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To bed goes the king, and down the hill go the foreign princes, thinking things over.

"Good day to ye," they say to one another at the bottom, "and may ye have a safe and speedy journey home."

Do ye think any one of them had any intention of going? You don't know those foreign princes. They were scarce out of sight of one another before each one of them sat down and began to scratch his head.

"Begorry," thinks the Frenchman, "it must be me the princess is after, for 't is well known that the French are an ingenious people, and if a Frenchman can't come in full shade in full sunlight, there 's nobody that can."

"The princess," thinks the Scotchman, "must have noticed my moral qualities, and that 's why she wants to be my queen. If a Scotchman can't bring a shadow into the sunlight, there's nobody that can."

"What the princess is asking," thinks the Englishman, "is an impossibility, and impossibilities are what the English do best. Sure, it's me she wants!"

All night the princes sit thinking and scratching their heads, while up in the castle the Princess Maheen is tossing on the straw, the eyes of her weeping for the nose she has bitten off. She has passed a vow in a moment of spite, bad cess to her! She has lost Colin forever. What if one of those foreign princes knew magic, and could do what no simple man had ever done? Her heart goes cold at the thought of it, and her eyes go dry, and then she gets thinking of Colin again, and the tears come back again, and she takes ir of beads from the head of her », there's naught but a sis

terhood for her after her father is safe in the grave.

Next to the Irish, the French are the nimble thinkers, and it 's only one night of head-scratching before the Frenchman has an idea.

"Sure," says he to himself, "the woods must go up to the castle and that must be the way the princess meant. 'T is an easy way and a pleasant way. I'll be taking it,” and up the hill he goes.

'T is a day of sun and of birds singing, and under the shadows of the branches he goes, hopping and singing like a bird. Up he goes and down he goes and up again. To the right he goes and to the left he goes and to the right again. Sometimes he can see the castle and sometimes he cannot, but never can he find a place where the shadow of the woods go up to the castle walls.

And what became of him, ye are asking? Faith, it would n't be so bad to spend your life in an Irish wood, forever seeking and never finding, singing in the shadow of the branches with love in the heart of you and a jig tune tickling your feet.

This I can tell ye for the truth of it: if the Frenchman is n't dead, he 's living yet. Indeed, they do be saying that sometimes there's a strange song in the woods of that castle on a sunny day.

"T is a week of head-scratching before the Scotchman has an idea.

"Sure," says he to himself, "the shadow of the town must run up the hill to the castle. Even if it's the shadow of their idolatrous church steeple, I'll be thanking it this day."

To the town he goes and stands in the shadow of the buildings, a gray figure moving as slowly as the shadows

moved. Ye could tell the time by him. Do ye think a Catholic church would help a Scotchman? Not a shadow can he find that will lead him up the hill.

would drive him up to the castle and get an English king over them that easy?

From the left rut to the right rut bumps the car, with him under it cry

The people gather and look at him ing out to them to keep to the middle standing there.

"What are ye after doing?" they ask. Not an answer does he give, but looks at them with a face to curdle

cream.

"Sure, the man 's mad!" they cry. "T is now he explains that he's wooing the princess and all about the shadow and the sun.

"Wooing, are ye saying? Sure, it sounds more like a man repeating the catechism. Mad is he entirely. Away with him!"

They clap hands on him. Did ye ever see a Scotchman struggle? 'T was a grand sight that day.

And what became of him, ye are asking? Faith, they put him behind walls, and that 's a good place for a Scotchman. This I can tell ye for truth: if he is n't dead, he 's living yet. Indeed, they do be saying there's a strange gray shadow on the streets of that town if ye look out of the tail of your eye quick enough.

"T is a month of head-scratching before the Englishman has an idea.

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"I was always one," says he to himself, "to cut a thread with a hatchet, and he orders a jaunting-car.

"Bind me under the body of it," says he, "and drive me up to the castle."

Under the body of the car they bind him, and away they go. Out come the people, cheering and running after. You'd have thought it was a fair-day, for the news of the vow of the princess was known by this time throughout the country. Are ye thinking they

of the road. Where the road is rockiest, there does the car go, but never on the road that leads to the castle hill. He might be a bat nailed to a board for all the good he can do except for the yelling, and he does his best to make up with that. There was n't a deaf old woman in the parish that did n't hear his voice that day and think her hearing had come back by a miracle. It would have been pitiful if he had n't been an Englishman.

