Part 5

From that night he left off dreaming; and taking again to his industrious, hardworking habits, soon made up for his past neglect, and was not only able to buy back his potatoe-field, but became a happy, flourishing man.

His wife used to say that it was only a dream about the little people and the gold, for that certainly she had found him asleep; but Tim shook his head.

[Decoration]

XXIV.

_The Shoemaker and the Dwarfs._

Why do we read of so many shoemakers that were poor? Surely they must have lived in Ireland; but, be that as it may, we have to tell of another, who, though he was most anxious to fit all the world, could find no customers, till at last he had nothing left but just leather enough to make one pair of shoes.

He had been running about all day, longingly looking at all the feet, and wishing he might measure some one for this last pair of shoes, but he returned, having only worn out his own. However, with all his poverty, he had a light heart and a good wife, who was always ready to cheer him; so he determined to make up the shoes in the very best style, and, putting them in his window, trust to a purchaser.

He cut them out, intending to begin his work early the next morning, and went to bed, soon falling asleep. Imagine the good man's astonishment when, on the following morning, he found the shoes already made, and in such a manner that he could not take his eyes off them.

He put them in his window, though he could hardly make up his mind to part with them, and, half hoping to frighten purchasers away, he set twice as high a price upon them as it had been his custom to charge.

However, a customer was soon found; and though it was with regret he parted with those master-pieces of work, yet, when he held so much money in his hand, he was delighted, for not only could he buy leather to make two pairs of shoes, but he could get his wife a few necessaries she had been long obliged to dispense with.

That evening he cut out two pairs of shoes, ready for the next morning, when, on getting up, he found those finished, with workmanship no less excellent than that of the night before.

For these, also, customers were speedily found, at equally good prices as the previous pair; and that night the Shoemaker cut out four pairs of shoes, which he again found made to perfection the following morning. Thus it went on, the work that was prepared at night being finished by the morning, so that our good friend soon became a flourishing man; but he and his wife remained as simple in their habits as of old, preferring to spend what they could spare on their more needy neighbours.

Curiosity seems part of a woman's nature, and the Shoemaker's wife certainly felt very curious to see who their friends were that did the work so beautifully; so she proposed to her husband that they should hide themselves, and, leaving a candle burning, watch for their nightly visitors.

They did so, and at midnight saw two Dwarfs come in, who immediately set to at the work left for them, stitching and hammering away so fast that the Shoemaker felt quite bewildered by their rapidity. Not one moment did they stop, but worked on till all was finished, and disappeared long before daylight.

Now, if the Shoemaker's wife was curious, she was kind-hearted as well, and was much grieved to see that such good, industrious little fellows should be so neglected by their families and friends, for they had not a stitch of clothes on, when it was winter too. Had they no wives or no sisters to look after their comfort? And she proposed to make them a decent suit of clothes each.

The good man was delighted at the proposal; so she bought the stuff, and gave herself but little rest till she had made them a coat, waistcoat, and a pair of trowsers each, as near their shape and size as she could guess.

As soon as finished, the clothes were left for them instead of the customary work, and the shoemaker and his wife again watched their coming.

About midnight they appeared; and when they found the clothes in place of their usual work, they stood for a moment irresolute, and then took up each article, examining it on all sides. They then began to try on the things, not without making several mistakes, for one of the little fellows had got his arms into the legs of the trowsers, whilst the other was putting on the waistcoat over the coat. But at length they were dressed; and having examined each other, and then themselves, they were so delighted that they set to capering and dancing about the room, and playing all manner of antics, jumping over the chairs and tumbling over head and heels, till at last they danced out of the room hand-in-hand.

They did not appear again; but the Shoemaker continued to prosper, and became a rich man; he and his wife being respected and loved by all who knew them.

[Decoration]

XXV.

_The Countryman and the Jew._

There was once a Farmer, a great miser, and he had a servant as simple as he himself was close, for he had served his master, three years without being offered any wages, or asking for any.

