with us. He presses his bargain on us till
compelled by want of breath to drop behind.
As we advance, we see a cow here and there
stepping into a cabin, as if taking refuge from
the evening air in good time while the sun is
yet declining. The family receive her affectionately,
milk her tenderly by the fireside, and
let her retire into the corner to sleep when
she likes. How good must the butter be,
from a cow so treated!  Further on,
however, we perceive that all cows— most cows —
are not pampered in this way. Early in the
mornings, we see them getting up from their
beds on the hill-sides, the dry space where
they have lain being darker and greener than
the dewy grass around. They have certainly
been out all night. And why not?  our
driver wonders: the Kerry breed is hardy;
and where would they go, if there were not
the hills for them to roam over?  In which
question we join, when we see how many
there are.

Here we come to spruce roads, well fenced
and arched over with trees; and we meet
cars full of gay gentry; and we see the gleam
of waters through the woods. Those waters
are the lower lake of Killarney; and we are
going to cross the lake, and take our time
before visiting the dairy-farm on the opposite
side. Landing to see O'Sullivan's Cascade,
we find a man, scantily clothed, and so thin
and pale as to appear only half fed, and so
eager in showing off the waterfall, as to make
us fancy that the pence he expects are of the
greatest importance to him. He presents us
with ferns and mosses with a trembling hand;
he flings his stick into the fall, and scrambles
down to catch it in a strange place; he gives
a painful impression of going through an
antic task for his day's bread; and he looks
delighted at his fee. As soon as we have
pushed off, and are out of his heaving, we find
that he is the owner of a herd of cows on the
mountain; that he drives a good trade in
cattle; and has many a firkin of butter
to sell to the agent from Cork, when he
comes this way. Well!  we have seen no
one less like a butter manufacturer than the
pale showman of O'Sullivan's Cascade. What
next!

The next thing is very strange. Two
sober, quiet, sensible men are rowing us, and
are ready to talk. Finding that one of us
has been in Africa, they ask if we saw any
enchantment there, as enchantment is said to
come from Africa. Luckily, we did; and our
story is received with eager interest. The
men told us, in the most straight-forward
way, that they did not believe a word of the
stories of the enchantment of the lake we are
upon till they saw O'Donoghue himself, in a
way which could not be mistaken. Seeing is
believing, they said repeatedly; and there is
no doubt that they believed what they told
us. The vell-known legend of Killarney is
that O'Donoghue and his people, and the city
in which they lived, were overwhelmed by
the waters of an enchanted fountain, some
hundreds of years ago; and that the chieftain
appears, once in seven years at least,
in the first week of May, traversing the
lake as if it were solid glass. Our boatmen
had been rowing some. workmen over to an
island, where they were repairing a cottage
of Mrs. Herbert's, and were returning, at a
quarter past six in the morning of the second
of May—a fine, bright morning—when they
saw O'Donoghue come out from the shore of
the mainland. He passed close by them,
looked at them well as he passed, with his
very bright eyes, walked on to the opposite
shore, and disappeared in the rock. He wore
a scarlet coat, breeches, and a " three-cocked"
(three-cornered) hat, with a white feather.
The men were so awe-struck that they could
not speak to him, though they had abundant
opportunity. One would like to know what
scarlet thing these men could have seen in
broad daylight on a fine May morning—
Ireland not being a land of flamingoes, or
other red water-birds. But there are other
marvellous things seen on the shores of
Killarney, having more relation to Butter
than this apparition of O'Donoghue. When
a hare is found among the cows on May-day,
it is a very melancholy enchantment; for, if
she be not killed, there will be no butter all
summer. The hare is a witch. You may
prove that by letting your dogs bite her, and
then looking about the neighbourhood, when
you will find some old woman ill in bed with
wounds in the same places. If you do not
kill the hare she will milk your cows in the
night, or at least carry off all the cream that
is in the milk. The same may be said of the
hedgehog. There is another bit of trouble
that must be taken to save the butter. The
well must be watched till the sun is high on
May morning, or some witch will come with
a wooden dish in her hand, and skim the
surface, mumbling. " Come, butter, come."
If she is allowed to do this, you will lose your
labour in churning all that season. If the
farmer has not sheds in which to house all
his cattle on May eve, he must see that they
are carefully fastened into a paddock, and
that the four corners of the paddock, and all
the beasts, are sprinkled with holy water
blessed on Easter Sunday, that nothing evil
may be able to get at them. They will be
the safer if you give them each a necklace
of straw for the night, and also slightly
singe each beast with lighted straw, or pass
a live coal completely round their bodies.
To clear the ground perfectly for a favourable
season, there must be a churning, with closed
doors, before sunrise on May morning, with
an old ass's shoe nailed to the bottom of the
plunger. A branch of mountain ash, gathered
the night before, must be bound round the
churn before the milk is poured in; and
when the milk begins to break, it is well
to put a live coal and a little salt under the
churn. If the owner wishes to save his best