Going over the bridge, the rope breaks, and he splashes into the river; so ye know what became of him. If he is n't dead, he's living yet. Indeed, they do be saying there's a strange fish in that river, but I 'm thinking he swam back to England as fast as he could.

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In this way was the princess rid of her foreign wooers; but how does that help her to get the man she wants? She 's sitting in front of the castle peeling potatoes and thinking that 's all she 'll be doing the rest of her life. The king is sitting beside her, stretching, and wishing the devil would fly away with every vow.

""T is yourself," says he, "thanks to your wildness, that will end the Angus line. Here sit I, waiting for the death of me and wondering what will become of ye when I am dead. 'T is a handful of dust you'll become, I 'm thinking, and blow away on a puff of wind. Sure, maids were made for the lips of their babes and the arms of their

lovers. "T is the way of nature, glory be to God!"

"If it was n't for yourself that needs me," says the princess, "musha, I wish I could blow away this day!"

At her words there comes the sound of whistling, and not of the wind either, as ye might have thought, coming to blow her away. 'T is a man whistling they are hearing, and when they look down the hill, what man is it do ye think they see? Ye 'll never be guessing, so I'll have to tell ye. 'T is none other than Colin himself, whistling and coming in the full sunlight up the hill.

"The top of the morning to ye," says he to them. "I've come to claim the Princess Maheen as my bride."

"The devil ye have!" says King Angus. "Have n't ye heard of the Vow?"

"That have I. The princess will marry the buccho that comes to the castle in full shadow on a day of full sun. Is n't it a day of full sun, I'm asking ye?"

"It is that," says the princess; "but where is the shadow you 've come in?"

"Sure, I 've come under the shadow of my own hat, and I'd be taking it off to ye if it did n't spoil the charm."

Up leaps the princess, but her father is beside her, with his fists doubled up. ""T was her vow and not mine," says King Angus. "Who are ye? What are ye king of, and where is your hill?"

"Green are my hills as the hills of old Ireland, and blue are my hills as the hills of the sky; gray sometimes, white sometimes, black sometimes, and never twice the same."

"The hills of the waters; for my name is Colin, and I 'm King of the Sea."

"King are ye? How should I know it?"

"By this hand!" and he fetches the king a clout heavy enough to fell an ox.

"King are ye! That clout shows me that I'm growing old and need a strong son-in-law. Why should we be wasting time talking when the drink is waiting for us inside?”

In he goes, but Colin turns to the princess. Do ye think she falls into his arms? Not she! Away she draws from him, and stands up straight as a needle and as sharp.

"Was it true, what ye told me about those women with the red beads round their necks? Did they call to ye?"

"True it is that they 've called to me," says Colin, "but, sure, I did n't answer them.”

"T is now she opens her arms to him and finds herself inside his own strong arms. 'T was a grand sight, I'm telling ye, and we 'll be leaving them there in the sunlight, with the wish that they may never know a shadow darker than the shadow of their own hats.

Now ye have the story of the Princess Maheen and her wooing, and how Colin, the fisherman, became a king. What became of them? This I can tell ye for the truth of it: they 're not living yet except in their children's children. Scattered over the whole earth are they, and ye may always know them; for whenever an Irishman does with ease what no other man can do with difficulty, ye can cry, "A-ha, my laddie-bucks! There goes a de

"What kind of hills would those be?" scendant of Colin, the fisherman, and asks King Angus.

the Princess Maheen!"

North-American Indians

Portraits and Captions

by

W. Langdon Kihn

He looks like young timber. He smells like fresh earth and woodsmoke. He is not complex, for his society is not complex. His religion is beautiful because he believes it. He often wears a mask, but his passions are many. He is vain, for he is proud. His demands are few, for his needs are few. He is hardy, because his food is plain. He is revengeful, for he is just. He is superstitious, for he is imaginative. He is credulous, for he is honest. He is majestic, for he is essential. His words are few, for he is retrospective. He is often prophetic, for his vision is well focused. He is happy, for he is generous. He loves to dance, for he loves music. He loves color, for he loves strong sensations. He weaves imagery, for his soul is simple. He loves to play, for he wants to forget painful reflections. He often loves the bizarre, for he knows only the solitude

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"Running Rabbit"-to translate his Indian name-is known to his white friends as "Jonas Benjamin." Although he is only one of the leading tribesmen of the Stony Indians, he may, in one respect at least, be compared to an emperor, for his beaded

buckskin shirt is adorned with ermine

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