curds Oonagh had made for him. Then holding them up, he squeezed till the
whey, as clear as water, showered down upon the ground.
Cucullin’s face turned white. His knees were knocking; his hands were
shaking. “If the son’s like this, what must the father be! And suppose
Fin should be coming home!” thought he.
Over to Oonagh he went. “Indeed, indeed, ma’am,” said he, “I thank you
kindly for your welcome. It’s a fine, strong son you have. And it’s sorry
I am I can’t be waiting to see Fin. But I’ve out-stayed my time already,
and it’s back to Scotland I must be going before the tide rises in the
Channel.”
And with never a good-by more, the terrible giant Cucullin turned and ran
over hill, over dale, through wood, through wave. And never again did he
show his face in Ireland.
As for Fin and Oonagh, they never got over laughing in their little house
turned wrongside foremost on the top of Knockmany Hill.
—_From a Celtic Folk-tale._
_Based on Wm. Carleton’s “Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry.”_
[Illustration: The terrible giant Cucullin turned and ran over hill, over
dale]
[Illustration]
V
How Jack Found the Giant Riverrath
Here’s a tale of Genius Jack,
Light of foot and quick as whack!—
Jack o’ mountains, Jack o’ plains,
Jack o’ cuteness, Jack o’ brains.
_Seymour Barnard._
V
How Jack Found the Giant Riverrath
[Illustration: The king of Ireland was troubled in his mind]
The king of Ireland was troubled in his mind. And that was something
unusual. For he had as handsome a palace as you would wish to see, a
queen as good as she was beautiful, and a fine, strapping son named
Jack. The only thing that bothered him was that he could not drive to
town without getting his gilt coach wheels spattered.
[Illustration: The horses would plunge spluttering in]
Down below the palace, straight across the king’s highway, ran a little
river. In the fall when it was almost dry, splashing through it was a
nice adventure. The royal coach would roll down the hill with a splendid
thud, and dash gurgling through the water. But in the spring it was
quite another matter. Going down the hill the coachman would pull on
his gilt reins, the coachboys would tuck up their gilt boots, the king
would slam down the coach window, and the queen would be ready to faint
with excitement. (Only the footmen did not care, for they sat up so
high behind, that the water could not reach them no matter how much it
splashed.)
Then the horses would plunge spluttering in up to their gilt harnesses,
the coach would slip and reel, and the water would come pounding up
against the gilt-edged window-panes. Worst of all, when they reached
the other side, there would be little black mud spots all over the gilt
wheels, all over the gilt sides, all over the shiny door. And that was a
sorry way for the king of Ireland to drive down among his subjects.
The king was sitting on his throne, turning it over in his mind when in
came his son Jack.
“Good morning, father,” said Jack, bowing with all his might.
But the king was so melancholy and disturbed that he never said a word,
but just nodded his head to show that he knew Jack was there.
“Is something troubling you, father?” asked Jack respectfully.
“It’s that river again!” cried the king, puckering his brow till his
crown slipped down over his left eye. “What’s the use of having the
finest coach in three kingdoms if every time you drive abroad it’s
bespotted and bespattered like a common gipsy wagon?”
“Can nothing be done?” asked Jack.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to think,” said the king.
So Jack sat down quietly on the steps of the throne and thought with his
father. Just as the clock struck ten, the king had an idea.
“We might put something over the coach,” he said.
“We might put something over the _river_!” cried Jack. “Why couldn’t we
build a bridge?”
“Gilded Shamrocks!” cried the king. “That’s the very idea. We could ride
across as dry and fine as you please.”
So he called the master mason. And that very hour all the masons from
far and near began stirring about in great troughs of mortar and lugging
building-stones as big as the coach wheels. By sunset there was as neat
and stout a little bridge as you would wish to see. And the king and the
queen and Jack walked up and down before it, beaming to think how spick
and span and shiny they’d be next day, rumbling across it down to the
town.
[Illustration: Lugging building stones]
In the morning before he got his crown on, the king called for his
coach; and the minute breakfast was done, around it drove to the palace
door, glittering like a million gold-pieces. Then the queen stepped
in, dressed in her shiniest gown, and the king in his best crown, and
last of all, Jack, with a fine green feather in his hat. The footmen
clambered carefully up on top so as not to rub their bright gilt boots,
the coachman touched up the horses, and off they all whirled, as splendid
a sight as the sun ever shone on.
