antern
round, and then for a moment it is dark; now wait a moment, and you'll
see the light again."

"Ah!" said the child, with a smile and a little sigh, "it is good to
be--home!"

And with that word on his lips, as he waited for the next flash,
Johnny stretched himself and died.

LEGENDS OF ST. PIRAN.

I.--SAINT PIRAN AND THE MILLSTONE.

Should you visit the Blackmore tin-streamers on their feast-day, which
falls on Friday-in-Lide (that is to say, the first Friday in March),
you may note a truly Celtic ceremony. On that day the tinners pick out
the sleepiest boy in the neighbourhood and send him up to the highest
_bound_ in the works, with instructions to sleep there as long as he
can. And by immemorial usage the length of his nap will be the measure
of the tinners' afternoon siesta for twelve months to come.

Now, this first week in March is St. Piran's week: and St. Piran is
the miners' saint. To him the Cornishmen owe not only their tin, which
he discovered on the spot, but also their divine laziness, which he
brought across from Ireland and naturalised here. And I learned his
story one day from an old miner, as we ate our bread and cheese
together on the floor of Wheal Tregobbin, while the Davy lamp between
us made wavering giants of our shadows on the walls of the adit, and
the sea moaned as it tossed on its bed, two hundred feet above.

* * * * *

St. Piran was a little round man; and in the beginning he dwelt on
the north coast of Ireland, in a leafy mill, past which a stream came
tumbling down to the sea. After turning the saint's mill-wheel, the
stream dived over a fall into the Lough below, and the _lul-ul-ur-r-r_
of the water-wheel and fall was a sleepy music in the saint's ear noon
and night.

It must not be imagined that the mill-wheel ground anything. No; it
went round merely for the sake of its music. For all St. Piran's
business was the study of objects that presented themselves to his
notice, or, as he called it, the "Rapture av Contemplation"; and as
for his livelihood, he earned it in the simplest way. The waters of
the Lough below possessed a peculiar virtue. You had only to sink a
log or stick therein, and in fifty years' time that log or stick would
be turned to stone. St. Piran was as quick as you are to divine the
possibilities of easy competence offered by this spot. He took time by
the forelock, and in half a century was fairly started in bus