the brown horse is yours, and his sack full of the most precious
things that are in my treasury."
They lay down that night, and if it was early that Conall rose, it was
earlier than that 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 Conall and his three sons went away, and they returned
home to the Erin 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.
Hudden and Dudden and Donald O'Neary
[Illustration:]
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 meadow-land alongside the river. But for all
that they weren't happy. For just between their two farms there lived
a poor man by the name of Donald O'Neary. He had a hovel over his head
and a strip of grass that was barely enough to keep his one cow,
Daisy, from starving, and, though she did her best, it was but seldom
that Donald got a drink of milk or a roll of butter from Daisy. You
would think there was little here to make Hudden and Dudden jealous,
but so it is, the more one has the more one wants, and Donald's
neighbours lay awake of nights scheming how they might get hold of his
little strip of grass-land. Daisy, poor thing, they 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 down-hearted 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 inn of the town as bold as if it belonged to him, and,
hanging the hide up to a nail in the wall, sat down.
"Some of your best whisky," says he to the landlord. But the landlord
didn't like his looks. "Is it fearing I won't pay you, you are?" says
Donald; "why I have a hide here that gives me all the money I want."
And with that he hit it a whack with his stick and out hopped a penny.
The landlord opened his eyes, as you may fancy.
"What'll you take for that hide?"
"It's not for sale, my good man."
"Will you take a gold piece?"
"It's not for sale, I tell you. Hasn't it kept me and mine for years?"
and with that Donald hit the hide another whack and out jumped a
second penny.
Well, the long and the short of it was that Donald let the hide go,
and, that very evening, who but he should walk up to Hudden's door?
"Good-evening, Hudden. Will you lend me your best pair of scales?"
Hudden stared and Hudden scratched his head, but he lent the scales.
When Donald was safe at home, he pulled out his pocketful of bright
gold and began to weigh each piece in the scales. But Hudden had put a
lump of butter at the bottom, and so the last piece of gold stuck fast
to the scales when he took them back to Hudden.
If Hudden had stared before, he stared ten times more now, and no
sooner was Donald's back turned, than he was off as hard as he could
pelt to Dudden's.
"Good-evening, Dudden. That vagabond, bad luck to him----"
"You mean Donald O'Neary?"
"And who else should I mean? He's back here weighing out sackfuls of
gold."
"How do you know that?"
"Here are my scales that he borrowed, and here's a gold piece still
sticking to them."
[Illustration:]
Off they went together, and they came to Donald's door. Donald had
finished making the last pile of ten gold pieces. And he couldn't
finish because a piece had stuck to the scales.
In they walked without an "If you please" or "By your leave."
"Well, _I_ never!" that was all _they_ could say.
"Good-evening, Hudden; good-evening Dudden. Ah! you thought you had
played me a fine trick, but you never did me a better turn in all
your lives When I found poor Daisy dead, I thought to myself, 'Well,
her hide may fetch something'; and it did. Hides are worth their
weight in gold in the market just now."
Hudden nudged Dudden, and Dudden winked at Hudden.
"Good-evening, Donald O'Neary."
"Good-evening, kind friends."
The next day there wasn't a cow or a calf that belonged to Hudden or
Dudden but her hide was going to the fair in Hudden's biggest cart
drawn by Dudden's strongest pair of horses.
When they came to the fair, each one took a hide over his arm, and
there they were walking through the fair, bawling out at the top of
their voices: "Hides to sell! hides to sell!"
Out came the tanner:
"How much for your hides, my good men?"
"Their weight in gold."
"It's early in the day to come out of the tavern." That was all the
tanner said, and back he went to his yard.
"Hides to sell! Fine fresh hides to sell!"
Out came the cobbler:
"How much for your hides, my men?"
"Their weight in gold."
"Is it making game of me you are! Take that for your pains," and the
cobbler dealt Hudden a blow that made him stagger.
Up the people came running from one end of the fair to the other.
"What 's the matter? What's the matter?" cried they.
"Here are a couple of vagabonds selling hides at their weight in
gold," said the cobbler.
"Hold 'em fast; hold 'em fast!" bawled the innkeeper, who was the last
to come up, he was so fat. "I'll wager it's one of the rogues who
tricked me out of thirty gold pieces yesterday for a wretched hide."
It was more kicks than halfpence that Hudden and Dudden got before
they were well on their way home again, and they didn't run the slower
because all the dogs of the town were at their heels.
Well, as you may fancy, if they loved Donald little before, they loved
him less now.