Down the hill they rolled with a fine dash, when the horses reared and
stopped.
“Dear me! Dear me!” fluttered the queen. “I hope the harness hasn’t
broken.”
[Illustration: As big as the coach wheels]
The king put his head out the window. “What’s the matter?” he roared.
The two footmen climbed cautiously down, and stood at attention beside
the door.
“Begging your Majesty’s pardon,” said the first, “the bridge is down.”
“Thundering waterfalls!” shouted the king. “It can’t be.” And he burst
out of the coach, with Jack at his heels.
Sure enough, there was no bridge at all,—just a line of gray stones
heaped higgeldy-piggeldy from bank to bank, with the stream running
saucily over them as much as to say, “You can’t bridge me! You can’t
bridge me!”
“Well,” cried the king, “I’ll be splashed!” And he sent the two footmen
off for the master mason as fast as their gilt legs could carry them.
The master mason scratched his head.
“You see your work,” said the king with a great sneer, “—a bridge so
strong it has taken the stream a whole night to wash it away!”
The master mason flushed. “Asking your Majesty’s pardon,” he said
stolidly, “it couldn’t have been the river. The bridge I built should
have stood a hundred years, barring earthquakes.”
“Nonsense! Nonsense!” cried the king irritably. “Build me a bridge that
will stand earthquakes, then, and be quick about it too.” And he climbed
back into the coach, and drove off home in a very bad humor indeed.
The master mason and his men worked till long past sunset. When they had
finished, there was a bridge twice as high, twice as wide, and twice as
solid as before.
The next morning the king was up at daybreak calling for his coach and
his crown; and before the dewdrops were off the grass, he was driving
off with the queen and Jack down the hill toward town. But just as they
got to the river, back lunged the horses again, down clambered the gilt
footmen, and out burst the king all a-tremble.
Sure enough, the bridge the master mason had built so solid and so
strong was nothing but a jagged pile of stones, with the stream gushing
impudently between them as if it were the best joke in the world.
The king called for the master mason in a tone that made the gilt footmen
scamper; and back they came with him as red and flustered as the king
himself.
“Just one more chance for you,” raged the king, shaking his scepter, “to
build me a bridge that will last over night. If by to-morrow morning I
don’t find as good a bridge here as ever was built in Ireland, I’ll—I’ll
have you buried beneath your own stones and mortar.”
“Your Majesty,” cried the master mason tensely, “it can’t be done. There
is some enchantment. The bridges I built here were the best in Ireland.
The river could never have washed them away. It can’t be done, I say. It
can’t—”
But the king had already slammed the coach door and driven violently
away. So there was nothing for the master mason to do but to call his men
and get to work harder than ever. All day long they drilled great holes
in the bed of the stream and set huge rocks in them, one on top of the
other. And over those piers from bank to bank they laid a bridge so bulky
and so solid that the like of it was never seen before or since.
[Illustration: The master mason and his men worked harder than ever]
It was full moonlight by the time the last stone was heaved into place,
and the great bridge loomed like an elephant wading in a brook. The
workmen picked up their trowels and troughs, and plunged wearily along
the road toward home. The master mason stopped for a last look. “Let any
magic throw that down!” he cried defiantly, and shook his fist. Then he
trudged after the workmen down the road.
There was a creaking of branches beside the river, and a figure, dirk in
hand, crawled to the bridge, paused, looked about, then settled itself,
leaning back against the bulky stonework. The figure was lost in the
shadow of the bank, but every now and again it raised its head into the
clear moonlight. It was Jack!
All the time the bridges had been breaking and the king had been fuming
and the master mason had been protesting, Jack had been thinking. For
Jack had a couple of eyes in his head, and he saw how small and weak
the river was, compared to the bridges. So he thought to himself that
it would be no wonder after all if the master mason were right, and it
was not the river that kicked the bridges down, but some magic or other.
Anyway it would do no harm to watch for a night and see what might happen.
So Jack sat there with the moon shining into his eyes, and not a sound
anywhere to keep him company but the palace clock now and then counting
off the hours into the quiet. But Jack did not mind, for the moonlight
had a kind of friendly feeling in it; and in spite of being alone it was
more drowsy he felt than frightened.
He might in fact have gone to sleep entirely if all of a sudden there
hadn’t come a strange, low gurgle, as if beyond the hills all the rivers
were brimming, brimming, brimming. Then it rose with a rush as if they
had burst over the hills and were racing, dashing, flooding down to Jack.
