There was a young lad living in these parts, not long since at all, and his name was Francis John.

It chanced of a May morning that water was scarce for the tea, the way his mother put a bucket in his hand and hunted him off to the spring.

Now an old lassie lived by her lone in a little wee house was built right close to the path. The door stood open that morning, and my brave Francis John looked in when he went on his way to the well. He seen the old girl sitting on a small creepy stool by the fire, with a row of clay images baking in front of the turf. Wasn’t she singing a song—and a queer cracked voice was her own—every word of it came good and plain to the ears of the lad.

Francis John didn’t ask to disturb her diversions at all, so he went on his way and filled up his can at the spring. But all the road home the old lassie’s song tormented his mind, and as he came in at the door he began for to sing:

With the power of the words coming from him didn’t the boots on his feet fill up with sweet milk, and it running out on the lace holes.

“Man, but that’s an enchanted song,” says he. And what did he do only step into four pounds of butter that fell on the threshold before him, for he never remarked it at all!