he crooked his mouth in an ugly way, indeed it's no king's soon she'll marry if I can help it. Gulash pitted the handsome young lady greatly when he heard that, and he was heartbroken to think that it would be necessary for her to marry a man she did not like, or what was worse, to take a nasty she-hub for a husband. However he did not say a word, though he could not help giving many a curse to the ill-luck that was laid out for himself, to be helping the people that were to snatch her away from her home and from her father. He began thinking then what it was he ought to do to save her, but he could think of nothing. Oh, if I could only give her some help and relief, said he, I wouldn't care whether I were alive or dead, but I see nothing that I can do for her. He was looking on when the king's son came up to her and asked her for a kiss, but she turned her head away from him. Gulash had double pity for her then when he saw the lad taking her by the soft white hand and drawing her out to dance. They went round in the dance near where Gulash was, and he could plainly see that there were tears in her eyes. When the dancing was over the old king her father and her mother the queen came up and said that this was the right time to marry her, that the bishop was ready, and it was time to put the wedding ring on her and give her to her husband. The king took the youth by the hand, and the queen took her daughter, and they went up together to the altar with the lords and great people following them. When they came near the altar and were no more than about four yards from it, the little she-hook stretched out his foot before the girl, and she fell. Before she was able to rise again he threw something that was in his hand upon her, said a couple of words, and upon the moment the maiden was gone from amongst them. Nobody could see her, for that word made her invisible. The little man in ceased her and raced her up behind Gulash, and the king nor no one else saw them, but out with them through the hall till they came to the door. Oh, dear Mary, it's there the pity was, and the trouble and the crying and the wonder, and the searching and the ruck on, when that lady disappeared from their eyes, and without their seeing what did it. Out of the door of the palace they went without being stopped or hindered, for nobody saw them. And my horse, my bridal and saddle, says every man of them. My horse, my bridal and saddle, says Gulish, and on the moment the horse was standing already, Caparison before him. Now jump up, Gulish, said the little man, and put the lady behind you, and we will be going. The mourning is not far off from us now. Gulish raced her up on the horse's back, and leaped up himself before her, and Rai's horse, said he, and his horse and the other horses with him, went in a full race till they came to the sea. High over Cap, said every man of them. High over Cap, said Gulish, and on the moment the horse rose under him, and cut a leap in the clouds and came down in airing. They did not stop there, but went off a race to the place where was Gulish's house and the wrath, and when they came as far as that, Gulish turned and caught the young girl in his two arms, and leaped off the horse. I call and cross you to myself in the name of God, said he. And on the spot before the word was out of his mouth, the horse fell down, and what was in it, but the beam of a plow, of which they had made a horse, and every other horse they had, it was that way they made it. Some of them were riding on an old bessem, and some on a broken stick, and more on a bohalon or a hemlock store. The good people called out together when they heard what Gulish said, Oh, Gulish, you clown, you thief, that no good may happen you. Why did you play the trick on us? But they had no power at all to carry off the girl, after Gulish had consecrated her to himself. Oh, Gulish, isn't that a nice turn you did us, and we so kind to you? What good have we now out of our journey to France? Never mind yet, you clown, but you'll pay us another time for this. Believe us, you'll repent it. He'll have no good to get out of the young girl, said the little man that was talking to him in the palace before that, and as he said the word, he moved over to her and struck her a slap on the side of her head. Now, says he, she'll be without talk any more. Now, Gulish, what good will she be to you when she'll be dumb? It's time for us to go, but you'll remember us, Gulish. When he said that, he stretched out his two hands, and before Gulish was able to give an answer, he and the rest of them were gone into the wrath of his sight, and he saw them no more. It turned to the young woman and said to her, thanks be to God that they're gone. Would you not sooner stay with me than with them? She gave him no answer. There's trouble and grief on her yet, said Gulish, in his own mind, and he spoke to her again. I am afraid that you must spend this night in my father's house, lady, and if there's anything that I can do for you, tell me, and I'll be your servant. The beautiful girl remained silent, but there were tears in her eyes, and her face was white and red after each other. Lady, said Gulish, tell me what you would like me to do now. I never belonged at all to that lot of sheoes who carried you away with them. I am the son of an honest farmer, and I went with them without knowing it. If I'll be able to send you back to your father, I'll do it, and I pray you make any use of me now that you may wish. He looked into her face, and he saw the mouth moving, as if she was going to speak, but there came no word from it. It cannot be, said Gulish, that you are dumb. Did I not hear you speaking to the king's son in the palace tonight, or has that devil made you really dumb when he struck his nasty hands on your jaw? The girl raised her white smooth hand and laid her finger on her tongue to show him that she had lost her voice and power of speech, and the tears ran out over two eyes like streams, and Gulish's own eyes were not dry, for as rough as he was on the outside, he had a soft heart and could not stand the sight of the young girl and she in that unhappy plight. He began thinking with himself what he ought to do, and he did not like to bring her home with himself to his father's house, for he knew well that they would not believe him, that he had been in France and brought back with him the king of France's daughter, and he was afraid they might make a mock of the young lady or insult her. As he was doubting what he ought to do and hesitating, he chanced to remember the priest. Glory be to God, said he, I know now what I'll do, I'll bring her to the priest's house, and he won't refuse me to keep the lady and care for her. He turned to the lady again and told her that he was locked to take her to his father's house, but that there was an excellent priest very friendly to himself, who would take good care of her if she wished to remain in his house, but that if there was any other place she would rather go, he said he would bring her to it. She bent her head to show him she was obliged and gave him to understand that she was ready to follow him any place he was going. We will go to the priest's house then, said he, he is under an obligation to me and will do anything I ask him. They went together accordingly to the priest's house, and the son was just rising when they came to the door. Gulesh beat it hard, and as early as it was, the priest was up and opened the door himself. He wondered when he saw Gulesh and the girl, for he was certain that it was coming wanting to be married, they were. Gulesh, Gulesh, isn't it the nice boy you are that you can't wait till ten o'clock or till twelve, but that you must be coming to me at this hour looking for marriage? You and your sweetheart. You ought to know that I can't marry you at such a time, or at all events can't marry you lawfully. But obo bo said he suddenly as he looked again at the young girl, in the name of God, who have you here? Who is she or how did you get her? Father, said Gulesh, you can marry me or anybody else if you wish, but it is not looking for marriage I came to you now, but to ask you if you please to give a lodging in your house to this young lady. The priest looked at him as though he had ten heads on him, but without putting any other question to him, he desired him to come in, himself and the maiden, and when they came in he shot the door, brought them into the parlour, and put them sitting. Now Gulesh said he, tell me truly, who is this young