(A Legend of Cong.)
here was wanst upon a time, long ago, a beautiful young
lady that lived in a castle up by the lake beyant, and they
say she was promised to a king’s son, and they wor to
be married, when, all of a suddent, he was murthered, the
crathur (Lord help us!) and threwn in the lake abou, and
so, of coorse, he couldn’t keep his promise to the fair lady—andmore’s the pity.

“Well, the story goes that she went out iv her mind, bekase of loosin’ the king’s son—for she was tindher-hearted, God help her! like the rest iv us—and pined away after him, until at last no one about seen her, good or bad; and the story wint that the fairies took her away.

“Well, sir, in coorse o’ time the white throut, God bless it! was seen in the sthrame beyant; and sure the people didn’t know what to think of the crathur, seein’ as how a white brown throut was never heerd av afore nor sence; and years upon years the throut was there, just where you seen it this blessed minit, longer nor I can tell—aye, throth, and beyant the memory o’ th’ ouldest in the village.

“At last the people began to think it must be a fairy; for what else could it be?—and no hurt nor harm was iver put an the throut, until some wicked sinners of sojers kem to these parts, and laughed at all the people, and gibed and jeered them for thinkin’ o’ the likes; and one o’ them in partic’lar (bad luck to him—God forgi’ me for sayin’ it!) swore he’d catch the throut and ate it for his dinner—the blackguard!

ell, what would you think o’ the villiany of the sojer?—sure enough he cotch the throut, and away wid him home, and puts an the fryin’ pan, and into it he pitches the purty little thing. The throut squeeled all as one as a Christian crathur, and, my dear, you’d think the sojer id split his sides laughin’—for he was a harden’d villian; and when he thought one side was done, he turns it over to fry the other; and what would you think? but the divil a taste of a burn was an it at all at all; and sure the sojer thought it was a quare throut that couldn’t be briled; ‘but,’ says he, ‘I’ll give it another turn by and by’—little thinkin’ what was in store for him, the haythen!

“Well, when he thought that side was done he turns it again—and lo and behould you, the divil a taste more done that side was nor the other. ‘Bad luck to me,’ says the sojer, ‘but that bates the world,’ says he; ‘but I’ll thry you agin, my darlint,’ says he, ‘as cunnin’ as you think yourself’—and so with that he turns it over and over, but not a sign av the fire was an the purty throut. ‘Well,’ says the desperate villian—(for sure, sir, only he was a desperate villian entirely; he might know he was doin’ a wrong thing, seein’ that all his endayvours was no good)—‘well,’ says he, ‘my jolly little throut, maybe you’re fried enough, though you don’t seem over well dress’d; but you may be better than you look, like a singed cat, and a tit-bit, afther all,’ says he; and with that he ups with his knife and fork to taste a piece o’ the throut—but, my jew’l, the minit he puts his knife into the fish there was a murtherin’ screech, that you’d think the life id lave you if you heerd it, and away jumps the throut out av the fryin’ pan into the middle o’ the flure; and an the spot where it fell up riz a lovely lady—the beautifullest young crathur that eyes ever seen, dressed in white, and a band o’ goold in her hair, and a sthrame o’ blood runnin’ down her arm.

ook where you cut me, you villian,’ says she, and she held out her arm to him—and, my dear, he thought the sight id lave his eyes.

“‘Couldn’t you lave me cool and comfortable in the river where you snared me, and not disturb me in my duty?’ says she.