"What's the matter, friends?" said he, as he saw them tearing along,
their hats knocked in, and their coats torn off, and their faces black
and blue. "Is it fighting you've been? or mayhap you met the police,
ill luck to them?"
"We'll police you, you vagabond. It's mighty smart you thought
yourself, deluding us with your lying tales."
"Who deluded you? Didn't you see the gold with your own two eyes?"
But it was no use talking. Pay for it he must, and should. There was a
meal-sack handy, and into it Hudden and Dudden popped Donald O'Neary,
tied him up tight, ran a pole through the knot, and off they started
for the Brown Lake of the Bog, each with a pole-end on his shoulder,
and Donald O'Neary between.
But the Brown Lake was far, the road was dusty, Hudden and Dudden were
sore and weary, and parched with thirst. There was an inn by the
roadside.
"Let's go in," said Hudden; "I'm dead beat. It's heavy he is for the
little he had to eat."
If Hudden was willing, so was Dudden. As for Donald, you may be sure
his leave wasn't asked, but he was lumped down at the inn door for all
the world as if he had been a sack of potatoes.
"Sit still, you vagabond," said Dudden; "if we don't mind waiting, you
needn't."
Donald held his peace, but after a while he heard the glasses clink,
and Hudden singing away at the top of his voice.
"I won't have her, I tell you; I won't have her!" said Donald. But
nobody heeded what he said.
"I won't have her, I tell you; I won't have her!" said Donald; and
this time he said it louder; but nobody heeded what he said.
"I won't have her, I tell you; I won't have her!" said Donald; and
this time he said it as loud as he could.
"And who won't you have, may I be so bold as to ask?" said a farmer,
who had just come up with a drove of cattle, and was turning in for a
glass.
"It's the king's daughter. They are bothering the life out of me to
marry her."
"You're the lucky fellow. I'd give something to be in your shoes."
"Do you see that now! Wouldn't it be a fine thing for a farmer to be
marrying a princess, all dressed in gold and jewels?"
"Jewels, do you say? Ah, now, couldn't you take me with you?"
"Well, you're an honest fellow, and as I don't care for the king's
daughter, though she's as beautiful as the day, and is covered with
jewels from top to toe, you shall have her. Just undo the cord and let
me out; they tied me up tight, as they knew I'd run away from her."
Out crawled Donald; in crept the farmer.
"Now lie still, and don't mind the shaking; it's only rumbling over
the palace steps you'll be. And maybe they'll abuse you for a
vagabond, who won't have the king's daughter; but you needn't mind
that. Ah! it's a deal I'm giving up for you, sure as it is that I
don't care for the princess."
"Take my cattle in exchange," said the farmer; and you may guess it
wasn't long before Donald was at their tails driving them homewards.
Out came Hudden and Dudden, and the one took one end of the pole, and
the other the other.
"I'm thinking he's heavier," said Hudden.
"Ah, never mind," said Dudden; "it's only a step now to the Brown
Lake."
"I'll have her now! I'll have her now!" bawled the farmer, from inside
the sack.
"By my faith and you shall though," said Hudden, and he laid his stick
across the sack.
"I'll have her! I'll have her!" bawled the farmer, louder than ever.
"Well, here you are," said Dudden, for they were now come to the Brown
Lake, and, unslinging the sack, they pitched it plump into the lake.
"You'll not be playing your tricks on us any longer," said Hudden.
"True for you," said Dudden. "Ah, Donald, my boy, it was an ill day
when you borrowed my scales."
Off they went, with a light step and an easy heart, but when they were
near home, whom should they see but Donald O'Neary, and all around him
the cows were grazing, and the calves were kicking up their heels and
butting their heads together.
"Is it you, Donald?" said Dudden. "Faith you've been quicker than we
have."
"True for you, Dudden, and let me thank you kindly; the turn was good,
if the will was ill. You'll have heard, like me, that the Brown Lake
leads to the Land of Promise. I always put it down as lies, but it is
just as true as my word. Look at the cattle."
Hudden stared, and Dudden gaped; but they couldn't get over the
cattle: fine fat cattle they were too.
"It's only the worst I could bring up with me," said Donald O'Neary;
"the others were so fat, there was no driving them. Faith, too, it's
little wonder they didn't care to leave, with grass as far as you
could see, and as sweet and juicy as fresh butter."
"Ah, now, Donald, we haven't always been friends," said Dudden, "but,
as I was just saying, you were ever a decent lad, and you'll show us
the way, won't you?"
"I don't see that I'm called upon to do that; there is a power more
cattle down there. Why shouldn't I have them all to myself?"
