iness.
Henceforward he passed all his days among the rocks above the fall,
whistling to himself while he whittled bits of cork and wood into
quaint shapes, attached them to string, weighted them with pebbles,
and lowered them over the fall into the Lough--whence, after
fifty years he would draw them forth, and sell them to the simple
surrounding peasantry at two hundred and fifty _per centum per annum_
on the initial cost.

It was a tranquil, lucrative employment, and had he stuck to the
Rapture of Contemplation, he might have ended his days by the fall.
But in an unlucky hour he undertook to feed ten Irish kings and their
armies for three weeks anend on three cows. Even so he might have
escaped, had he only failed. Alas! As it was, the ten kings had no
sooner signed peace and drunk together than they marched up to St.
Piran's door, and began to hold an Indignation Meeting.

"What's ailing wid ye, then?" asked the saint, poking his head out at
the door; "out wid ut! Did I not stuff ye wid cow-mate galore when the
land was as nakud as me tonshure? But 'twas three cows an' a miracle
wasted, I'm thinkin'."

"Faith, an' ye've said ut!" answered one of the kings. "Three cows
between tin Oirish kings! 'Tis insultin'! Arrah, now, make it foive,
St. Piran darlint!"

"Now may they make your stummucks ache for that word, ye marautherin'
thieves av the world!"

And St. Piran slammed the door in their faces.

But these kings were Ulstermen, and took things seriously. So they
went off and stirred up the people: and the end was that one sunshiny
morning a dirty rabble marched up to the mill and laid hands on the
saint. On what charge, do you think? Why, for _Being without Visible
Means of Support!_

"There's me pethrifyin' spicimins!" cried the saint: and he tugged at
one of the ropes that stretched down into the Lough.

"Indade!" answered one of the ten kings: "Bad luck to your spicimins!"
says he.

"Fwhat's that ye're tuggin.' at?" asks a bystander.

"Now the Holy Mother presarve your eyesight, Tim Coolin," answers St.
Piran, pulling it in, "if ye can't tell a plain millstone at foive
paces! I never asked ye to see _through_ ut," he added, with a
twinkle, for Tim had a plentiful lack of brains, and that the company
knew.

Sure enough it was a millstone, and a very neat one; and the saint,
having raised a bit of a laugh, went on like a cheap-jack:

"Av there's any gintleman prisunt wid an eye for millstones, I'll
t