“Oh, Oh, Oh!” says theJudge, says he, “that memory of yours, Taig, must be a wonderful one.” Says he “Such memories as you three men have were never known before, and which of you has the greatest memory it beats me to say. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do now,” says he; “I’ll give the field to whichever of you has the keenest sight.”
“Then,” says Conal, says he, “it’s me gets the field; because,” says he, “if there was a fly perched on the top of yon mountain, ten miles away, I could tell you every time he blinked.”
“You have wonderful sight, Conal,” says the Judge, says he, “and I’m afraid you’ve got the field.”
“Take care,” says Donal, says he, “but I’ve got as good. For I could tell you whether it was a mote in his eye that made him blink or not.”
“Ah, ha, ha!” says the Judge, says he, “this is wonderful sight surely. Taig,” says he, “I pity you, for you have no chance for the field now.”
“Have I not?” says Taig. “I could tell you from here whether that fly was in good health or not by counting his heart beats.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “I’m in as great a quandary as ever. You are three of the most wonderful men that ever I met, and no mistake. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” says he; “I’ll give the field to the supplest man of you.”
“Thank you,” says Conal. “Then the field is mine.”
“Why so?” says the Judge.
“Because,” says Conal, says he, “if you filled that field with hares, and put a dog in the middle of them, and then tied one of my legs up my back, I would not let one of the hares get out.”
“Then, Conal,” says the Judge, says he, “I think the field is yours.”
“By the leave of your judgeship, not yet,” says Donal.
“Why, Donal,” says the Judge, says he, “surely you are not as supple as that?”
“Am I not ?” says Donal. “Do you see that old castle over there without door, or window, or roof in it, and the wind blowing in and out through it like an iron gate ?”
“I do,” says the Judge. “What about that?”
“Well,” says Donal, says he, “if on the stormiest day of the year you had that castle filled with feathers, I would not let a feather be lost, or go ten yards from the castle until I had caught and put it in again.”
“Well, surely,” says the Judge, says he, “you are a supple man, Donal, and no mistake. Taig,” says he, “there’s no chance for you now.”
“Don’t be too sure,” says Taig, says he.
“Why,” says the Judge, “you couldn’t surely do anything to equal these things, Taig?”
Says Taig, says he: “I can shoe the swiftest race-horse in the land when he is galloping at his topmost speed, by driving a nail every time he lifts his foot.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “surely you are the three most wonderful men that ever I did meet. The likes of you never was known before, and I suppose the likes of you will never be on the earth again. There is only one other trial,” says he, “and if this doesn’t decide, I’ll have to give it up. I’ll give the field,” says he, “to the cleverest man amongst you.”
“Then,” says Conal, says he, “you may as well give it to me at once.”
“Why? Are you that clever, Conal?” says the Judge, says he.
“I am that clever,” says Conal, “I am that clever, that I would make a skin-fit suit of clothes for a man without any more measurement than to tell me the color of his hair.”
“Then, boys,” says the Judge, says he, “I think the case is decided.”
“Not so quick, my friend,” says Donal, “not so quick.”
“Why, Donal,” says the Judge, says he, “you are surely not cleverer than that?”
“Am I not?” says Donal.
“Why,” says the Judge, says he, “what can you do, Donal?”
“Why,” says Donal, says he, “I would make a skin-fit suit for a man and give me no more measurement than let me hear him cough.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “the cleverness of you two boys beats all I ever heard of. Taig,” says he, “poor Taig, whatever chance either of these two may have for the field, I’m very, very sorry for you, for you have no chance.”
“Don’t be so very sure of that,” says Taig, says he.
“Why,” says the Judge, says he, “surely, Taig, you can’t be as clever as either of them. How clever are you, Taig?”
“Well,” says Taig, says he, “if I was a judge, and too stupid to decide a case that came up before me, I’d be that clever that I’d look wise and give some decision.”
“Taig,” says the Judge, says he, “I’ve gone into this case and deliberated upon it, and by all the laws of right and justice, I find and decide that you get the field.”
Manis the Miller
THERE was a man from the mountain, named Donal, once married the daughter of a stingy old couple who lived on the lowlands. He used to stay and work on his own wee patch of land all the week round, till it came to Saturday evening, and on Saturday evening he went to his wife’s father’s to spend Sunday with him.
Coming and going he always passed the mill of Manis, the miller, and Manis, who used to be watching him passing, always noticed, and thought it strange, that while he jumped the mill-race going to his wife’s father’s on a Saturday evening, he had always to wade through it coming back. And at last he stopped Donal one Monday morning, and asked him the meaning of it.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” says Donal, says he. “It’s this: My old father-in-law is such a very small eater, that he says grace and blesses himself when I’ve only got a few pieces out of my meals; so I’m always weak coming back on Monday morning.”
Manis, he thought over this to himself for a whuile, and then says he: “Would you mind letting me go with you next Saturday evening? If you do, I promise you that you’ll leap the mill-race coming back.”
“I’ll be glad to have you,” says Donal.
“Very well and good. When Saturday evening came, Manis joined Donal, and off they both trudged to Donal’s father-in-law’s.”
The old man was not too well pleased at seeing Donal bringing a fresh hand, but Manis, he didn’t pretend to see this, but made himself as welcome as the flowers in May. And when supper was laid down on Saturday night, Manis gave Donal the nudge, and both of them began to tie their shoes as if they had got loose, and they tied and tied away at their shoes, till the old man had eaten a couple of minutes, and then said grace and finished and got up from the table, thinking they wouldn’t have the ill-manners to sit down after the meal was over.
But down to the table my brave Manis and Donal sat, and ate their hearty skinful. And when the old fellow saw this, he was gruff and grumpy enough, and it was little they could get out of him between that and bedtime.
But Manis kept a lively chat going, and told good stories, that passed away the night; and when bedtime came and they offered Manis a bed in the room, Manis said no, that there was no place he could sleep only one, and that was along the fireside.
The old man and the old woman both objected to this, and said they couldn’t think of allowing a stranger to sleep there; but all they could say or do wasn’t any use, and Manis said he couldn’t and wouldn’t sleep in any other place, and insisted on lying down there, and lie down there he did in spite of them all, and they all went off to their beds.
But though Manis lay down, he was very careful not to let himself go to sleep; and when he was near about two hours lying he hears the room door open easy, and the old woman puts her head out and listens, and Manis he snored as if he hadn’t slept for ten days and ten nights before.
When the old woman heard this, she came on up the floor and looked at him, and saw him like as if he was