lady, and whether you are out of your senses really, or are only making a joke of me? I am not telling a word of lie nor making a joke of you, said Gulesh, but it was from the palace of the King of France I carried off this lady, and she is the daughter of the King of France. He began his story then and told the whole to the priest, and the priest was so much surprised that he could not help calling out at times or clapping his hands together. When Gulesh said from what he saw, he thought the girl was not satisfied with the marriage that was going to take place in the palace before he, and the shiug spoke it up. There came a red blush into the girl's cheek, and he was more certain than ever that she had sooner be as she was, badly as she was, than be the married wife of the man she hated. When Gulesh said that, he would be very thankful to the priest if he would keep her in his own house. The kind men said that he would do that as long as Gulesh pleased, but that he did not know what they ought to do with her, because they had no means of sending her back to her father again. Gulesh answered that he was uneasy about the same thing, and that he saw nothing to do but to keep quiet until they should find some opportunity of doing something better. They made it up then between themselves that the priest should let it on that it was his brother's daughter he had who was come on a visit to him from another county, and that he should tell everybody that she was dumb, and do his best to keep everyone away from her. They told the young girl what it was they intended to do, and she showed by her eyes that she was obliged to them. Gulesh went home then, and when his people asked him where he had been, he said that he had been asleep at the foot of the ditch, and had passed the night there. There was great wonderment on the priest's neighbours at the girl who came so suddenly to his house without anyone knowing where she was from or what business she had there. Some other people said that everything was not as it ought to be, and others that Gulesh was not like the same man that was in it before, and that it was a great story how he was drawing every day to the priest's house, and that the priest had a wish and a respect for him, a thing they could not clear up at all. That was true for them indeed, for it was seldom the day went by but Gulesh would go to the priest's house and have a talk with him, and as often as he would come he used to hope to find the young lady well again and with leave to speak, but alas she remained dumb and silent without relief or cure. Since she had no other means of talking, she carried on a sort of conversation between herself and himself by moving her hand and fingers, winking her eyes, opening and shutting her mouth, laughing or smiling, and a thousand other signs, so that it was not long until they understood each other very well. Gulesh was always thinking how he should send her back to her father, but there was no one to go with her, and he himself did not know what road to go, for he had never been out of his own country before the night he brought her away with him. Nor had the priest any better knowledge than he, but when Gulesh asked him he wrote three or four letters to the king of France and gave them to buyers and sellers of wares who used to be going from place to place across the sea, but they all went astray, and never one came to the king's hand. This was the way they were for many months, and Gulesh was falling deeper and deeper in love with her every day, and it was plain to himself and the priest that she liked him. The boy feared greatly, at last lest the king should really hear where his daughter was, and take her back from himself, and he besought the priest to write no more, but to leave the matter to God. So they passed the time for a year until there came a day when Gulesh was slying by himself on the grass, on the last day of the last month in Orton, and he was thinking over again in his own mind of everything that happened to him from the day that he went with the sheogues across the sea. He remembered then suddenly that it was one November night that he was standing at the gable of the house, when the whirlwind came and the sheogues in it, and he said to himself, we have November night again today, and I'll stand in the same place I was last year, until I see if the good people come again. Perhaps I might see or hear something that would be useful to me, and might bring back her talk again to Mary, that was the name himself and the priest called the king's daughter, for neither of them knew her right name. He told his intention to the priest, and the priest gave him his blessing. Gulesh accordingly went to the old wrath when the night was darkening, and he stood with his bent elbow leaning on a gray old flag waiting till the middle of the night should come. The moon rose slowly, and it was like a knob of fire behind him, and there was a white fog which was raised up over the field of grass and all damp places through the coolness of the night after a great heat in the day. The night was calm as is a lake when there is not a breath of wind to move away on it, and there was no sound to be heard but the cronon of the insects that would go by from time to time, or the horse shouldn't scream of the wild geese, as they passed from lake to lake half a mile up in the air over his head, or the sharp whistle of the golden and green plower rising and lying and rising as they do on a calm night. There were a thousand thousand bright stars shining over his head, and there was a little frost out which left the grass under his foot white and crisp. He stood there for an hour, for two hours, for three hours, and the frost increased greatly so that he heard the breaking of the trannins under his foot as often as he moved. He was thinking in his own mind at last that the she-hooks would not come that night, and that it was as good for him to return back again, when he heard a sound far away from him coming toward him, and he recognized what it was at the first moment. The sound increased, and at first it was like beating a waves on a stony shore, and then it was like the falling of a great waterfall, and at last it was like a loud storm in the tops of the trees, and then the whirlwind burst into the wrath of one root, and the she-hooks were in it. It all went by him so suddenly that he lost his breath with it, but he came to himself on the spot and put an air on himself, listening to what they would say. Scarcely had they gathered into the wrath till they all began shouting and screaming and talking amongst themselves, and then each of them cried out, My horrors and bridle and saddle, my horrors and bridle and saddle, and Ghoulish took courage and called out as loudly as any of them, My horrors and bridle and saddle, my horrors and bridle and saddle, but before the word was well out of his mouth another man cried out, Ora Ghoulish, my boy, are you here with us again? How are you getting on with your woman? There's no use in your calling for your horse tonight. I'll go bail you won't play such trick on us again. It was a good trick you played on us last year. It was, said another man, he won't do it again. Isn't he a prime lad, the same lad, to take a woman with him that never said as much to him as how do you do, since this time last year, says the third man. Perhaps he likes to be looking at her, said another voice. And if the Omadon only knew that there's an herb growing by his own door, and if he were to boil it and give it to her, she'd be well, said another voice. That's true for you. He is an Omadon. Don't bother your head with him, we'll be going. We'll leave the Bodah as he is, and with that they rose up into the air and out with them, with one Rolia Bolia all the way they came, and they left Porgolis standing where they found him, and the two eyes going out to his head, looking after them and wondering. He did not stand long till he returned back, and he thinking in his own mind on all he saw and heard and wondering whether there was real an herb at his own door that would bring back the talk to the king's daughter. It can't be, says he, to himself, that they would tell it to me if there was any virtue in it, but perhaps the she-hobe didn't observe himself when he let the word slip out of his mouth. I'll search well as soon as the sun rises, whether there's any plant growing beside the house, except thistles and dockings. He went home, and as tired as he was he did not sleep a wink until the