THE SHOEMAKER OF DONEGAL
“Tell me the story again, Kathleen.”
“I can’t tell it to you here, Mary Ellen,” whispered her sister. “Sure, he might be under the hedge this minute and hear me talking about him. Come to the top of the hill and I’ll tell you.”
Mary Ellen slipped her hand into Kathleen’s, and the two children stole softly away from the door-stone where they had been playing. Their bare feet made no sound on the green grass, and the old grandmother, who was spinning at the door of the cottage, did not even look up as they passed.
A thick fuchsia hedge bordered the plot of green grass that surrounded the cottage, shutting out the barren field behind the house. Slipping through the hedge, the little girls followed the narrow foot-path that led across the field to the top of the hill.
“I’m thinkin’ of a riddle Danny gave me the morn,” said Kathleen, as they ran along the path.
“Give it to me,” said Mary Ellen eagerly, and Kathleen laughed merrily as she repeated:
“From house to house it goes,
A wanderer small and slight;
And whether it rains or snows,