inger sang
louder than all the rest of the people put together.

"Musha, the roars of him are like the roars of a giant," Eileen said to
Larry. "Indeed, I'm fearing he'll burst himself with the noise that's
in him."

The moment the song ended, the Ballad Singer passed the hat, and the
crowd began to melt away. "There you go, now," cried the Singer,
"lepping away on your two hind legs like scared rabbits! Come along
back now, and buy the Ballad of `The Peeler and the Goat.' Sure, 'tis a
fine song entirely and one you'll all be wanting to sing yourselves when
once you've heard it." He seized a young man by the arm. "Walk up and
buy a ballad now," he said to him. "Troth, you've the look of a fine
singer yourself, and dear knows what minute you may be needing one, and
none handy. Come now, buy before 'tis too late."

The young man turned very red. "I don't think I'll be wanting any
ballads," he said, and tried to pull away.

"You don't think!" shouted the Ballad Singer. "Of course, you don't
think, you've nothing whatever to do it with!"

The crowd laughed. The poor young man bought a ballad.

"There now," cried the Singer, "you're the broth of a boy after all!
Who'll be after buying the next one off of me?"

His eyes lighted on the Twins. They shook in their shoes. "He'll be
clapping one of them on us next," Larry said to Eileen. "We'd best be
going along;" and they crept out of the crowd just as he began to roar
out a new song.

An old woman, with a white cap and a shawl over her head and a basket on
her arm, smiled at them as they slipped by. She jerked her thumb over
her shoulder at the Ballad Singer. "Melodious is the closed mouth," she
said.

"Indeed, ma'am, I've often heard my Mother say so," Eileen answered
politely. She curtsied to the old woman.

The old woman looked pleased. "Will you come along with me out of the
sound of this--the both of you?" she said. "And I'll take you to hear
things that will keep the memory of Ireland green while there's an
Irishman left in the world."

She led them to a raised platform some distance away. Over the platform
there floated a white flag with a green harp on it. The old woman
pointed to it. "Do you remember the old harp of Tara?" she said to the
Twins. "'Tis nowhere else at all now but on the flag, but time was,
long, long years ago, when the harp itself was played on Tara's hill.
And in those days there were poets to praise Ireland, and s