The moon went out as if a great black blot had fallen across the sky, and
Jack sprang up, all a-tremble, to see if he could make out what was going
on. Something swept by him in the dark, showering him with drops like a
moist whirlwind. There was a shaking and a shock, and the bridge which
had stood so solid and so firm, crumbled with a crash, stone after stone,
into the water.
The moon flashed out again into Jack’s eyes, and black beside it against
the sky towered a tremendous giant figure. For a moment Jack caught his
breath; then suddenly he understood: It was the _giant_ who had made the
darkness by stepping in front of the moon; it was the _giant_ who had
rushed splashing by him up the river; it was without a doubt the _giant_
who had pulled his father’s bridges down! And there Jack stood in the
moonlight at the foot of the giant, gazing up at the top of him, never
daring to say a word.
The giant kicked the building stones with his toe, like so many pebbles.
Jack got up his courage.
“Oh, giant,” he shouted, “giant!” But not a syllable more could he get
out.
The giant stopped his kicking and scanned the ground with his great eyes.
Finally he spied Jack.
“Bursting bridges!” he gurgled. “Who are you?”
Jack stood up as tall as he could. “I’m Jack, the king of Ireland’s son,”
he cried; “and it’s my father owns this bridge you’ve broken and this
river you’ve splashed up.”
“Rippledy-row!” cried the giant, stepping a-straddle of the stream. “So
he owned this bridge, did he? But he never owned this river. No, indeed.
That’s mine, you know. Always has been, always will be, and I won’t have
it bridged. Do you hear?”
“But you can’t say that,” shouted Jack, “for my father rules the whole of
Ireland.”
“He may rule Ireland,” granted the giant pleasantly enough, “but he
doesn’t rule the rivers. _They_ belong to me, and I won’t have them
crossed. All day long I sit in my castle at the ends of the earth,
watching the rivers come and go; and every bridge or dam I see, I go at
night to tear it down, so that all my rivers can be free, free,—free as I
am!”
“But who are _you_?” cried Jack.
“Oho!” bellowed the giant, “if that’s what you want to know, come here
where I can tell you.” And with that he scooped Jack up in one of his
mighty fists and held him there just opposite his eyes.
“Now!” he cried. “Listen:
He who frees the streams I am,
Bursting bridge and splint’ring dam;
For the floods I plow the path,—
Raging, roaring, Riverrath!”
And as he said that, the giant’s voice grew deeper and fuller till it
seemed to flood out and fill the air. Jack braced himself against it, but
it swept and swirled around him till he drooped limp over Riverrath’s
great thumb. But he didn’t lose his wits for all that, and every other
minute he kept saying to himself, “I mustn’t let him down me, I mustn’t
let him drown me.” Only “down” and “drown” were somehow mixed up in his
mind, and which it was he meant he couldn’t himself be quite sure.
“But, but, but,” he gasped as soon as he was able to straighten up again,
“you’ve only said your name. You haven’t told me where you come from,
where you live, or anything.”
The giant threw back his head with a roar. “That’s just it!” he gurgled.
“You’re to come and find out. Anybody else whose father had tried to
bridge my river I’d have felt it my duty to drown. But I like you, Jack.
You have a steady head on your shoulders. You’re not afraid even of me.
And I’ll give you a year and a day to find my castle. It’s a weary walk,
but if you get there you’ll never want any good thing more,—that I’ll
promise you. But if you don’t,”—and here the giant’s voice grew deep and
troubled,—“if you don’t, why then
Your father’s castle, coach, and crown,
Queen and country I will _drown_!”
There was a sudden brightening in the sky, and Jack felt himself set down
with a bump upon the grassy bank. The next moment a chilly spray beat
in his face and trickled down his neck. He looked up to see the giant
Riverrath with his garments dripping and fluttering, dashing up the river
and off toward the pale moon.
“Which way is your castle?” shouted Jack.
“At the ends of the earth,” called the giant. And Jack could hear his
mighty laughter gurgling up among the hills.
[Illustration: He drooped limp over Riverrath’s great thumb]
For some minutes Jack sat gazing at the sunrise, thinking it all over.
Then he picked himself up, and ran pell-mell to the palace. There was the
king already up, standing before the mirror putting on his crown. And
there was the queen ready to go out with him in the coach.