"Faith, they may well say, the richer you get, the harder the heart.
You always were a neighbourly lad, Donald. You wouldn't wish to keep
the luck all to yourself?"
"True for you, Hudden, 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 Hudden, and "Don't be greedy!" cried Dudden, as
he jumped his hardest to be up first with the fat cattle. But if he
jumped first, Hudden wasn't long behind.
They never came back. Maybe they got too fat, like the cattle. As for
Donald O'Neary, he had cattle and sheep all his days to his heart's
content.
The Shepherd of Myddvai
[Illustration:]
Up in the Black Mountains in Caermarthenshire lies the lake known as
Lyn y Van Vach. To the margin of this lake the shepherd of Myddvai
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
maiden 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 Myddvai try to attract the maiden,
and this time he offered 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 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 it was far to walk, so he told her to go for
the horses.
"I will," said she, "If you bring me my gloves which I've 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 a-sobbing and 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 very careful never to strike her. 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 face, and grey Geringer,
And the white bull from the king's coast
Grey 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 ploughing, trailed the plough 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
seen which the plough 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
Meddygon Myddvai, the physicians of Myddvai.
The Sprightly Tailor
[Illustration:]
A Sprightly tailor was employed by the great Macdonald, in his castle
at Saddell, in order to make the laird a pair of trews, used in olden
time. And trews 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. Macdonald had said to the tailor that if
he would make the trews by night in the church he would get a handsome
reward. For it was thought that the old ruined 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 laird dared him to make the trews 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 grave-stone for a seat and he lighted his candle, and
put on his thimble, and set to work at the trews, plying his needle
nimbly, and thinking about the hire that the laird 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 had 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 trews.
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 trews.
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 trews.
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 trews, 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, said in a roaring
voice: "Do you see this great leg of mine?"
"Aye, aye: 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 trews, when it was taking up its other
leg. But before it could pull it out of the pavement, the sprightly
tailor had finished his task; and, blowing out his candle, and
springing from off his grave-stone, he buckled up, and ran out of the
church with the trews 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 and a nimble pair of legs, and he
did not choose to lose the laird's 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 trews tight, and let no darkness
grow under his feet until he had reached Saddell Castle. He had no
sooner got inside the gate, and shut it, than the monster came up to
it; and, enraged at 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 trews, and never discovered that a few of the
stitches were somewhat long.
The Story of Deirdre
[Illustration:]
There was a man in Ireland once who was called Malcolm Harper. The man
was a right good man, and he had a goodly share of this world's goods.
He had a wife, but no family. What did Malcolm hear but that a
soothsayer had come home to the place, and as the man was a right good
man, he wished that the soothsayer might come near them. Whether it
was that he was invited or that he came of himself, the soothsayer
came to the house of Malcolm.
"Are you doing any soothsaying?" says Malcolm.
"Yes, I am doing a little. Are you in need of soothsaying?"
"Well, I do not mind taking soothsaying from you, if you had
soothsaying for me, and you would be willing to do it."
"Well, I will do soothsaying for you. What kind of soothsaying do you
want?"
"Well, the soothsaying I wanted was that you would tell me my lot or
what will happen to me, if you can give me knowledge of it."
"Well, I am going out, and when I return I will tell you."
And the soothsayer went forth out of the house, and he was not long
outside when he returned.
"Well," said the soothsayer, "I saw in my second sight that it is on
account of a daughter of yours that the greatest amount of blood shall
be shed that has ever been shed in Erin since time and race began. And
the three most famous heroes that ever were found will lose their
heads on her account."
After a time a daughter was born to Malcolm. He did not allow a living
being to come to his house, only himself and the nurse. He asked this
woman, "Will you yourself bring up the child to keep her in hiding far
away where eye will not see a sight of her nor ear hear a word about
her?"
The woman said she would, so Malcolm got three men, and he took them
away to a large mountain, distant and far from reach, without the
knowledge or notice of any one. He caused there a hillock, round and
green, to be dug out of the middle, and the hole thus made to be
covered carefully over, so that a little company could dwell there
together. This was done.
Deirdre and her foster-mother dwelt in the bothy mid the hills without
the knowledge or the suspicion of any living person about them and
without anything occurring, until Deirdre was sixteen years of age.
Deirdre grew like the white sapling, straight and trim as the rash on
the moss. She was the creature of fairest form, of loveliest aspect,
and of gentlest nature that existed between earth and heaven in all
Ireland--whatever colour of hue she had before, there was nobody that
looked into her face but she would blush fiery red over it.