--what
would you have of it?--the little scullery boy that used to be sleeping
over the horses, and could not get room at the fire, crept into the hot
hearth, and when he got tired listening to the stories, sorra fear him,
but he fell dead asleep.

Well and good. After they were all gone, and the kitchen raked up, he
was woke with the noise of the kitchen door opening, and the trampling
of an ass on the kitchen floor. He peeped out, and what should he see
but a big ass, sure enough, sitting on his curabingo and yawning before
the fire. After a little he looked about him, and began scratching his
ears as if he was quite tired, and says he, "I may as well begin first
as last." The poor boy's teeth began to chatter in his head, for, says
he, "Now he's going to ate me"; but the fellow with the long ears and
tail on him had something else to do. He stirred the fire, and then he
brought in a pail of water from the pump, and filled a big pot that he
put on the fire before he went out. He then put in his hand--foot, I
mean--into the hot hearth, and pulled out the little boy. He let a roar
out of him with the fright; but the pooka only looked at him, and thrust
out his lower lip to show how little he valued him, and then he pitched
him into his pew again.

Well, he then lay down before the fire till he heard the boil coming on
the water, and maybe there wasn't a plate, or a dish, or a spoon on the
dresser that he didn't fetch and put in the pot, and wash and dry the
whole bilin' of 'em as well as e'er a kitchen maid from that to Dublin
town. He then put all of them up on their places on the shelves; and if
he didn't give a good sweepin' to the kitchen, leave it till again. Then
he comes and sits fornent the boy, let down one of his ears, and cocked
up the other, and gave a grin. The poor fellow strove to roar out, but
not a dheeg 'ud come out of his throat. The last thing the pooka done
was to rake up the fire and walk out, giving such a slap o' the door
that the boy thought the house couldn't help tumbling down.

Well, to be sure, if there wasn't a hullabuloo next morning when the
poor fellow told his story! They could talk of nothing else the whole
day. One said one thing, another said another, but a fat, lazy scullery
girl said the wittiest thing of all. "Musha!" says she, "if the pooka
does be cleaning up everything that way when we are asleep, what should
we be slaving ourselves for doing his work?" "_Sha gu dheine_," say