(_A Legend of Cong._)

"There was wanst upon a time, long ago, a beautiful young lady that lived in a castle up by the lake beyant, and they say she was promised to a king's son, and they wor to be married, when, all of a suddent, he was murthered, the crathur (Lord help us!) and threwn in the lake abou, and so, of coorse, he couldn't keep his promise to the fair lady--and more's the pity.

"Well, the story goes that she went out iv her mind, bekase of loosin'

the king's son--for she was tindher-hearted, G.o.d help her! like the rest iv us--and pined away after him, until at last no one about seen her, good or bad; and the story wint that the fairies took her away.

"Well, sir, in coorse o' time the white throut, G.o.d bless it! was seen in the sthrame beyant; and sure the people didn't know what to think of the crathur, seein' as how a _white_ brown throut was never heerd av afore nor sence; and years upon years the throut was there, just where you seen it this blessed minit, longer nor I can tell--aye, throth, and beyant the memory o' th' ouldest in the village.

"At last the people began to think it must be a fairy; for what else could it be?--and no hurt nor harm was iver put an the throut, until some wicked sinners of sojers kem to these parts, and laughed at all the people, and gibed and jeered them for thinkin' o' the likes; and one o'

them in partic'lar (bad luck to him--G.o.d forgi' me for sayin' it!) swore he'd catch the throut and ate it for his dinner--the blackguard!

"Well, what would you think o' the villiany of the sojer?--sure enough he cotch the throut, and away wid him home, and puts an the fryin' pan, and into it he pitches the purty little thing. The throut squeeled all as one as a Christian crathur, and, my dear, you'd think the sojer id split his sides laughin'--for he was a harden'd villian; and when he thought one side was done, he turns it over to fry the other; and what would you think? but the divil a taste of a burn was an it at all at all; and sure the sojer thought it was a _quare_ throut that couldn't be briled; 'but,' says he, 'I'll give it another turn by and by'--little thinkin' what was in store for him, the haythen!

"Well, when he thought that side was done he turns it again--and lo and behould you, the divil a taste more done that side was nor the other.

'Bad luck to me,' says the sojer, 'but that bates the world,' says he; 'but I'll thry you agin, my darlint,' says he, 'as cunnin' as you think yourself'--and so with that he turns it over and over, but not a sign av the fire was an the purty throut. 'Well,' says the desperate villian--(for sure, sir, only he was a desperate villian _entirely_; he might know he was doin' a wrong thing, seein' that all his endayvours was no good)--'well,' says he, 'my jolly little throut, maybe you're fried enough, though you don't seem over well dress'd; but you may be better than you look, like a singed cat, and a t.i.t-bit, afther all,'

says he; and with that he ups with his knife and fork to taste a piece o' the throut--but, my jew'l, the minit he puts his knife into the fish there was a murtherin' screech, that you'd think the life id lave you if you heerd it, and away jumps the throut out av the fryin' pan into the middle o' the flure; and an the spot where it fell up riz a lovely lady--the beautifullest young crathur that eyes ever seen, dressed in white, and a band o' goold in her hair, and a sthrame o' blood runnin'

down her arm.

"'Look where you cut me, you villian,' says she, and she held out her arm to him--and, my dear, he thought the sight id lave his eyes.

"'Couldn't you lave me cool and comfortable in the river where you snared me, and not disturb me in my duty?' says she.

"Well, he thrimbled like a dog in a wet sack, and at last he stammered out somethin', and begged for his life, and ax'd her ladyship's pardin, and said he didn't know she was an duty, or he was too good a sojer not to know betther nor to meddle with her.

"'I _was_ on duty then,' says the lady; 'I was watchin' for my thrue love that is comin' by wather to me,' says she; 'an' if he comes while I am away, an' that I miss iv him, I'll turn you into a pinkeen, and I'll hunt you up and down for evermore, while gra.s.s grows or wather runs.'

"Well, the sojer thought the life id lave him at the thoughts iv his bein' turned into a pinkeen, and begged for marcy; and, with that, says the lady:

"'Renounce your evil coorses,' says she, 'you villian, or you'll repint it too late. Be a good man for the futhur, and go to your duty reg'lar.

And now,' says she, 'take me back and put me into the river agin, where you found me.'

"'Oh, my lady,' says the sojer, 'how could I have the heart to drownd a beautiful lady like you?'

"But before he could say another word the lady was vanished, and there he saw the little throut an the ground. Well, he put it in a clane plate, and away he run for the bare life, for fear her lover would come while she was away; and he run, and he run, ever till he came to the cave agin, and threw the throut into the river. The minit he did, the wather was as red as blood until the sthrame washed the stain away; and to this day there's a little red mark an the throut's side where it was cut.

"Well, sir, from that day out the sojer was an althered man, and reformed his ways, and wint to his duty reg'lar, and fasted three times a week--though it was never fish he tuk an fastin' days; for afther the fright he got fish id never rest an his stomach--savin' your presence.

