“ERIEND,” said St. George, “I like your story.
Ne'th'less, ‘tis like a strolling pedler, in that tt carries a
great pack of ills to begin with, to get rid of 'em all before
it gets to the end of its journey. However, ’tis as you say—
it ends with everybody merry and feasting, and so I like it.
But now methinks our little friend yonder ds big with a
story of his own;” and he pointed, as he Spoke, with the
stem of his pipe to a little man whom I knew was the brave
Lawlor who had killed seven flies at a blow, for he stili had
around his waist the belt with the legend that he himself had
worked upon it.

“Aye,” piped the Tailor in a keen, high vowce, ‘Chs true I
havea story inside of me. ’Tis about another tailor who had
a great, big, black, ugly demon to wait upon him and to
sew his clothes for him.”

“And the name of that story, my Jriend,” said the Soldier
who had cheated the Devil, “is what?”

“It hath no name,” piped the little Lailor, “ but I will give
i one, and it shall be—

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