nd they asked the same question, and it returned the
same answer, and after it they went.

At last it came to a ford where it met with a fox, and he asked where it
was running. "Oh, I'm running away from the mouse, the rat, and the
little red hen, from a barn full of threshers, a ditch full of ditchers,
a well full of washers, and from you, too, if I can."

"But you can't cross the ford," says the fox. "And can't you carry me
over?" says the cake. "What'll you give me?" says the fox. "A kiss at
Christmas and an egg at Easter," says the cake.

"Very well," says the fox--"up with you." So he sat on his haunches with
his nose in the air, and the cake got up by his tail till it sat on his
crupper.

"Now, over with you," says the cake. "You're not high enough," says the
fox. Then it scrambled up on his shoulder. "Up higher still," says he;
"you wouldn't be safe there." "Am I right now?" says he. "You'll be
safer on the ridge pole of my nose."

"Well," says the cake, "I think I can go no further." "Oh, yes," says
he, and he shot it up in the air, caught it in his mouth, and sent it
down the Red Lane. And that was the end of the cake.

The Legend of the Little Weaver of Duleek Gate

(_A Tale of Chivalry._)

You see, there was a waiver lived wanst upon a time in Duleek here, hard
by the gate, and a very honest, industherous man he was by all accounts.
Well, it was one mornin' that his housekeeper called to him, and he
sitting very busy throwin' the shuttle; and says she, "Your brekquest is
ready!" "Lave me alone," says he; "I'm busy with a patthern here that is
brakin' my heart, and until I complate and masther it intirely I won't
quit."

"Oh, think o' the iligant stirabout that'll be spylte intirely."

"To the divil with the stirabout!" says he.

"God forgive you," says she, "for cursin' your good brekquest."

Well, he left the loom at last and wint over to the stirabout, and what
would you think, but whin he looked at it, it was as black as a crow;
for, you see, it was in the hoighth o' summer, and the flies lit upon it
to that degree that the stirabout was fairly covered with them.

"Why, thin, bad luck to your impidence," says the waiver; "would no
place sarve you but that? And is it spyling my brekquest yiz are, you
dirty bastes?" And with that, bein' altogether cruked tempered at the
time, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o'
stirabout and killed no less than three score and