After the three years, however, the man thought he would not work any longer without pay, so he said to his master, "I have worked for you diligently and faithfully, and hope you will now give me a fair reward for my services."

Knowing that his man was a great simpleton, the farmer gave him three-pence, saying, "I not only reward you fairly, but splendidly--here is a penny for each year; but, now that you are rich, do not squander your money and get into idle habits."

The poor fellow thought that he was rich indeed, so determined that he would not work and slave any longer, but travel and enjoy himself.

With his fortune in his purse, and his purse safely in his pocket, he set out; and as he was going along, singing merrily, a little dwarf came up and asked him why he was so merry.

"Why should I not be merry," he answered, "for I am rich and have nothing to do but to enjoy myself? I have worked hard for three years, and saved all my earnings."

"And how much might they be?" the little man asked. When told that the amount was three-pence, he said he was very poor, and begged hard for the money. The Countryman did not make him ask long, and cheerfully gave him his three-pence, when the little fellow said--

"You have a kind, generous heart, and shall not suffer for your liberality. You shall have three wishes, which shall be granted you--one for each penny."

The Countryman was highly rejoiced, and said, "Many thanks, my good Friend, for your offer; and, first of all, I would like to have a gun which will bring down everything that I shoot at; and, secondly, I choose a fiddle, to which, when I play, every one must dance, whether he will or no. These will satisfy me, so I will not trouble you with a third wish at present."

"Your wishes are soon granted," said the Dwarf, and gave him the desired gun and fiddle; after which he went his way.

Our friend was happy before, but now his happiness knew no bounds; and he only wanted an opportunity to try his fiddle, for the gun he had already tried several times as he walked along.

The desired opportunity was not long wanting, for he soon met a Jew; and just where they met stood a tree, on one of the branches of which sat a plump wood-pigeon.

"I wish I had that bird," said the Jew; "could you not shoot it for me, my Friend?"

"That is easily done," was the answer; and the same instant the bird fell amongst some thorn-bushes at the foot of the tree. The Jew crept in among the bushes to pick it up; and no sooner was he in the middle than the Countryman took his fiddle and played the sprightliest of jigs.

The first sound no sooner reached the Jew's ears than he began to dance; and, as the tune went on, he jumped and capered higher and higher, at every leap he took leaving a piece of his clothes hanging to the thorns. The thorns soon began to enter his flesh, and, in pain, he cried out--

"For heaven's sake, leave off playing! What have I done to deserve this?"

"What have you done?" said the Countryman. "How many a poor wretch have you not ruined! And the duty to avenge them has fallen upon me, so I will just play you another tune, and mind you dance well to it."

The Jew then offered him money to give over; but, as his offer did not rise high enough, he had to dance on till, in despair and worn out by fatigue and pain, he said he would give a hundred pieces of gold, which he had in his purse. As the purse was thrown down the Countryman's heart was softened; so he gave over playing, took up the purse and went his way, highly delighted with his day's work.

No sooner had he gone than the Jew crept out from among the thorns, half naked, and his heart full of bitterness and revenge. The loss of his money smarted even more intolerably than the wounds in his flesh, and he hastened to the nearest judge, to whom he complained how he had been robbed and ill-treated, giving a description of his tormentor.

The judge could not refuse justice to the Jew; so he sent out his officers, who soon caught the Countryman, and, brought back, he was put upon his trial.

The Jew's evidence, and the sorry plight he was in, were too convincing to be got over, though the defence was that the money had been given of his own account and not taken from him.

The Countryman was condemned to be hanged. He was led off to the gallows at once; but just as the rope was about to be put round his neck he said--

"My Lord Judge, I cannot complain of the sentence passed upon me, since my accuser swears that I robbed and ill-treated him, and I only ask to have one favour granted me before I die."

"Anything excepting your life," was the answer.