But, anyhow, he was an althered man, as I said before; and in coorse o'

time he left the army, and turned hermit at last; and they say he _used to pray evermore for the sowl of the White Throut_."

SAMUEL LOVER.

The Wonderful Cake

A mouse, a rat, and a little red hen once lived together in the same cottage, and one day the little red hen said, "Let us bake a cake and have a feast." "Let us," says the mouse, and "let us," says the rat.

"Who'll go and get the wheat ground?" says the hen. "I won't," says the mouse; "I won't," says the rat. "I will myself," says the little red hen.

"Who'll make the cake?" "I won't," says the mouse; "I will," says the rat. "Indeed, you shall not," says the little red hen.

Well, while the hen was stretching her hand out for it--"Hey Presto!"

out rolled the cake from the cottage, and after it ran the mouse, the rat, and the little red hen.

When it was running away it went by a barn full of threshers, and they asked it where it was running. "Oh," says it, "I'm running away from the mouse, the rat, and the little red hen, and from you, too, if I can." So they rushed away after it with their flails, and it ran, and it ran till it came to a ditch full of ditchers, and they asked it where it was running.

"Oh, I am running away from the mouse, the rat, and the little red hen, and from a barn full of threshers, and from you, too, if I can."

Well, they all ran after it along with the rest, till it came to a well full of washers, and they asked the same question, and it returned the same answer, and after it they went.

At last it came to a ford where it met with a fox, and he asked where it was running. "Oh, I'm running away from the mouse, the rat, and the little red hen, from a barn full of threshers, a ditch full of ditchers, a well full of washers, and from you, too, if I can."

"But you can't cross the ford," says the fox. "And can't you carry me over?" says the cake. "What'll you give me?" says the fox. "A kiss at Christmas and an egg at Easter," says the cake.

"Very well," says the fox--"up with you." So he sat on his haunches with his nose in the air, and the cake got up by his tail till it sat on his crupper.

"Now, over with you," says the cake. "You're not high enough," says the fox. Then it scrambled up on his shoulder. "Up higher still," says he; "you wouldn't be safe there." "Am I right now?" says he. "You'll be safer on the ridge pole of my nose."

"Well," says the cake, "I think I can go no further." "Oh, yes," says he, and he shot it up in the air, caught it in his mouth, and sent it down the Red Lane. And that was the end of the cake.

The Legend of the Little Weaver of Duleek Gate

(_A Tale of Chivalry._)

You see, there was a waiver lived wanst upon a time in Duleek here, hard by the gate, and a very honest, industherous man he was by all accounts.

Well, it was one mornin' that his housekeeper called to him, and he sitting very busy throwin' the shuttle; and says she, "Your brekquest is ready!" "Lave me alone," says he; "I'm busy with a patthern here that is brakin' my heart, and until I complate and masther it intirely I won't quit."

"Oh, think o' the iligant stirabout that'll be spylte intirely."

"To the divil with the stirabout!" says he.

"G.o.d forgive you," says she, "for cursin' your good brekquest."

Well, he left the loom at last and wint over to the stirabout, and what would you think, but whin he looked at it, it was as black as a crow; for, you see, it was in the hoighth o' summer, and the flies lit upon it to that degree that the stirabout was fairly covered with them.

"Why, thin, bad luck to your impidence," says the waiver; "would no place sarve you but that? And is it spyling my brekquest yiz are, you dirty bastes?" And with that, bein' altogether cruked tempered at the time, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o'

stirabout and killed no less than three score and tin flies at the one blow. It was three score and tin exactly, for he counted the carca.s.ses one by one, and laid them out on a clane plate for to view them.

Well, he felt a powerful sperit risin' in him when he seen the slaughter he done at one blow, and with that he got as consaited as the very d.i.c.kens, and not a sthroke more work he'd do that day, but out he wint, and was fractious and impident to everyone he met, and was squarein' up into their faces and sayin', "Look at that fist! That's the fist that killed three score and tin at one blow. Whoo! It is throwin' away my time I have been all my life," says he, "stuck to my loom, nothin' but a poor waiver, when it is Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two of the sivin champions o' Christendom. I'm detarmined on it, and I'll set off immediately and be a knight arriant." Well, sure enough, he wint about among his neighbours the next day, and he got an owld kittle from one and a saucepan from another, and he took them to the tailor, and he sewed him up a shuit o' tin clothes like any knight arriant, and he borrowed a pot lid, and _that_ he was very partic'lar about, bekase it was his shield, and he wint to a friend o' his, a painther and glaizier, and made him paint an his shield in big letthers:

"I'M THE MAN OF ALL MIN, THAT KILL'D THREE SCORE AND TIN AT A BLOW."

"When the people sees that," says the waiver to himself, "the sorra one will dar for to come near me."