It was a fine spring mornin’, an’ Saint Pathrick, when he saw the first sighth of the sun peepin’ in through the blinds of his windy, thought he’d tumble at wance out of bed an’ have a gallop across counthry to settle his stomach before breakfast.

He was afther puttin’ a hard night of it over him, an’ he didn’t feel very comfortable in himself, so he just poured a jug of cowld wather over his head an’ gave himself a few dabs of a towel and downstairs he crept, of coorse after fixin’ on his clothes.

He was on a visit this time in the County Limerick wud a neighbour of his, another Saint, but wan that couldn’t howld a candle to Saint Pathrick in discoorsin’, or card-playin’; an’ as he knew his frind was a light sleeper an’ a late riser he made as little noise as he could gettin’ out of the house. He just took a top hat off of a big nail in the hall, an’ goin’ round to the stable he bitted his horse an’ fixed him for the ride wud his own two fists, an’ then he jumped into the saddle as active as a circus man.

On he rode, anyhow, thinkin’ hard to himself what more good he could do in the ould counthry.

“I’m afther convartin’ all the kings an’ the princes an’ such like,” says he to himself; “an’ betther than that,” says he, “I’m afther banishin’ every sarpint an’ other varmint clane out of the land. I left ’em the fox, of coorse, for ’tis a fine huntin’ people they are, an’ all pray and no play makes Pat a dull boy; but I flatther myself that afther the curse I read agen the reptiles there isn’t as much as a toad ’ud dar’ to show his snout on Irish soil. ’Tis a great man intirely I am!” says he, diggin’ the spurs into the horse; an’ sure there was small blame to him to be proud of himself.

Well, the words wor scarcely out of his mouth whin he lifted his head to have a look at the sky; an’ begor, the screech he let out of him frightened the poor animal he was ridin’ into a canther.

“Be good to me!” says he, “but ’tis snakes, I see.”

Naaturally he felt ’twould play the mischief wud him if it ever came to be heard he was in such a desperate condition, an’ cursin’ the hard livin’ he had been enjoyin’ wud the other Saint, he was about turnin’ tail an’ throttin’ home in despair when he felt his own horse thremblin’ all over like a jelly-fish.

“Maybe, afther all,” says Saint Pathrick to himself, “it’s a raal live dhragon I sees on the horizon, sent to me as a punishment for my pride.”

So he lifts his head wance more, an’ studys himself in the saddle, an’ puttin’ wan hand over his brows, he mutthers,—

“Oh begor, there’s no mistake about it! ’Tis a rale dhragon, sure enough, an’ a cunnin’ ould rascal too if I’m any judge of the likes of him. That fellow is three hundred year ould at the very laiste, an’ where the mischief he could have been hidin’ is a fair puzzle to me. No matther,” says he, “I’ll prayche a sarmon agen him that’ll dhraw all the venom out of him or I’ll know for what. Get along now, good horse,” says he, “an’ let us see what we can do for this play-acthor.”

So the Saint rides on a few hundhred yards until he gets within hailin’ distance of the dhragon, purtendin’ all the time he hadn’t persayved him.

As soon as the dhragon, who was about six hundhred feet from the tip of his snout to the end of his tail, sees the man on horseback, he gives a chuckle to himself, and says he,—

“Begor, it never rains but it pours! I haven’t had a male ashore for nearly a twelvemonth, on account of that cursed Saint Pathrick, an’ here on my first mornin’s journey I comes across a man an’ horse almost at daybreak. There’s a dale of bone about the baste,” says he; “but we mustn’t look gift horses in the ribs.” An’ wud that he bursts out laughin’ an’ sends a blast of fire out of his mouth right in the direction of Saint Pathrick. “That’ll give him pepper,” says he, dhrawin’ in his breath.

“Phew!” says Saint Pathrick, addhressin’ his horse. “That’s the game, is it? Well, I’ve often heard tell of blowin’ a kiss to a party by way of good morra, but fire an’ sulphur is a new sort of a way of axin’ a man how-do-you-do. Never mind his blasts, ould horse,” says he, pattin’ the animal on the neck; “I’ve said the prayers agen dhragons already, an’ naither hurt nor harm can come to us.”

The horse gave a neigh out of him just as much as to say, “I quite understands you,” an’ on Saint Pathrick throts until he gets right abreast of the varmint.