"I do not ask my life, but only that you will order my fiddle to be restored to me, and allow me to play once more upon it."

"No! no! for heaven's sake, no!" cried the Jew. "Don't let him have that infernal fiddle, my Lord, or misfortune will come upon the whole of us." But the judge said his word had been given; so he ordered the fiddle to be given to the prisoner.

The Countryman no sooner had the instrument in his hands than he struck up a dance, and at the very first note even the judge's feet began to shuffle about as he sat in his chair, and as for the others they fairly danced.

In vain the Jew caught hold of the clerk's desk, for his legs flew out on either side; and as the height of his capers was checked they only became the more frequent.

The judge's clerk, the officers of the court, the hangman, as well as all the spectators, were dancing with all their might, and soon the judge himself danced out of his chair into the midst of them.

At first all seemed good humour and enjoyment, and no one, excepting the Jew, wished to check the general merriment; but as it went on there were no bounds to the capers, and there were cries of pain, as one alighted on another's toes, and cuffs and blows were exchanged as one jostled the other.

The Jew, who had broken away from his hold of the desk, was the maddest in his capers, and he shrieked for mercy; the others soon joining in the cry, begged the player to leave off, but he fiddled away faster and faster till the judge promised him a free pardon.

The Countryman said, "I already once earned the hundred pieces of gold, and I deserve them now again for the dance I have played; so pray, my Lord, order the money to be restored to me, or I must think that you are not yet satisfied."

The judge then said the money should be given him; but the Countryman, without leaving off playing, addressed all the other dancers thus, "You all hear how handsomely his Lordship rewards me, and I expect that each of you will show your gratitude, for the amusement I have afforded you, by a present; each according to his means."

So anxious were all to put an end to the dance that every one offered what he could afford, but the Countryman said, "I did not hear the Jew's voice. Now, of him I have to request a full confession of how he came by the hundred pieces of gold; and till he has made this confession I must trouble you all to continue the dance."

All threatened the Jew with instant death if he did not confess; so the rogue was forced to condemn himself by confessing that he stole the hundred pieces of gold; for which he was punished with as many stripes, when the dance was over.

[Decoration]

XXVI.

_My Watch._

I must tell you my story myself, that is the story of my watch, and bad luck to it, for it was small comfort to me; and what have I now left of it, but to tell the trouble it brought upon me?

One day of the year eighteen hundred and thirty-three, Tim Looney, the parish schoolmaster, a mighty learned man, from whom I got my learning, went up to Dublin, to get his lease renewed with 'Squire Beamish, who is now dead and gone, rest his soul. Well, as I was saying, Tim Looney went up to Dublin, and had just come back, when of course all the neighbours came to hear the news from the big city, and Molly Mahone, as you can imagine, thrust herself before them all, saying--

"Come, you auld pictur card, when are you goin' to tell us the news? What is the good of you, you auld worm, if you canna even speak?"

You know Moll is rather hasty.

"Och, and it's more wonders I have to tell than one of you will believe. I saw the great Boneparte riding on a flea, and the Dook of Wellington by his side, quite friendly like." "And was Boneparte a very big man?" said I.

"I don't know," said Tim; "I've heard say he was a little man, but they call him the great Boneparte for all that."

"He was a great man," said Moll to me, "just as you are a great fool, so hauld yer tongue, will ye, and let Tim go on."

Tim did go on, and told us many other great wonders; but it's of myself I want to speak. Well, then, after Tim had told us all he had seen, he gave me such a fine large silver watch, and a thirty shilling note, which my sister, Biddy, had sent from Merica, for me to buy a new fiddle with, for she had heard that I was great in music. I put the watch in my pocket to keep it safe, and then I examined the note all over, thinking all the while how beautiful I would play on my new fiddle; but Tim soon stopped me by asking me what o'clock it was.

After looking at the sun, which he himself had taught me, I told him it must be about two; when he said, "And why can't you look at the watch, and tell me the exact minute it is?"

