sat down to take a shough o' the pipe,
and the wife lost no time in tying up the pudden, and puttin' it in the
pot to be boiled.

"In this way things went on well enough for a while, Jack smokin' away,
an' the wife cookin' an' dhressin' at the rate of a hunt. At last, Jack,
while sittin', as I said, contentedly at the fire, thought he could
persave an odd dancin' kind of motion in the pot that puzzled him a good
deal.

"'Katty,' says he, 'what the dickens is in this pot on the fire?'

"'Nerra thing but the big pudden. Why do you ax?' says she.

"'Why,' says he, 'if ever a pot tuck it into its head to dance a jig,
and this did. Thundher and sparbles, look at it!'

"Begad, and it was thrue enough; there was the pot bobbin' up an' down,
and from side to side, jiggin' it away as merry as a grig; an' it was
quite aisy to see that it wasn't the pot itself, but what was inside of
it, that brought about the hornpipe.

"'Be the hole o' my coat,' shouted Jack, 'there's somethin' alive in it,
or it would niver cut sich capers!'

"'Begorra, there is, Jack; somethin' sthrange entirely has got into it.
Wirra, man alive, what's to be done?'

"Jist as she spoke the pot seemed to cut the buckle in prime style, and
afther a spring that'd shame a dancin' masther, off flew the lid, and
out bounced the pudden itself, hoppin' as nimble as a pea on a drum-head
about the floor. Jack blessed himself, and Katty crossed herself. Jack
shouted, and Katty screamed. 'In the name of goodness, keep your
distance; no one here injured you!'

"The pudden, however, made a set at him, and Jack lepped first on a
chair, and then on the kitchen table, to avoid it. It then danced
towards Katty, who was repatin' her prayers at the top of her voice,
while the cunnin' thief of a pudden was hoppin' an' jiggin' it around
her as if it was amused at her distress.

"'If I could get the pitchfork,' says Jack, 'I'd dale wid it--by goxty,
I'd thry its mettle.'

"'No, no,' shouted Katty, thinking there was a fairy in it; 'let us
spake it fair. Who knows what harm it might do? Aisy, now,' says she to
the pudden, 'aisy, dear; don't harm honest people that never meant to
offend you. It wasn't us--no, in troth, it was ould Harry Connolly that
bewitched you; pursue _him_, if you wish, but spare a woman like me!'

"The pudden, bedad, seemed to take her at her word, and danced away from
her towards Jack, who, like the wife, believin' there was a fairy in
it, an' th