sun rose on the morrow. He got up then, and it was the first thing he did to go out and search well through the grass round about the house, trying could he get any herb that he did not recognize. And indeed he was not long searching till he observed a large strange herb that was growing up just by the gable of the house. He went over to it and observed it closely, and saw that there were seven little branches coming out of the store, and seven leaves growing on every branch, in of them, and that there was a white sap in the leaves. It's very wonderful, he said to himself, that I never noticed this herb before. If there's any virtue in an herb at all, it ought to be in such a strange one as this. He drew out his knife, put the plant and carried it into his own house, stripped the leaves of it, and put up the stalk, and there came a thick white juice out of it, as there comes out of the south thistle when it is bruised, except that the juices was more like oil. He put it in a little pot and a little water in it, and laid it on the fire until the water was boiling. And then he took a cup, filled it half up with the juice, and put it to his own mouth. It came into his head then that perhaps it was poison that was in it, and that the good people were only tempting him, that he might kill himself with a trick, or put the girl to death without meaning it. He put down the cup again, raised a couple of drops on the top of his finger, and put it to his mouth. It was not bitter, and indeed had a sweet, agreeable taste. He grew bolder then, and drank the full of a thimble of it, and then as much again, and he never stopped till he had half the cup drunk. He fell asleep after that, and did not wake till it was night, and there was great hunger and great thirst on him. He had to wait then till the day rose, but he determined as soon as he should wake in the morning that he would go to the king's daughter and give her a drink of the juice of the herb. As soon as he got up in the morning, he went over to the priest's house with a drink in his hand, and he never felt himself so bold and valiant, and spirited, and light, as he was that day, and he was quite certain that it was the drink he drank which made him so hearty. When he came to the house, he found the priest and the young lady within, and they were wondering greatly why he had not visited them for two days. He told them all his news, and said that he was certain that there was great power in that herb, and that it would do the lady know her, for he tried it himself and got good from it, and then he made her taste it, for he bowed and swore that there was no harm in it. Gullish handed her the cup, and she drank half of it, and then she fell back on her bed, and a heavy sleep came on her, and she never woke out of that sleep till the day on the morrow. Gullish and the priest set up the entire night with her, waiting till she should awake, and they between hope and unhope, between expectation of saving her and fear of hurting her. She awoke at last when the sun had gone half its way through the heavens. She rubbed her eyes and looked like a person who did not know where she was. She was like one astonished when she saw Gullish and the priest in the same room with her, and she sat up doing her best to collect her thoughts. The two men were in great anxiety, waiting to see would she speak or would she not speak, and when they remained silent for a couple of minutes the priest said to her, Did you sleep well, Mary? And she answered him, I slept, thank you. No sooner did Gullish hear her talking than he put a shout of joy out of him, and ran over to her and fell on his two knees and said, A thousand thanks to God who has given you back the talk, Lady of my heart, speak again to me. The lady answered him that she understood it was he who boiled that ring for her, and gave it to her, that she was obliged to him from her heart for all the kindness he showed her since the day she first came to Ireland, and that he might be certain that she never would forget it. Gullish was ready to die with satisfaction and delight, then they brought her food, and she ate with a good appetite and was merry and joyous, and never left off talking with the priest while she was eating. After that Gullish went home to his house and stretched himself on the bed and fell asleep again, for the force of the herb was not all spent, and he passed another day and night sleeping. When he woke he went back to the priest's house and found that the young lady was in the same state and that she was asleep almost since the time that he left the house. He went into her chamber with the priest, and they remained all watching beside her till she awoke a second time, and she had her talk as well as ever, and Gullish was greatly rejoiced. The priest put food on the table again, and they ate together, and Gullish used after that to come to the house from day to day, and the friendship that was between him and the king's daughter increased, because she had no one to speak to except Gullish and the priest, and she liked Gullish best. So they married one another, and that was the fine wedding they had, and if I were to be there then I would not be here now, but I heard it from a burden that there was neither carc nor care, sickness nor sorrow, mishap nor misfortune on them till the hour of their death, and may the same with with me and with us all. End of Chapter 2 Gullish Red Pylosh Rulander Chapter 3 Celtic Fairy Tales This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Pete Lutz. Celtic Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs. Chapter 3 The Field of Boleons One fine day in harvest. It was indeed lady day in harvest that everybody knows to be one of the greatest holidays in the year. Tom Fitzpatrick was taking a ramble through the ground and went along the sunny side of a hedge. When all of a sudden he heard a clacking sort of noise, a little before him in the hedge. Dear me, said Tom, but isn't it surprising to hear the stone chatterers singing so late in the season? So Tom stole on, going on the tops of his toes to try if he could get a sight of what was making the noise, to see if he was right in his guess. The noise stopped, but as Tom looked sharply through the bushes, what should he see in a nook of the hedge but a brown pitcher that might hold about a gallon and a half of liquor, and by and by a little wee, teeny, tiny bit of an old man with a little motty of a cooked hat stuck upon the top of his head, a dishy doshy leather apron hanging before him, pulled out a little wooden stool and stood up upon it and dipped a little pig in into the pitcher, and took out the full of it and put it beside the stool, and then sat down under the pitcher, and began to work at putting a heelpiece on a bit of a brogue just fit for himself. Well, by the powers, said Tom to himself, I often heard tell of the leprechauns, and to tell God's truth I never rightly believed in them, but here's one of them in real earnest. If I go knowingly to work, I'm a maid man. They say a body must never take their eyes off them or they'll escape. Tom now stole on a little further, with his eye fixed on the little man just as a cat does with a mouse. When he got up quite close to him, God bless your work-neighbor, said Tom. The little man raised up his head and said, Thank you kindly, said he. I wonder you'd be working on the holiday, said Tom. That's my own business, not yours, was the reply. Well, maybe you'd be civil enough to tell us what you've got in the pitcher there, said Tom. That I will with pleasure, said he. It's good beer. Beer, said Tom, thundering fire. Where did you get it? Where did I get it, is it? Why, I made it. And what do you think I made it of? Devil of one of me knows, says Tom, but of malt I suppose. What else? There you're out. I made it a heath. Said Tom, bursting out laughing. Sure you don't think me to be such a fool as to believe that. Do as you please, said he. But what I tell you is the truth. Did you never hear tell of the Danes? Well, what about them, said Tom? Why, all the about them there is, is that when they were here, they taught us to make beer out of the heath, and the secrets in my family ever since. Will you give a body a taste of your beer, said Tom? I'll tell you what it is, young man. It would be fitter for you to be looking after your father's property than to be bothering decent, quiet people with your foolish questions. There now, while you're idling away your time here, there's the cows that broke