I didn't look at my watch, for I thought it was making game of me he was, but I said, "And how should she tell me the time of day? Can she speak?"

"You are a big fool, Paul," he said; "look at her face, and see where her hands point to." That she should be able to tell me the time, and have a face and hands, with which she points, was too much, so I burst out laughing, but I took her out of my pocket.

"There," Tim said, "don't you see something sticking out on her face? Those are her hands, and you see they point to numbers; but may be it's your numbers you don't know, after all my teaching."

This provoked me, so I looked at what he called her face, and saw the numbers, sure enough, and the things he called the hands too. "Well," Tim went on, "and what number does the short hand point to?" "None," said I, "for it points just half way between the two and the three." "Then the long hand points to six, and it's half-past two it is," Tim said. "And how does all this happen?" I asked, for I was sorely puzzled, Tim knowing too where the long hand pointed, without my telling him.

"Put her up to your ear," he said, "and she will tell you how she works."

I did as I was told, and heard her go "tick-a-tick, tick-a-tick." As I listened to her a mighty fear came over me, and I flung her from me, crying out, "The crittur does talk some unnatural language, and perhaps she'll bite too."

Tim caught her, and exclaimed, "What a fool you are, Paul!" for he was now quite angry; "if I had not caught her she would have been done for entirely." After he had held her some time in his hands, seeing there was no harm in her, I took her again and went home. I was half afraid of her, so did not look at her again till night, when the big varmint, Pat Molloy, came in, shouting fit to frighten the life out of one.

"Is it a watch I hear you've got, Paul?"

"Those ugly long ears of yours heard right," I answered, for I did not much like Pat. "And may be then you'll be after telling one the time it is." With that I pulled out the watch, and looked at her; but I had clean forgotten what Tim had told me, though I recollected something about her hands pointing to a number, so seeing something pointing to seven, I said at once, "It's near seven o'clock," for I did not like to be looking too long, to be laughed at by that fellow.

"And it's near seven, it is," Pat said. "You're a fine fellow to have a watch. It's a turnip you might as well have in your pocket, for it's long past eight, it is." The pride of the O'Moors and of the O'Doughertys was taken out of me entirely quite by that rascal, for I felt it rush from the soles of my feet into my head, but I wouldn't get into a passion, for him to see that I was in the wrong, so I said, "And if you know the time so well, why do you ask me?"

Pat only burst into a hoarse laugh, and ran out of the cabin to tell every one, he could show his ugly face to. I went to bed to drown my troubles, but it was one long night-mare I had; first the watch and then the fiddle dancing on my chest, grinning at me all the while, with Pat Molloy looking on.

My first thought on waking in the morning was my watch, and looking up to her, for I had hung her on a nail, as I had been told, I said, "Good morning to you, how are you this morning, my dear?" for I thought it best to be civil to her, but no answer did she make me. I spoke to her again, and as she was still silent I took her down from the nail and held her to my ear.

"Och, it's dead she is," I cried, as she still gave no signs of life, and I rushed across to Tim's. I knocked at his window, shouting, "Are you awake?" "No," he said; "why should I be awake at this time o'morning?"

"Then," said I, "you must listen to me in your sleep, for it's dead she is, and what will I do at all?" "I hope she had the benefit of the Clergy," Tim cried, starting up and coming to the window. "It's not that I mean, it's not my mother at all, it's the watch that's dead," I explained.

"Leave me in peace then," he said, going back to his bed; but as I would not leave him in peace, but kept crying out, "What will I do?" he growled, "Wind her up, you fool; she's not dead at all; but give her here, and the key, or it's ruin her you will."

So I gave him the watch and the barn-door key, which I happened to have in my pocket. It was well for me that I turned my head on one side, as I thought I heard some one coming, for just then the key came whizzing past my ear.

"I wish it had broken your lubberly head," Tim cried, in the biggest rage I ever saw him. "It's the little key I want; the one with the bit of red tape I gave you yesterday."

