tle White Cat in the far-off seas.

THE GOLDEN SPEARS.

Once upon a time there lived in a little house under a hill a little
old woman and her two children, whose names were Connla and Nora.
Right in front of the door of the little house lay a pleasant meadow,
and beyond the meadow rose up to the skies a mountain whose top was
sharp-pointed like a spear. For more than half-way up it was clad with
heather, and when the heather was in bloom it looked like a purple
robe falling from the shoulders of the mountain down to its feet.
Above the heather it was bare and grey, but when the sun was sinking
in the sea, its last rays rested on the bare mountain top and made it
gleam like a spear of gold, and so the children always called it the
"Golden Spear."

In summer days they gambolled in the meadow, plucking the sweet wild
grasses--and often and often they clambered up the mountain side, knee
deep in the heather, searching for frechans and wild honey, and
sometimes they found a bird's nest--but they only peeped into it, they
never touched the eggs or allowed their breath to fall upon them, for
next to their little mother they loved the mountain, and next to the
mountain they loved the wild birds who made the spring and summer
weather musical with their songs.

Sometimes the soft white mist would steal through the glen, and
creeping up the mountain would cover it with a veil so dense that the
children could not see it, and then they would say to each other: "Our
mountain is gone away from us." But when the mist would lift and float
off into the skies, the children would clap their hands, and say: "Oh,
there's our mountain back again."

In the long nights of winter they babbled of the spring and summertime
to come, when the birds would once more sing for them, and never a day
passed that they didn't fling crumbs outside their door, and on the
borders of the wood that stretched away towards the glen.

When the spring days came they awoke with the first light of the
morning, and they knew the very minute when the lark would begin to
sing, and when the thrush and the blackbird would pour out their
liquid notes, and when the robin would make the soft, green, tender
leaves tremulous at his song.

It chanced one day that when they were resting in the noontide heat,
under the perfumed shade of a hawthorn in bloom, they saw on the edge
of the meadow, spread out before them, a speckled thrush cowering in
the grass.

"Oh