into the oats, and are knocking the cord all about. Tom was taken so by surprise with this, that he was just on the very point of turning round when he recollected himself, so afraid that the like might happen again, he made a grab at the leprechaun, and caught him up in his hand, but in his hurry he overset the pitcher, and spilled all the beer, so that he could not get a taste of it to tell what sort it was. He then swore that he would kill him if he didn't show him where his money was. Tom looked so wicked and so bloody-minded that the little man was quite frightened. So says he. Come along with me a couple of fields off, and I'll show you a crock of gold. So they went, and Tom held the leprechaun fast in his hand, and never took his eyes from off him, though they had to cross hedges and ditches, and a crooked bit of bog, till at last they came to a great field all full of bullions, and the leprechaun pointed to a big bullion, and says he, dig under that bullion, and you'll get the great crock all full of guineas. Tom, in his hurry, had never thought of bringing his spade with him, so he made up his mind to run home and fetch one, and that he might know the place again, he took off one of his red garters, and tied it round the bullion. Then he said to the leprechaun, swear you'll not take that garter away from that bullion, and the leprechaun swore right away not to touch it. I suppose, said the leprechaun very civilly, that you have no further occasion for me. No, says Tom, you may go away now if you please, and God speed you, and may good luck attend you wherever you go. Well, good-bye to you, Tom Fitzpatrick, said the leprechaun, and much good may it do you when you get it. So Tom ran for dear life till he came home and got a spade, and then away with him as hard as he could go, back to the field of bullions. But when he got there, lo and behold, not a bullion in the field, but had a red garter the very model of his own, tied about it, and as to digging up the whole field, that was all nonsense, for there were more than forty good Irish acres in it. So Tom came home again with his spade on his shoulder, a little cooler than he went, and many's the hearty curse he gave the leprechaun, every time he thought of the neat turn he had served him. The Horned Women A rich woman sat up late one night, carding and preparing wool, while all the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at the door, and a voice called, Open! Open! Who is there? said the woman of the house. I am the witch of one horn, was answered. The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbors had called and required assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in her hand a pair of wool-carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead as if growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to card the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused and said aloud, Where are the women? They delay too long. Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before, Open! Open! The mistress felt herself obliged to rise and open to the call, and immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her forehead, and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool. Give me place! she said. I am the witch of the two horns, and she began to spin as quick as lightning. And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard, and the witches entered, until at last twelve women sat round the fire, the first with one horn, the last with twelve horns. And they carded the thread, and turned their spinning wheels, and wound and wove, all singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak to the mistress of the house. Strange to hear and frightful to look upon were these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels, and the mistress felt near to death, and she tried to rise that she might call for help, but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry, for the spell of the witches was upon her. Then one of them called to her in Irish and said, Rise, woman, and make us a cake! Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water from the well, that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she could find none. And they said to her, take a sieve and bring water in it. And she took the sieve and went to the well, but the water poured from it, and she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the well and wept. Then a voice came by her and said, Take yellow clay and boss, and bind them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold. This she did, and the sieve held the water for the cake, and the voice said again, Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the house, cry aloud three times and say, The mountain of the Fenian women in the sky over it is all on fire! And she did so. When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and shrieks, and fled away to sleeve anemone, which was their chief abode. But the spirit of the well bade the mistress of the house to enter and prepare her home against the enchantments of the witches if they returned again. And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she had washed her child's feet, the feet-water, outside the door on the threshold. Secondly, she took the cake, which, in her absence, the witches had made of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family, and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth of each sleeper, and they were restored. And she took the cloth they had woven, and placed it half in and half out of the chest with a padlock. And lastly, she secured the door with a great cross-beam fastened in the jams, so that the witches could not enter, and having done these things, she waited. Not long where the witches in coming back, and they raged and called for vengeance, Open! Open! they screamed. Open, feet-water! I cannot, said the feet-water. I am scattered on the ground, and my path is down to the loft. Open! Open! Wood and trees and beam, they cried to the door. I cannot, said the door, for the beam is fixed in the jams, and I have no power to move. Open! Open! cake that we have made and mingled with blood, they cried again. I cannot, said the cake, for I am broken and bruised, and my blood is on the lips of the sleeping children. Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled back to Sleevenamen, uttering strange curses on the spirit of the well, who had wished them ruin. But the woman and the house were left in peace, and a mantle, dropped by one of the witches in her flight, was kept hung up by the mistress in memory of that night, and this mantle was kept by the same family from generation to generation for five hundred years after. End of Chapter 4. Recording by Pete Lutz, Corpus Christi, Texas. My website is 63audio.f6.estudio.com. Chapter 5 of Celtic Fairy Tales This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Losh Rolander. Celtic Fairy Tales Selected and edited by Joseph Jacobs. Chapter 5. Connell Yellowclaw Connell Yellowclaw was a sturdy tenant in Erring. He had three sons. There was at that time a king over every fifth of Erring. It fell out for the children of the king that was near Connell, that they themselves, and the children of Connell came to blows. The children of Connell got the upper hand, and they killed the king's big son. The king sent a message for Connell, and he said to him, Oh Connell, what made your sons go to spring on my sons, till my big son was killed by your children? But I see that though I follow you revengefully, I shall not be much better for it. And I will now set a thing before you, and if you will do it, I will not follow you with revenge. If you and your sons will get me the brown horse of the king of Lachlan, you shall get the souls of your sons. Why, said Connell, should not I do the pleasure of the king, though there should be no souls of my sons in dread at all? Hard is the matter you require of me, but I will lose my own life, and the life of my sons, or else I will do the pleasure of the king. After these words Connell left the king, and he went home. When he got home, he was under much trouble and perplexity. When he went to lie down, he told his wife the thing the king had said before him. His wife took much sorrow that he was obliged apart from herself, while she knew not if she would see him more. O Connell, said she, why did not thou let the king do his own pleasure to thy sons, rather than be going now, while I know not if thy ever shall see thee more? When he rose on the