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Who knows? It's Celtic. (standard:fairy tales, 2165 words)
Author: BaitAdded: Sep 20 2000Views/Reads: 3808/2127Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Some sort of Celtic story.


There once were two farmers named Hudden and Dudden, they had poultry in
their yards, sheep on the upland and scores of cattle grazing alongside 
the river bed.  But for all that they weren’t happy.  For just between 
their two farms lived a very poor but kind gentleman named Donald 
O’Leary.  Donald had a hovel over his head and a thin strip of land 
barely enough to feed his one cow, (conveniently named Daisy).  The 
poor cow did her best, but a rare treat when Donald got a little milk 
or a roll of butter from her.  You would think there was little here to 
make Hudden and Dudden jealous, and so it is the more one has, the more 
one wants, and Donald’s neighbours lay awake at night scheming of how 
they could get his little strip of land.  Daisy, poor thing, they never 
thought of; she was just a bag of bones. 

One day Hudden and Dudden met and they were soon grumbling along the
tune of  ‘If only we could get that vagabond O’Leary out of the 

‘Let’s kill Daisy’, suggested Hudden, ‘if that doesn’t clear him out
then nothing will!’ 

No sooner said than agreed and it wasn’t long before the two scheming
farmers crept up to the little shed where Daisy was trying her best to 
chew her cud, but she hadn’t had as much grass in one day as would 
cover you hand.  And when Donald came to see if his only friend was 
snug for the night, she could lick his hand once before the poison took 
effect and she dropped dead. 

Donald was drastically downhearted but began to think if any good could
come of this.  He thought and he thought and the next day, early in the 
morning you could have seen him trudging off to the fair with 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 and 
put a coin in each of them.  Then he walked into the best inn in town 
as bold as if he owned the place, and hanging up the hide on a nail in 
the wall, he sat down. 

‘A shot of your best whisky’, says he to the landlord.  But the landlord
didn’t like his shabby looks.  ‘Is it fearing I won’t pay you, you 
are?’ says Donald.  ‘Why I have here a hide that gives me all the money 
I want!’  And with that he hit a whack with his stick and out popped a 
penny.  The landlord opened his eyes, as you may fancy. 

‘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 nine
years?’  And with that Donald hit the hide another whack and out jumped 
another penny.  Donald let the hide go, and who should walk up to 
Hudden’s door but him? 

‘Good evening Hudden.  May I borrow your scales please?’ Hudden stared
and Hudden scratched his head, but he lent him the scales.  When Donald 
was back home he pulled out all his gold coins and began weighing them. 
 But Hudden had put a piece of butter in the bottom of the scales, and 
so the last coin stuck when he returned the scales to Hudden.  If 
Hudden had stared before, he stared ten times more now, and no sooner 
was Donald’s back turned, than he was off as fast as he could pelt to 

‘Good evening Dudden, that vagabond, ill luck to him...’ 

‘You mean Donald O’Leary?’ 

‘And who else should I mean?  He’s back here weighing sackfulls of

‘How can you be sure?’ 

‘Here are my scales that he borrowed, and here is the evidence, sticking
to the bottom!’ 

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