“‘It’s well for you,’ says Saint Kavin, mighty sharp—‘it’s well for you, King O’Toole, that you said that word,’ says he; ‘for if you didn’t say that word, the divil receave the bit o’ your goose id iver fly agin,’ says Saint Kavin.

“‘Oh, you needn’t laugh,’ said old Joe, ‘for it’s thruth I’m telling you.’

“Well, whin the King was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was plazed with him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the King.

“Well, my dear, that’s the way that the place kem, all at wanst, into the hands of Saint Kavin; for the goose flew round every individyial acre o’ King O’Toole’s property, you see, bein’ let into the saycret by Saint Kavin, who was mighty cute; and so, when he done the ould King out iv his property for the glory of God, he was plazed with him, and he and the King was the best o’ friends iver more afther (for the poor ould King was doatin’, you see), and the King had his goose as good as new to divart him as long as he lived; and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property, as I tould you, until the day iv his death—and that was soon afther; for the poor goose thought he was ketchin’ a throut one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made—and instead of a throut, it was a thievin’ horse-eel! and, by gor, instead iv the goose killin’ a throut for the King’s supper—by dad, the eel killed the King’s goose—and small blame to him; but he didn’t ate her, bekase he darn’t ate what Saint Kavin laid his blessed hands on.”

Samuel Lover.

or the red shoon of the Shee,
For the falling o’ the leaf,
For the wind among the reeds,
My grief.
For the sorrow of the sea,
For the song’s unquickened seeds,
For the sleeping of the Shee,
My grief.
For dishonoured whitethorn-tree,
For the runes that no man reads
Where the grey stones face the sea,
My grief.

Lissakeole, that used to be
Filled with music night and noon,
For their ancient revelry,
My grief.
For the empty fairy shoon,
Hollow rath and yellow leaf,
Hands unkissed to sun or moon,
My grief—my grief!

Nora Hopper.