“Father! Mother!” cried Jack. “I must go upon a journey.”
“Of course, of course,” said the king. “You’re going to drive with us to
town.”
“Oh, not that!” cried Jack. “I have to go to the ends of the earth to
find the giant Riverrath.”
“And who is he?” asked the king.
“The giant who pulls your bridges down,” said Jack; and he told them all
about it.
“It’s nonsense,” said the king decidedly. “Here the palace has stood
three hundred years, and here it will stand for all your giants.
However,” he added a little nervously, “if you’re determined, Jack, I
suppose you may as well go to find him.”
As for the queen, as soon as she saw how things were turning out, she ran
to the pantry and set the four-and-twenty dairy maids to putting up a
lunch for Jack. “For,” said she, “he may be gone a year and a day, and I
don’t want my son to go hungry.”
So Jack chose a good stout staff for a walking stick, slung his lunch
across his back, and set off for the ends of the earth. His father and
mother watched from the palace tower till his green feather was lost to
sight behind the hills.
All day long Jack walked up hill and down, in and out, by field and farm,
through market and town, past castle and cottage. And everywhere he
stopped to ask his way. But the queer part was that though every one had
heard of the ends of the earth, no one could tell him just where they
lay. There was no scholar who had ever seen them on a map and no traveler
who had been so far.
[Illustration: Jack set off for the ends of the earth]
“Oh, yes,” people would say wisely and nod their heads, “the ends of the
earth! Every one has heard of them, of course, but just where they are or
how you would go to get there, that I can’t say.”
So Jack kept on for a week and a month, knocking and knocking at all the
house doors, without finding any one to tell him the way. And every day
his lunch grew smaller, his shoes grew thinner, and his feather which
had stood up so fine and straight, drooped more and more. But his heart
inside him beat as happy and as high as on the morning he said good-by
to his father and his mother. And he whistled so cheerily that the
housewives would smile as he passed, and say, “There’s a brave lad coming
home from a journey.”
[Illustration: Everywhere he stopped to ask his way]
Late one afternoon Jack found himself on a wide, sandy plain that
stretched as far as he could see. There were no house doors at which to
knock and no travelers of whom to inquire the way. It was quite lonely
and still. Ahead on the far horizon inky turrets appeared against the
setting sun. They belonged to a castle standing alone upon a high rock.
Beyond it was only sky. The sand seemed to reach the cliff, and stop in a
sudden firm line. The hope and joy in Jack almost choked him. What could
this be but the ends of the earth and the castle of the giant Riverrath?
[Illustration: “Oh, yes,” they said, “the ends of the earth!”]
The dark began to come, and it was the last edge of twilight when Jack
reached the great black cliff where the castle stood. He felt about, but
the rock was steep and jagged whichever way he turned. So he scrambled
up on his hands and knees. At the end of an hour or so he found himself,
scratched and breathless, under the huge wall of the castle. In the dim
starlight a few feet away he could make out an iron grating with bars as
thick as tree trunks.
[Illustration: Inky turrets]
“That is the castle gate,” thought Jack. So he beat upon it with his
staff. The massive iron resounded through the dark. But when the noise
died down, the castle loomed as silent as before. Jack whacked at the
bars again, blow after blow, till he could hear the echoes go booming
down the hall inside. There was the loud, slow grating of a lock, the
opening of a great door, and a light as big and bright as the moon came
swinging down the corridor, far above Jack’s head.
As soon as his eyes got through blinking, Jack looked up. The other side
of the tall grating towered a man as high and wide as the palace at home;
but it was _not_ the giant Riverrath. This giant had black hair and black
mustaches, and he looked down at Jack by the light of his huge lantern
without saying a word.
“Good evening,” said Jack politely, doffing his hat. “Could you tell me
the way to the ends of the earth and the castle of giant Riverrath?”
At that the giant’s face broke into dimples as deep as teacups. He
rattled the gate open with a noise like thunder, and cried out:
“Flip-flap, flip-flap,
Here’s a cheery, chary chap!
By the map I’ll point the path
To the home of Riverrath.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” gasped Jack. But he didn’t have breath left
to say more, for the giant bent down and carried him off through the tall
corridor to a vast room all of iron. The ceiling and the walls were iron,
and so were the chairs, the table, and the great spits over the fire.
The giant set Jack and his lantern both on the table.
