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© КАРО, 2012

Hudden and Dudden and Donald O’Neary

One day Hudden met Dudden, and they were soon grumbling as usual, and all to the tune of, ‘If only we could get that vagabond Donald O’Neary out of the country. ’

‘Let’s kill Daisy,’ said Hudden at last; ‘if that doesn’t make him clear out, nothing will. ’

No sooner said than agreed, and it wasn’t dark before Hudden and Dudden crept up to the little shed where lay poor Daisy trying her best to chew the cud, though she hadn’t had as much grass in the day as would cover your hand. And when Donald came to see if Daisy was all snug for the night, the poor beast had only time to lick his hand once before she died.

Well, Donald was a shrewd fellow, and downhearted though he was, began to think if he could get any good out of Daisy’s death. He thought and he thought, and the next day you could have seen him trudging off early to the fair, Daisy’s hide over his shoulder, every penny he had jingling in his pockets. Just before he got to the fair, he made several slits in the hide, put a penny in each slit, walked into the best inn of the town as bold as if it belonged to him, and, hanging the hide up to a nail in the wall, sat down.

‘Some of your best whiskey,’ says he to the landlord. But the landlord didn’t like his looks. ‘Is it fearing I won’t pay you, you are?’ says Donald.

‘What’ll you take for that hide?’

‘It’s not for sale, my good man. ’

‘Will you take a gold piece?’

‘It’s not for sale, I tell you. Hasn’t it kept me and mine for years?’ and with that Donald hit the hide another whack and out jumped a second penny.

‘Good evening, Hudden. Will you lend me your best pair of scales?’

Hudden stared and Hudden scratched his head, but he lent the scales.