morrow, he set himself and his three sons in order, and they took their journey towards Lachlam, and they made no stop, but tore through ocean till they reached it. When they reached Lachlam, they did not know what they should do, said the old man to his sons, stop ye, and we will seek out the house of the king's miller. When they went in to the house of the king's miller, the man asked them to stop there for the night. Connell told the miller that his own children and the children of his king had fallen out, and that his children had killed the king's son, and there was nothing that would please the king, but that he should get the brown horse of the king of Lachlam. If you will do me a kindness, and will put me in a way to get him, for certain I will pay you for it. The thing is silly that you are come to seek, said the miller, for the king has laid his mind on him so greatly, that you will not get him in any way unless you steal him, but if you can make out a way, I will keep it secret. This is what I'm thinking, said Connell. Since you are working every day for the king, you and your jellies could put myself and my son into five sacks of bran. The plan that has come into your head is not bad, said the miller. The miller spoke to his jellies, and he said to them to do this, and they put them in five sacks. The king's jellies came to seek the bran, and they took the five sacks with them, and they emptied them before the horses. The servants locked the door, and they went away. When they rose to lay hand on the brown horse, said Connell, you shall not do that. It is hard to get out of this. Let us make for ourselves five hiding holes, so that if they hear us, we may go and hide. They made the holes, then they laid hands on the horse. The horse was pretty well unbroken, and he said to making a terrible noise through the stable. The king heard the noise. It must be my brown horse, said he to his jellies. Find out what is wrong with him. The servants went out, and when Connell and his son saw them coming, they went into the hiding holes. The servants looked amongst the horses, and they did not find anything wrong, and they returned, and they told this to the king, and the king said to them, that if nothing was wrong, they should go to their places of rest. When the jellies had time to be gone, Connell and his sons laid their hands again on the horse. If the noise was great that he made before, the noise he may now was seven times greater. The king sent a message for his jellies again, and said for certain there was something troubling the brown horse. Go and look well about him. The servants went out, and they went to their hiding holes. The servants rummaged well, and did not find a thing. They returned, and they told this. That is marvellous for me, said the king. Go you to lie down again, and if I notice it again, I will go out myself. When Connell and his sons perceived that jellies were gone, they laid hands again on the horse, and one of them caught him. And if the noise that the horse made on the two former times was great, he made more this time. Be this from me, said the king. It must be that someone is troubling my brown horse. He songed the bell hastily, and when his waiting man came to him, he said to him to let the stable jellies know that something was wrong with the horse. The jellies came, and the king went with them. When Connell and his sons perceived the company coming, they went to the hiding holes. The king was a wary man, and he saw where the horses were making a noise. Be wary, said the king. There are men within the stable. Let us get at them somehow. The king followed the tracks of the men, and he found them. Everyone knew Connell, for he was a valued tenant of the king of Erring. And when the king brought them up out of the holes, he said, O Connell, is it you that are here? I am, O king, without question, a necessity made me come. I am under thy pardon, and under thine honour, and under thy grace. He told how it happened to him, and that he had to get the brown horse for the king of Erring, or that his sons were to be put to death. I knew that I should not get him by asking, and I was going to steal him. Yes, Connell, it is well enough but come in, said the king. He desired his look at men to set a watch on the sons of Connell, and to give them meat, and a double watch was set that night on the sons of Connell. Now, O Connell, said the king, were you ever in a harder place than to be seeing your lot of sons hang tomorrow. But you set it to my goodness and to my grace, and say that it was necessity brought it on you. So I must not hang you. Tell me any case in which you were as hard as this, and if you tell that, you shall get the soul of your youngest son. I will tell a case as hard in which I was, said Connell. I was once a young lad, and my father had much land, and he had parks of year old cows, and one of them had just carved, and my father told me to bring her home. I found the cow and took her with us. There fell a shower of snow. We went into the herd's boothy, and we took the cow and the calf in with us, and we were letting the shower pass from us. Who should come in but one cat and ten, and one great one-eyed fox-colored cat, as head-barred over them? When they came in, in very deed, I myself had no liking for their company. Strike up with you, said the head-barred. Why should we be still, and sing a cronun to Connell, yellow claw? I was amazed that my name was known to the cats themselves. When they had sung the cronun, said the head-barred. Now, O Connell, pay the reward of the cronun that the cats have sung to thee. Well then, said I myself, I have no reward whatsoever for you, unless you should go down and take that calf. No sooner, said I the word, than the two cats and ten went down to attack the calf, and in very deed, he did not last them long. Play up with you, why should you be silent? Make a cronun to Connell, yellow claw, said the head-barred. Certainly I had no liking at all for the cronun, but up came the one cat and ten. And if they did not sing me a cronun, then and there. Pay them now their reward, said the great fox-colored cat. I am tired myself of yourselves and your reward, said I. I have no reward for you, unless you take that cow down there. They betook themselves to the cow, and indeed she did not last them long. Why will you be silent? Go up and sing a cronun to Connell, yellow claw, said the head-barred. And surely, O King, I had no care for them or for their cronun. For I began to see that they were not good comrades. When they had sung me the cronun they betook themselves down where the head-barred was. Pay now their reward, said the head-barred. And for sure, O King, I had no reward for them. And I said to them, I have no reward for you. And surely, O King, there was cat-r-walling between them. So I leapt out at a turf-window that was at the back of the house. I took myself off as hard as I might into the wood. I was swift enough and strong at that time. And when I felt the rustling torim of the cats after me, I climbed into as height a tree as I saw in the place. And one that was close in the top. And I hid myself as well as I might. The cats began to search for me through the wood, and they could not find me. And when they were tired, each one said to the other that they would turn back. Bat said the one-eyed fox-colored cat that was commandering chief over them. You saw him not with your two eyes. And though I have but one eye, there's the rascal up in the tree. When he had said that, one of them went up in the tree. And as he was coming where I was, I drew a weapon that I had and killed him. Be this from me, said the one-eyed one. I must not be losing my company thus. Gather round the root of the tree and dig about it, and let down that villain to earth. On this they gathered about the tree, and they dug about the root, and the first branching root that they cut, she gave a shiver to fall. And I myself gave a shout, and it was not to be wondered at. There was in the neighborhood of the wood a priest, and he had ten men with him delving, and he said, There is a shout of a man in extremity, and I must not be without replying to it. And the wisest of the men said, Let it alone till we hear it again. The cats began again, digging widely, and they broke the next root, and I myself gave the next shout. And in veredid it was not a weak one. Certainly, said the priest, It is a man in extremity, let us move. They set themselves in order for moving. And the cats arose on