I fortunately found the funny little thing in my pocket, but it was not a bit like a key. As soon as I gave it him he twisted and twirled it about in her, till I heard her cry, and then he said--

"There, take her away, for she is all right again, and mind you don't let me see you for a whole week, or surely it's murder you I will."

Now, mind this and you'll see how strangely things come about. If it had not been for this what Tim said, I should not have had to tell you the story of my watch, or it would not have ended as it now must. If Tim had told me about winding her up the night before I should not have disturbed him in the morning, and he would not have been so angry, and would not have told me not to see him again for a week. He has since said that he did not mean a word of that; and, had I but known it, that tarnation Pat could not have cheated me; however I will tell you how it happened.

Directly after I left Tim, whom should I meet but Pat, who spoke quite civil, saying, "Well, Paul, and how's the watch? I've been thinking since I heard her 'glucking' last night that it's to lay she wants, and that if she had a nest you'd have some young watches in a day or two."

"Do you think so?" said I.

"I'm sure of it," said he; so we went along to the barn together and made her a nice comfortable nest of hay.

"Now," he said, as he laid her in it, and covered her up quite warm and snug, "you must not go near or disturb her for five days, or it's desert her nest she will, and you'll have no younguns."

Well, to finish with my story, after five days I went to the nest, and what do you think I found? No younguns, nor the old watch neither, but a big turnip. I ran to Pat's, but he had gone off to America. I never saw my watch again; but up to this day the boys call out, when they are out of my reach--

"Paul, tell us what o'clock it is."

[Decoration]

XXVII.

_Fittletetot._

There was a good woman of Kittleroopit, but where Kittleroopit is exactly I cannot tell you; so it's of no use pretending to more than one knows. Her husband was a vagabondizing sort of a body, and he went to a fair one day, from which he not only never returned, but never was anything more heard of him.

Some said that he enlisted, and others that he had fallen into the hands of the press-gang; certain it is, anyhow, that the press-gang was about the country ready to snap up anyone, for our good dame's eldest brother, Sandy, was all but smothered in the meal-tub, hiding from these man-stealers; and after they had gone he was pulled out from the meal wheezing and sneezing, and was as white as any ghost. His mother had to pick the meal out of his mouth with the handle of a spoon.

Well, when her husband was gone the good woman of Kittleroopit had little left but her baby, and there was not much of that; for it was only a wee thing of a few weeks old. Everybody said they were sorry for her, but no one helped her, which is a case of constant occurrence, as you know. The good woman, however, had still something left, which was a sow; and it was, moreover, near littering time.

But we all know that fortune is uncertain; for one day, when the dame went into the sty to fill the trough, what should she find but the sow lying on her back groaning and grunting, and ready to give up the ghost.

This was a blow to the poor woman, so she sat down with the child on her knee and fretted more sorely than ever she had done for the loss of her husband.

I must tell you that the cottage of Kittleroopit was built on the slope of a hill, with a small fir-wood behind it; and as the good woman happened to look down the hill she saw an old woman coming up the footpath, dressed almost like a lady. She had on a green dress, and wore a black velvet hood and steeple-crowned hat. She carried a staff in her hand as long as herself--the sort of staff that old men and old women used to help themselves along with long ago. They seem to be out of fashion now.

Well, when the good woman saw the green lady near her she rose up and began courtesying, and said, "Madam, I am one of the most misfortunate women alive, for I have lost--" But the green woman interrupted her, saying--

"I don't wish to hear piper's news and fiddler's tales, my good woman. I know that you have lost the good man of the house, but that is no such great loss; and I know that your sow is very ill, which is worse; but that can be remedied. Now, what will you give me if I cure your sow?"

"Anything your good Ladyship likes," answered the good Woman, for she little knew whom she had to deal with.

"Let's shake hands on that bargain," said the green Lady; so they shook hands, and madam then marched into the sty.