The Essential Celtic Folklore Collection. Lady Gregory

dacent people; but never for to b'lieve the likes--for it was only mulvatherin people they wor." For my part, I promised never to put faith in any but himself; and the old rogue's self-love being satisfied, we set out to explore the wonders of Glendalough. On arriving at a small ruin, situated on the south-eastern side of the lake, my guide assumed an air of importance, and led me into the ivy-covered remains, through a small square doorway, whose simple structure gave evidence of its early date: a lintel of stone lay across two upright supporters, after the fashion of such remains in Ireland.

      "This, sir," said my guide, putting himself in an attitude, "is the chapel of King O'Toole--av coorse y'iv often heard o' King O'Toole, your honour?"

      "Never," said I.

      "Musha, thin, do you tell me so?" said be. "By gor, I thought all the world, far and near, heerd o' King O'Toole! Well, well!--but the darkness of mankind is ontellible. Well, sir, you must know, as you didn't hear it afore, that there was wanst a king, called King O'Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould ancient times, long ago; and it was him that ownded the Churches in the airly days."

      "Surely," said I, "the Churches were not in King O'Toole's time?"

      "Oh, by no manes, your honour--throth, it's yourself that's right enough there; but you know the place is called 'The Churches,' bekase they wor built afther by St. Kavin, and wint by the name o' the Churches iver more; and therefore, av coorse, the place bein' so called, I say that the king ownded the Churches--and why not, sir, seein' 'twas his birthright, time out o' mind, beyant the flood? Well, the king, you see, was the right sort--he was the rale boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and huntin' in partic'lar; and from the risin' o' the sun, up he got, and away be wint over the mountains beyant afther the deer. And the fine times them wor; for the deer was as plinty thin--aye, throth, far plintyer than the sheep is now; and that's the way it was with the king, from the crow o' the cock to the song o' the redbreast.

      "In this counthry, air," added he, speaking parenthetically in an undertone, "we think it onlooky to kill the redbreast, or the robin is God's own bird."

      Then, elevating his voice to its former pitch, he proceeded:

      "Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but, you see, in coorse o' time, the king grewn ould, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got athriken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost intirely for want o' divarshin, bekase he couldn't go a-huntln' no longer; and, by dad, the poor king' was obleeged at last for to get a goose to divart him."

      Here an involuntary smile was produced by this regal mode of recreation, "the royal game of goose."

      "Oh, you may laugh if you like," said he, half-affronted, "but it's thruth I'm tellin' you; and the way the goose diverted him was this-a-way: you see, the goose used for to swim acrass the lake, and go down divin' for throut (and not finer throut in all Ireland, than the same throut), and cotch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew every other day round about the lake divartin' the poor king, that you'd think he'd break his sides laughin' at the frolicksome tricks av his goose; so in coorse o' time the goose was the greatest pet in the counthry, and the biggest rogue, and diverted the king to no end, and the poor king was as happy as the day was long. So that's the way it was; and all went on mighty well, antil, by dad, the goose got sthricken in years, as well as the king, and grewn stiff in the limbs, like her masther, and couldn't divert him no longer; and then it was that the poor king was lost complate, and didn't know what in the wide world to do, seein' he was done out of all divarshin, by raison that the goose was no more in the flower of her blame.

      "Well, the king was nigh-hand broken-hearted, and melancholy intirely, and, was walkin' one mornin' by the edge of the lake, lamentin' his cruel fate, an' thinkin' o' drownin' himself that could get no divarshin in life, when all of a suddint, turnin' round the corner beyant, who should he meet but a mighty dacent young man comin' up to him.

      "'God save you,' says the king (for the king was a civil-spoken gintleman, by all accounts), 'God save you, 'says he to the young man.

      "'God save you kindly,' says the young man to him back again; 'God save you,' says he, 'King O'Toole.'

      "'Thrue for you,' says the king, 'I am King O'Toole,' says he, 'prince and plennypennytinchery o' these parts,' says he; 'but how kem ye to know that?' says he.

      ." 'Oh, never mind,' says Saint Kavin.

      "For you see," said Old Joe, in his undertone again, and looking very knowingly, "it was Saint Kavin, sure enough--the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. 'Oh, never mind,' says he, 'I know more than that," says be, 'nor twice that.'

      "'And who are you?' said the king, 'that makes so bowld--who are you, at all at all?'

      "Oh, never you mind,' says Saint Kavin, 'who I am; you'll know more o' me before we part, King O'Toole,' says he.

      "'I'll be proud o' the knowledge o' your acqaintance, sir,' says the king mighty p'lite.

      "'Troth, you may say that,' says Saint Kavin. 'And now, may I make bowld to ax, how is your goose, King O'Toole?' says he.

      "'Blur-an-agers, how kem you to know about my goose?' says the king.

      "'Oh, no matther; I was given to undherstand It,' says Saint Kavin.

      "'Oh, that's a folly to talk,' says the king; 'bekase myself and my goose Is private frinds,' says he, 'and no one could tell you,' says he 'barrin' the fairies.'

      "'Oh, thin, it wasn't the fairies,' says Saint Kavin; 'for I'd have you to know,' says he, "that I don't keep the likes o' sitch company.'

      "You might do worse then, my gay fellow,' says the king; 'for it's they could show you a crock o' money as alay as kiss hand; and that's not to be sneezed at,' says the king, 'by a poor man,' says be.

      "'Maybe I've a betther way of making money rnyself' says the saint.

      "'By gor,' says the king, 'barrin' you're a coiner," says he, 'that's impossible!'

      "I'd scorn to be the like, my lord!' says Saint Kavin, mighty high, 'I'd scorn to be the like,' says he.

      "'Then, what are you,' says the king 'that makes money so aisy, by your own account? '

      "'I'm an honest man,' says Saint Kavin.

      "'Well, honest man,' says the king, 'and how is it you make your money so aisy?'

      "'By makin' ould things as good as new,' says Saint Kavin.

      "'Blur-an-ouns, is it a tinker you are?' says the king.

      "'No,' say. the saint; 'I'm no tinker by thrade, King O'Toole; I've a betther thade than a tinker,' says he--' what would you say,' says he, 'if I made your old goose as good as new?'

      "My dear, at the word o' makin' his goose as good as new, you'd think the poor ould king's eyes was ready to jump out iv his head, 'and,' says he--'troth, thin, I'd give you more money nor you could count,' says he, 'if you did the like; and I'd be behoulden to you into the bargain.'

      "'I scorn your dirty money,' .sys Saint Kavin.

      "'Faith then, l'm thinkln' a thrifle o' change would do you no harm,' says the king, lookin' up sly at the old cawbeen that Saint Kavin had on him.

      "'I have a vow agin' it,' says the saint; 'and I am book sworn,' says he, 'never to have goold, silver, or brass in my company.'

      "'Barrin' the thrifle you can't help,' says the king, mighty cute, and looking him straight in the face.

      "'You just hot it,' says Saint Kavin; 'but though I can't take money,' says he, 'I could take a few acres o' land, if you'd give them to me."

      "'With all the veins o' my heart,' says the king, 'If you can do what you say.'

      "'Thry me!' says