the tree, and they broke the third root, and the tree fell on our elbow. Then I gave the third shout. The stalwart men hastened, and when they saw how the cats served the tree, they began at them with the spades, and they themselves and the cats began at each other, till the cats ran away. And surely, oh king, I did not move till I saw the last one of them off, and then I came home. And there's the hardest case in which I ever was, and it seems to me that tearing by the cats were harder than hanging tomorrow by the king of Lachlan. Oh, Conal, said the king, You are full of words. You have freed the soul of your son with your tail. And if you tell me a harder case than that, you will get your second youngest son. And then you will have two sons. Well then, said Conal, on condition that thou dost that, I will tell thee how I was once in a harder case than to be in thy power in prison tonight. Let's hear, said the king. I was then, said Conal, quite a young lad, and I went out hunting, and my father's land was beside the sea, and it was rough with rocks, caves, and rifts, when I was going on the top of the shore. I saw as if it were a smoke coming up between two rocks, and I began to look what might be the meaning of the smoke coming up there. When I was looking what should I do but fall, and the place was so full of heather that neither bone nor skin was broken. I knew not how I should get out of this. I was not looking before me, but I kept looking overhead the way I came, and thinking that the day would never come that I could get up there. It was terrible for me to be there till I should die. I heard the great clattering coming, and what was there but a great giant, and two dozen of goats with them, and a buck at their head. And when the giant had tied the goat's sea came up and said to me, How oh, Conal, it's long since my knife has been rusting in my pouch waiting for thy tender flesh. Oh, said I, it's not much you will be better by me, though you should tear me asunder. I will make but one meal for you. But I see that you are one-eyed. I'm a good leech, and I will give you the sight of the other eye. The giant went, and he drew the great cauldron on the sight of the fire. I myself was telling him how he should heat the water, so that I should give its sight to the other eye. I got heather, and I made a rubber of it, and I set him upright in the cauldron. I began at the eye that was well, pretending to him that I would give its sight to the other one, till I left them as bad as each other, and surely it was easier to spoil the one that was well than to give sight to the other. When he saw that he could not see a glimpse, and one eye myself said to him, that I would get out in spite of him, he gave his spring out of the water, and he stood in the mouth of the cave, and he said that he would have revenge for the sight of his eye. I had but to stay there crouched the length of the night, holding in my breath in such a way that he might not find out where I was. When he felt the birds calling in the morning, and knew that the day was, he said, Arth thou sleeping? Awake and let out my lot of goats. I killed the buck. He cried, I do believe that thou art killing my buck. I am not, said I, but the ropes are so tight that I take long to lose them. I let out one of the goats, and there he was caressing her, and he said to her, There thou art thou shaggy, hairy white goat, and thou ceased me, but I see thee not. I kept letting them out by the way of one and one, as I played the buck, and before the last one was out, I had him played bag-wise. Then I went, and I put my legs in place of his legs, and my hands in place of his four legs, and my head in place of his head, and the horns on top of my head, so that the brute might think that it was the buck. I went out. When I was going out, the giant laid his hand on me, and he said, There thou art, thou pretty buck, thou ceased me, but I see thee not. When I myself got out, and I saw the word about me, surely, oh King, joy was on me. When I was out, and had shaken the skin of me, I said to the brute, I am out now, in spite of you. Aha! said he, has thou done this to me, Since thou word so stalwart, that thou hast got out, I will give thee a ring that I have here. Keep the ring, and it will do thee good. I will not take the ring from you, said I, but throw it, and I will take it with me. He threw the ring on the flat ground. I went myself, and I lifted the ring, and I put it on my finger. When he said me then, Is the ring fitting thee? I said to him, it is. Then he said, Where art thou ring? And the ring said, I am here. The brute went and went towards where the ring was speaking. And now I saw that I was in a harder case than ever I was. I drew a dirt, I cut the finger from me, and I threw it from me as far as I could, out on the loch. And there was a great depth in the place. He shouted, Where art thou ring? And the ring said, I am here. Though it was on the bed of ocean. He gave a spring after the ring, and out he went in the sea. And I was as pleased then when I saw him drowning, as though you should grant my own life and the life of my two sons with me, and not lay any more trouble on me. When the giant was drowned, I went in and took with me all he had of gold and silver, and I went home, and surely great joy was on my people when I arrived. And as a sign now, look, the finger is of me. Yes indeed, Connell, you are worthy and wise, said the king. I see the finger is of you. You have freed your two sons. But tell me a case in which you ever were that is harder than to be looking on your son being hanged tomorrow, and you shall get the soul of your eldest son. Then went my father, said Connell, and he got me a wife, and I was married, and I went to hunt. I was going beside the sea, and I saw an island over in the midst of the loch. And I came there where a boat was with a rope before her, and a rope behind her, and many precious things within her. I looked myself on the boat to see how I might get part of them. I put in the one foot, and the other foot was on the ground. And when I raised my head, what was it, but the boat over in the middle of the loch, and she never stopped till she reached the island. When I went out of the boat, the boat returned where she was before. I did not know now what I should do. The place was without meat or clothing, without the appearance of a house on it. I came out on the top of a hill. Then I came to a glen. I saw in it at the bottom of a hollow a woman with a child, and the child was naked on her knee, and she had a knife in her hand. She tried to put that knife to the throat of the babe, and the babe began to laugh in her face, and she began to cry, and she threw the knife behind her. I thought to myself that I was near my foe, and far from my friends, and I called to the woman, What are you doing here? And she said to me, What brought you here? What brought you here? I told her myself word upon word how I came. Well, then she said, It was so I came also. She showed me to the place where I should come in where she was. I went in, and I said to her, What was the matter that you were putting the knife on the neck of the child? It is that he must be cooked for the giant who's here, or else no more on my world will be before me. Just then we could be hearing the footsteps of the giant. What shall I do? What shall I do? cried the woman. I went to the cauldron, and by luck it was not hot, so in it I got just as the brute came in. Has thou boiled that youngster for me? he cried. He's not done yet, said she, and I cried out from the cauldron, Mommy, Mommy, it's boiling. I am. Then the giant laughed out, Hi ho, ho garaych, and heaped on wood under the cauldron. And now I was sure I would scald before I could get out of that. As fortune favoured me, the brute slept beside the cauldron. There I was scalded by the bottom of the cauldron. When she perceived that he was asleep, she said her mouth quietly to the hole that was in the lid, and she said to me, Was I alive? I said I was. I put up my head, and the hole in the lid was so large that my head went through easily. Everything was coming easily with me till I began to bring up my hips. I left the skin of my hips behind me, but I came out. When I got out of the cauldron, I knew not what to do, and she said to me that there was no weapon that would kill him but his own weapon. I began to draw his spear, and every breath that he drew, I thought I would be down his throat, and when his breath came out, I was back