“Well, Jack,” he said, “I’m glad to see you, for I haven’t seen a man
before for three hundred years.
“As for the ends of the earth,” went on the giant, “wherever they are,
I’m sure to find them for you. For I have a map of the whole world
hanging on the wall. Only if I get that out, you’ll have to stay all
night, for it will take me that long to look it over.”
Jack said that he would like to. So the giant took four or five fine
roast pigs from a spit and piled them up on a platter. He and Jack had
a very merry supper. After it was done, the giant put on his great
iron-bowed spectacles, and spread the map out on the table. Jack walked
around on it, all over the pink countries and the yellow, across the blue
seas, to the green spot that was Ireland. There he stopped, and showed
the giant where his father’s palace was, and the stream where Riverrath
had pulled down the bridges. Then he went and lay down in the inglenook
while the giant traced out all the names with his great finger.
In the morning when Jack woke up, the giant was just hanging the map up
again on the wall.
“Oh, Jack,” said he, “to think that I should have to disappoint you after
all! But I’ve been over every word and every letter, and there’s no
mention of the ends of the earth on the map at all.”
[Illustration: Jack walked to the green spot that was Ireland]
“Never mind,” said Jack, “and thank you kindly.” But he couldn’t help
looking a bit downhearted for all he spoke so bravely.
“I’ll tell you what,” cried the giant, “there’s still a chance some one
might know how to get there. And if any one does, it will be my brother,
who lives nine hundred miles from here. For he has a book with the
history of the whole world written down in it.”
So the giant took Jack down the steep precipice the other side of the
castle, that had seemed to him like the ends of the earth the night
before. “Now, Jack,” said the giant, “when I whistle, you start forward,
and then you’ll get there all the quicker.”
The giant whistled loud enough to be heard nine hundred miles, and then
at every step Jack took, he went the length of ten. And so in scarcely
a week’s time, Jack found himself before a great bronze castle shining
red in the sunset. He beat with his staff on the tall bronze gate; and a
giant, big and ruddy, with glowing hair, came to see who was there.
“Good afternoon,” said Jack. “Could you tell me the way to the ends of
the earth and the castle of giant Riverrath?”
The giant beamed all over his great red face, and his eyes shone like
coals of fire. He swung open the gate with a glorious clang, and cried:
“Flip-flap, flip-flap,
Here’s a cheery, chary chap;
By the book I’ll point the path
To the home of Riverrath!”
And with that the giant picked Jack up and carried him down a corridor
echoing like deep chimes, into a vast room all of bronze. The ceiling,
the walls, the table, the chairs, flashed back the firelight like a
hundred sunsets. The giant set Jack on the bronze table.
“I’m glad to see you, Jack,” he said, “for I haven’t seen a man before
for three hundred years.”
“Why,” cried Jack, “that’s just what your brother said.” And he told the
giant all about his visit to the great iron castle.
When he had finished, the giant’s good-natured face grew sober.
“Strange,” he said, “that the ends of the earth weren’t down on my
brother’s map, when you hear of them every day or so. But I’ll tell you
what, Jack: if any one has ever been there, my book will say so, for that
has the whole history of the world written down in it. Only if I get that
out, you’ll have to stay all night, for it will take me that long to read
it through.”
Jack thanked him, and the giant took four or five fine brown pigs from a
spit and piled them up on a platter. He and Jack had a merry supper. When
the giant talked, his voice echoed about the bronze room as if a hundred
great bells were ringing; and when Jack answered, it was like a hundred
little bells tinkling back again.
After supper, the giant put on his big bronze-bowed spectacles, and
opened his tremendous book at page one. For a while Jack stood on the
table beside him and tried to read too. But the lines were so long and
so big that before he had finished the first one he had fallen fast
asleep.
In the morning when Jack woke up, the giant was just putting the book
away again on its shelf. “Jack,” said he, “I’m afraid I’m no more help to
you than my brother. For I’ve read through every line and every word of
the whole book, and I can’t find that anybody has ever been to the ends
of the earth. There is plenty of talk about going, but no one seems ever
to get there at all.”
“Never mind,” said Jack, “and thank you kindly.” But he couldn’t help
looking a bit downhearted for all he spoke so bravely.
“I’ll tell you what,” cried the giant; “there’s still a chance some one
might know how to get there. And if any one does, it will be my brother
who lives nine hundred miles from here. For he is master of all the birds
of the air.”