r, and Bill brought
her down, and she cried for mercy. "Give me my life," she said, "and
I'll tell you where you'll get your brother again, and his hound and
horse." "Where's that?" said Bill. "Do you see that rod over the fire?"
said she; "take it down and go outside the door where you'll see three
green stones, and strike them with the rod, for they are your brother,
and his horse and hound, and they'll come to life again." "I will, but
I'll make a green stone of you first," said Bill, and he cut off her
head with his sword.

Then he went out and struck the stones, and sure enough there were
Jack, and his horse and hound, alive and well. And they began striking
other stones around, and men came from them, that had been turned to
stones, hundreds and thousands of them.

Then they set out for home, but on the way they had some dispute or
some argument together, for Jack was not well pleased to hear he had
spent the night with his wife, and Bill got angry, and he struck Jack
with the rod, and turned him to a green stone. And he went home, but
the princess saw he had something on his mind, and he said then, "I
have killed my brother." And he went back then and brought him to life,
and they lived happy ever after, and they had children by the
basketful, and threw them out by the shovelful. I was passing one time
myself, and they called me in and gave me a cup of tea.

1902.

BY THE ROADSIDE

Last night I went to a wide place on the Kiltartan road to listen to
some Irish songs. While I waited for the singers an old man sang about
that country beauty who died so many years ago, and spoke of a singer
he had known who sang so beautifully that no horse would pass him, but
must turn its head and cock its ears to listen. Presently a score of
men and boys and girls, with shawls over their beads, gathered under
the trees to listen. Somebody sang Sa Muirnin Diles, and then somebody
else Jimmy Mo Milestor, mournful songs of separation, of death, and of
exile. Then some of the men stood up and began to dance, while another
lilted the measure they danced to, and then somebody sang Eiblin a
Ruin, that glad song of meeting which has always moved me more than
other songs, because the lover who made it sang it to his sweetheart
under the shadow of a mountain I looked at every day through my
childhood. The voices melted into the twilight and were mixed into the
trees, and when I thought of the words they too melted away, and