again just as far. But with every ill that befell me, I got the spear loosed from him. Then I was as one under a bundle of straw in a great wind, for I could not manage the spear, and it was fearful to look on the brute, who had but one eye in the midst of his face, and it was not agreeable for the lycomete to attack him. I drew the dart as best I could, and I set it in his eye. When he felt this, he gave his head a lift, and he struck the other end of the dart on the top of the cave, and it went through to the back of his head, and he felt cold dead where he was, and you may be sure, O King, that joy was on me. I myself and the woman went out on clear ground, and we passed the night there. I went and got the boat with which I came, and she was no way lightened, and took the woman and the child over on dry land, and I returned home. The King O'Lochlan's mother was putting on a fire at this time, and listening to Connell telling the tale about the child. Is it you, said she, that were there? Well then, said he, twas I. Oh, oh, said she, twas I that was there, and the King is the child whose life you saved, and it is to you that life thanks should be given. Then they took great joy. The King said, O Connell, you came through great hardships, and now the brown horse is yours, and his sack full of the most precious things that are in my treasury. They laid down that night, and if it was early that Connell rose, it was earlier than that the Queen was on foot making ready. He got the brown horse and his sack full of gold and silver and stones of great price, and then Connell and his re-sons went away, and they returned home to the air in realm of gladness. He left the gold and silver in his house, and he went with the horse to the King. They were good friends evermore. He returned home to his wife, and they set in order a feast, and that was a feast if ever there was one, O son and brother. CHAPTER VI. Hudden and Dudden and Donald O'Neary There was once upon a time two farmers, and their names were Hudden and Dudden. They had poultry in their yards, sheep on the uplands, and scores of cattle in the meadowland alongside the river. But for all that they weren't happy for just between their two farms there lived a poor man by the name of Donald O'Neary. He had a hovel over his head and a strip of grass that was barely enough to keep his one cow, Daisy, from starving, and though she did her best, it was but seldom that Donald got a drink of milk or a roll of butter from Daisy. You would think there was little here to make Hudden and Dudden jealous, but so it is. The more one has the more one wants, and Donald's neighbours lay awake of night scheming how they might get hold of this little strip of grassland. Daisy, poor thing, was never thought of. She was just a bag of bones. One day Hudden met Dudden, and they were soon grumbling as usual, and all to the tune of, if only we could get that vagabond Donald O'Neary out of the country. Let's kill Daisy, said Hudden at last, if that doesn't make him clear out nothing will. No sooner said than agreed, and it wasn't dark before Hudden and Dudden crept up to the little shed where lay poor Daisy trying her best to chew the cud, though she hadn't had as much grass in the day as would cover your hand. And when Donald came to see if Daisy was all snug for the night, the poor beast had only time to lick his hand once before she died. Well, Donald was a shrewd fellow, and downhearted though he was, began to think if he could get any good out of Daisy's death. He thought and he thought, and the next day you could have seen him trudging off early to the fair, Daisy's hide over his shoulder, every penny he had jingling in his pockets. Just before he got to the fair, he made several slits in the hide, put a penny in each slit, walked into the best in 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 whiskey, 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 will 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 in mind 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 Huddin's door. Good evening, Huddin, will you lend me one of your best pairs of scales? Huddin stared, and Huddin scratched his head, but he lent the scales. When Donald was safe at home, he pulled out his pocket full of bright gold, and began to weigh each piece in the scales. But Huddin had put a lump of butter at the bottom, so the last piece of gold stuck fast to the scales when he took them back to Huddin. If Huddin 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 Dubbin's. Good evening, Dubdin, 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 buy your leave. Well, I never. That was all they could say. Good evening, Huddin. Good evening, Dubdin. 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. Huddin nudged Dubdin, and Dubdin winked at Huddin. Good evening, Donald O'Neary. Good evening, kind friends. The next day there wasn't a cow or a calf that belonged to Huddin or Dubdin, but her hide was going to the fair in Huddin's biggest cart, drawn by Dubdin'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 of the top of their voices, Hides to sell! Hides to sell! out came the tenor. How much for your hides, my good men? They're weight in gold. It's early in the day to come out of the tavern. That was all the tenor 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? They're weight in gold. Is it making game of me, you are? Take that for your pains. And the cobbler dealt Huddin 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 them fast! Hold them 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 30 gold pieces yesterday for a wretched hide. It was more kicks than halfpence that Huddin and Duddin 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 that you've been, or may half you've met the police ill luck to them? We'll pollute you, vagabond. It's mighty smart you thought yourself deluding us with your lying tales. Who deluded you? Did you not 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 Huddin and Duddin popped Donald or 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 or neary between. But the brown lake was far, the road was dusty. Huddin and Duddin were sore and weary, and perched with thirst. There was an inn by the roadside. Let's go in, said Huddin. I'm deadbeat. It's heavy he is for the little he had to eat. If Huddin was willing, so was Duddin. As for Donald you may be sure his leave wasn't asked, but he was lumped down at the indoor for all the world as if he had been a sack of potatoes. Set still, you vagabond, said Duddin. If we don't mind waiting, you needn't. Donald held his peace, but after a while he heard the glasses clink, and Huddin 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're 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 golden jewels? Jewels, do you say? Ah, no. 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. Outcrawled, Donald. In crept, the farmer. Now lie still and don't mind the shaking. It's only rumbling over the palace step shall be. And maybe they'll abuse you for a vagabond who won't have the king's daughter. But you needn't mind that. Ah, it's a deal I'm giving up for you, sure as it is that I don't care for the princess. Take my cattle in exchange, said the farmer. And you may guess it wasn't long before Donald was at their tails driving them homewards. Out came Huddon and Duddon, and the one took one under the pole, and the other the other. I'm thinking he's heavier, said Huddon. Ah, never mind, said Duddon. It's only a step now to the brown lake. I'll have her now. I'll have her now. Bald the farmer from inside the sack. By my faith and you shall, though, said Huddon. And he laid his stick across the sack. I'll have her! I'll have her! Bald the farmer, louder than ever. Well, here you are, said Duddon. 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 Huddon. True for you, said Duddon. 