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 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.