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6. You're welcome to taste it,” the Leprechaun cried,

Tom thought there might be something queer in it, He'd heard folks who drank with fairies had died.

The Leprechaun said, “ Sure, it's beer in it.”

“ It's beer !” exclaimed Tom, “ when there's never a

shop, For miles and miles round to be buying it'; No, no, Master Fairy, I'll not touch a drop,

So your joke upon me don't be trying it.”

“It's no joke at all,” said the cobbler, “I work,

And so earn a right to the drink of it,” Then he hammered away at his shoe like a Turk, “ Tut, man, drink-and just say what you think

of it."

“I'd drink fast enough,” replied Tom, “ were I sure

It contained not some fairy ingredient.” Quoth the fairy, “ It's brewed from the heather, it's

pure.” Quoth Tom, “I don't think it expedient.” “Why, then,” said the fairy, "you'd better go home,

My time here you only are hindering; Get out of my workshop.” “Your workshop ?

cried Tom, “Why it's got ne'er a door nor a window in."

The fairy grew wrath at Tom's treating him so,

Tom, by looking so long, felt a dizziness, Which greatly increased when the fairy said “Go,

You had much better mind your own business."

“ There's your father's old cow has broke into the

oats, And the pig it is knocking the corn about, The dog's in the house, and is tearing your coats,

And the cat all her kittens has borne about.”

Then Tom, nearly losing his presence of mind,

On thinking of home and the state of it, He just on the point was of looking behind,

When the fairy 'd have beat a retreat of it.

But he thought, “If I once take my eyes off the elf,

I shall never be able to dab at him,
He'll be off in a crack, taking care of himself—"

And so, suddenly, Tom made a grab at him.

No chance had the Leprechaun then to escape,

In cunning Tom proved far the quicker, But he, in his hurry the fairy to take,

Kicked the pitcher, and upset the liquor.

The Leprechaun said, “What a folly is this?

To see how good liquor is wasted ;
Some day you'll regret such a chance you miss,

And that fairy-beer you never tasted.”

But Tom had him firm in his grasp, and he said,

As his hold on the fairy he tightened, “ I'm master here now, and am not to be led,

Nor be by a Leprechaun frightened ;

“So speak-or I'll break every bone in your skin

Where am I to dig for the treasure ?
No fencing the question—I want to begin;"

Said the fairy, “I'll tell you with pleasure.

" About four fields off there's a large crock of gold,

And there it's been hidden for ages;And now, Master Tom, wont you slacken your hold ?

Surely the labourer's worthy his wages."

“ I'm not such a fool as to trust you," said Tom,

“ Your cunning would mine soon beat hollow, So show me the place-me you do not stir from ;

Which way?-I am ready to follow.”

The Leprechaun saw he'd no chance-on they went,

But he led Tom through bogs and through ditches, No doubt out of spite, but still Tom was content,

For he only could think of his riches.

At last they arrived at a field of tall wheat,

Said the Leprechaun, “You'd never guess it, The gold that you seek lies right under your feet,

You have only to dig and possess it."

But there was not a landmark to mark out the spot,

Not even a tree nor a hovel,
And Tom recollected that with him he'd not

His pickaxe, his spade, nor his shovel.

He knew that the Leprechaun wouldn't stay there

Till he could go home and procure them, And his thoughts that the treasure he still might not

share, Were so bitter, he scarce could endure them.

The Leprechaun laughed, and cried, “Tom, work

away, And I will stand by just to view you, There's gold to be got that will labour repay;

When you get it-much good may it do you."

A thought then rushed right into cunning Tom's head,

Quoth he, “I am not to be beat here !"
Then he took off his garter, of ribbon, bright red,

Which he carefully tied to a wheat ear.

"It's all right,” he said, “I shall now know the

place," — And he felt once again quite light-hearted ;“Well, good by t’ye Tom, since the spot you can

Said the Leprechaun ;—then he departed.

Tom jumped over ditches, Tom ran o'er each field,

For the thoughts of his wealth made him bolder; From his father and mother his luck he concealed,

When he got home, his pickaxe to shoulder.

He stayed not a moment he took up his tools,

And back to the wheat field he hurried ; He thought all the world but himself must be fools,

To work while such treasure lied buried.

He got near the field-Yes ! it must be the same

For a thousand his chance he'd not barter, But when he right up to it suddenly came,

Every wheat-ear had on a red garter ! “Lord have mercy !" cried Tom, “why I can't dig

all this! The field fifty acres has in it, It would take me a lifetime, and then I might miss

And how'd I know where to begin it ? That dirty ould blackguard has cheated me still,

It's I am the biggest of martyrs !". And now, when the poppies the growing crops fill,

They call them there—CUNNING Tom's GARTERS. Thus Tom he went home again just as he came,

And all his relations and brothers,
They told him he only himself had to blame

For coveting that which was others;

Because if the treasure had really been there,

Though the Leprechaun might be the donor, Tom's duty was plainly the find to declare,

And to see if there might be an owner. He never went looking for fairies again,

His proper employment thus shirking ; And when he, at last, some few guineas did gain,

He was proud to confess 'twas by working.

Our tale has a moral—all fairy tales have

And 'tis this—If you'd wealth be possessing, The gold that is worked for, to spend or to save, Will prove in the end the best blessing.



Percy Bysshe SHELLEY.
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shades for the leaves when laid

In their noon-day dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest, on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night, 'tis my pillow white

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers

Lightning, my pilot, sits,
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder

It struggles and howls by fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii they move

In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream

The spirit he loves remains;

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