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 Duddon. Faith, you've been quicker than we have. True for you, Duddon, 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. Huddon stared, and Duddon gaped. But they couldn't get over the cattle. Fine fat cattle they were, too. It's only the worst that could bring up with me, said Donald O'Neary. The others were so fat, there was no driving them. Faith to its 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 Duddon. But, as I was just saying, you are 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 or more cattle down there. Why shouldn't I have them all to myself? Faith, they well may say, the richer you get, the harder the heart. You are always a naverly lad, Donald. You wouldn't wish to keep all the luck to yourself. True for you, Huddon, though tis a bad example you set me. But I'll not be thinking of old times. There is plenty for all there, so come along with me. Off they trudged, with a light heart and an eager step. When they came to the brown lake, the sky was full of little white clouds, and if the sky was full, the lake was as full. Ah, now look, there they are, cried Donald, as he pointed to the clouds in the lake. Where, where, cried Huddon, and don't be greedy, cried Duddon, as he jumped his hardest to be up first with a fat cattle. But if he jumped first, Huddon 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. Chapter 7 The Shepherd of Muthfee Up in the black mountains in Carmarthenshire lies the lake known as Linn-Ivanva. To the margin of this lake the Shepherd of Muthfee once led his lambs, and lay there whilst they sought pasture. Suddenly, from the dark waters of the lake, he saw three maidens rise. Shaking the bright drops from their hair and gliding to the shore, they wandered about amongst his flock. They had more than mortal beauty, and he was filled with love for her that came nearest to him. He offered her the bread he had with him, and she took it and tried it, but then sang to him, Hard baked is thy bread, tis not easy to catch me, and then ran off laughing to the lake. Next day he took with him bread not so well done, and watched for the maidens. When they came ashore he offered his bread as before, and the maidens tasted it and sang, Unbaked is thy bread, I will not have thee, and again disappeared in the waves. A third time did the Shepherd of Muthfee try to attract the maiden, and this time he offered her bread that he had found floating about near the shore. This pleased her, and she promised to become his wife if he were able to pick her out from among her sisters on the following day. When the time came the Shepherd knew his love by the strap of her sandal. Then she told him that she would be as good a wife to him as any earthly maiden could be, unless he should strike her three times without cause. Of course he deemed that this could never be, and she, summoning from the lake three cows, two oxen, and a bull, as her marriage portion, was led homeward by him as his bride. The years passed happily, and three children were born to the Shepherd and the lake maiden. But one day they were going to a christening, and she said to her husband that it was too far to walk, so he told her to go for the horses. I will, said she, if you bring me my gloves, which I left in the house. But when he came back with the gloves, he found she had not gone for the horses, so he tapped her lightly on the shoulder with the gloves, and said, Go, go. That's one, said she. Another time they were at a wedding, when suddenly the lake maiden fell assobbing in a weeping amid the joy and mirth of all around her. Her husband tapped her on the shoulder, and asked her, Why do you weep? Because they are entering into trouble, and trouble is upon you, for that is the second causeless blow you have given me. Be careful, the third is the last. The husband was careful never to strike her again. But one day at a funeral she suddenly burst out into fits of laughter. Her husband forgot, and touched her rather roughly on the shoulder, saying, Is this a time for laughter? I laugh, she said, because those that die go out of trouble, but your trouble has come. The last blow has been struck. Our marriage is at an end, and so farewell. And with that she rose up and left the house and went to their home. Then she, looking round upon her home, called to the cattle she had brought with her. Brindle-cow, white speckled, spotted-cow, bold freckled, old white-faced and grayed garranger, and the white bull from the king's coast, gray ox and black calf, all, all, follow me home. Now the black calf had just been slaughtered, and was hanging on the hook, but it got off the hook alive and well and followed her, and the oxen, though they were plowing, trailed the plow with them and did her bidding. So she fled to the lake again, they following her, and with them plunged into the dark waters. And to this day is the furrow scene which the plow left as it was dragged across the mountains to the tarn. Only once did she come again, when her sons were grown to manhood, and then she gave them gifts of healing by which they won the name of Methigon Methve, the Physicians of Methve. McDonald, in his castle at Sadelle, in order to make the lair a pair of trues used in olden time, and trues being the vest and breeches united in one piece, and ornamented with fringes, were very comfortable and suitable to be worn in walking or dancing, McDonald had said to the tailor that if he would make the trues by night in the church he would get a handsome reward, for it was thought that the old ruin church was haunted and that fearsome things were to be seen there at night. The tailor was well aware of this, but he was a sprightly man, and when the lair dared him to make the trues by night in the church, the tailor was not to be daunted, but took it in hand to gain the prize. So when night came, away he went up the glen, about half a mile distance from the castle, till he came to the old church. Then he chose him a nice gravestone for a seat, and he lighted his candle, and put on his thimble, and set to work at the trues, plying his needle nimbly, and thinking about the hire that the lair would have to give him. For some time he got on pretty well, until he felt the floor all of a tremble under his feet, and looking about him, but keeping his fingers at work, he saw the appearance of a great human head, rising up through the stone pavement of the church, and when the head risen above the surface, there came from it a great, great voice, and the voice said, Do you see this great head of mine? I see that, but I'll sew this, replied the sprightly tailor, and he stitched away at the trues. Then the head rose higher up through the pavement, until its neck appeared, and when its neck was shown, the thundering voice came again, and said, Do you see this great neck of mine? I see that, but I'll sew this, said the sprightly tailor, and he stitched away at his trues. Then the head and neck rose higher still, until the great shoulders and chest were shown above the ground, and again the mighty voice thundered, Do you see this great chest of mine? And again the sprightly tailor replied, I see that, but I'll sew this, and stitched away at his trues, and still it kept rising through the pavement, until it shook a great pair of arms in the tailor's face, and said, Do you see these great arms of mine? I see those, but I'll sew this, answered the tailor, and he stitched hard at his trues, for he knew that he had no time to lose. The sprightly tailor was taking the long stitches, when he saw it gradually rising, and rising through the floor, until it lifted out a great leg, and stamping with it upon the pavement, and said in a roaring voice, Do you see this great leg of mine? I see that, but I'll sew this, cried the tailor, and his fingers flew with the needle, and he took such long stitches, that he was just come to the end of the trues, when it was taking up its other leg. But before it could pull out of the pavement, the sprightly tailor had finished his task, and blowing out his candle, and springing from off his gravestone, he buckled up, and ran out of the church, with the trues under his arm. Then the fearsome thing gave a loud roar, and stamped with both his feet upon the pavement, and out of the church he went after the sprightly tailor. Down the glen they ran, faster than the stream, when the flood rides it, but the tailor had got the start in a nimble pair of legs, and he did not choose to lose the lords reward, and though the thing roared to him to stop, yet the sprightly tailor was not the man to be beholden to a monster. So he held his trues tight, and let no darkness grow under his feet, until he had reached Sadell Castle. He had no sooner got inside the gate and shut it, than the monster came up to it, and enraged it, losing his prize, struck the wall above the gate, and left there the mark of his five great fingers. You may see them plainly to this day, if you'll only peer close enough. But the sprightly tailor gained his reward, for MacDonald paid him handsomely for the trues, and never discovered that a few of the stitches were somewhat long.