“Good morra, good man,” says the dhragon, complately at a loss to undherstand how it was that the blasts of fire an’ smoke he was sendin’ out of him didn’t seem to throuble the sthranger. “It’s a mighty sthrong stomach you must have to howld out agen the sulphur fumes.”

“Sulphur, is it!” says Saint Pathrick. “Sure, I partly lives on it. I takes it with thraycle every mornin’, an’ fine wholesome stuff it is.”

“Bad luck to it!” says the dhragon, feelin’ a bit nonplushed, “I suppose that’s wan of the new dodges this divil of a Saint Pathrick is afther taychin’ the people of this misfortunate counthry.”

Of coorse Saint Pathrick knew for sartin then that the dhragon didn’t recognize him, so he made up his mind to have a bit of a play wud him before banishin’ him intirely.

“An’ where have you been,” says he, “that you didn’t hear of the new rules an’ regulations about craychurs of your kind?”

“What’s that to you?” says the dhragon, who had no intintion of lettin’ anybody know where his hidin’ hole was.

“You might keep a civil tongue in your head, anyhow,” says Saint Pathrick. “Civility is chape, an’, if you’ll be said by me, you’ll thry to save those fumes of fire an’ sulphur that you’re spittin’ out there for some betther land, for no more on Irish soil have you the laiste chance of harmin’ a son or a daughther of Erin. That’s wan of the new rules and regulations, Misther Dhragon,” says Saint Pathrick, nearly out of breath afther the long spayche.

“Mighty fine bounce intirely!” says the dhragon. “Wan ’ud think ’twas Saint Pathrick himself you wor by the darin’ manner you have. An’ now,” says he, “as I haven’t much time to spare I must only just make wan male of the pair of yez. I’m sorry I can’t make two coorses of ye, but I’m in no end of a hurry an’ as hungry as a Friar on Ash Wednesday.”

Wud that the dhragon opened his mouth so wide that you cud see about two or three hundred feet of his inside, an’ the two fangs he had at aich corner of his jaw stud up like a pair of telegraph poles.

Saint Pathrick got a bit of a turn at the sighth, for this was the biggest dhragon he’d ever seen in all his thravels, but he just said a short prayer, an’ begor, there was the dhragon fixed to the spot wud his mouth wide open just like the enthrance of a cave.

“That’s what we calls lockjaw,” says Saint Pathrick, wud a hearty laugh. “I hopes you enjoy it. That’s another of the new rules and regulations, my sweet fellow. Now maybe you’d keep a civil tongue in your head if I gev you the chance again, an’ talk less of breakin’ yer fast off meself an’ the horse.”

There was an implorin’ look in the dhragon’s eye just as much as to say, “Sure you know I have no chance agen you, an’ of coorse I’ll be civil-spoken if you gives me wan more opportunity.” An’ Saint Pathrick seein’ this said another prayer, an’ down dropped the baste’s jaws wud a snap as loud as the burstin’ of a cannon-piece.

“O murdher!” says the dhragon, wud a sigh out of him like half a gale of win’; “but that’s the mischief’s own rule an’ regulation. An’ what may your name be, your honour?” says he.

“Well, as you axes a civil questhion,” says the Saint, “I’ll give you a civil answer. My name is Saint Pathrick.”

“Saint Pathrick!” shouted the dhragon. “Oh what cursed luck druv’ you in my road this mornin’?”

“Take care of yer langwidge, now,” says Saint Pathrick, “or maybe I’d give you a taste of another new rule an’ regulation. An’ now that we undherstands aich other, might I ax you how dar’ you remain in the counthry afther my ordhers that all the varmint wor to be banished?”

“I’m no varmint,” says the dhragon, pluckin’ up courage again; “an’ whether I am or not I have a laygal right to remain in the land of my forefathers.”

“Arrah whisht!” says Saint Pathrick, “an’ don’t be thryin’ to rise my timper. Of coorse you’re varmint, an’ bad varmint too.”

“You wrong me there,” says the dhragon, “for I’m a descindant of an ould anshent king, an’ ’twas by witchcraft I was changed at nurse.”

Of coorse the dhragon knew right well that himself an’ all his family for generations wor the dirtiest set of bla’guard dhragons that ever blasted a counthry, but he thought he’d work on the Saint’s feelin’s by tellin’ him the yarn about his bein’ an’ Irish prince that was changed at nurse.

“Show me your certificate of baptism,” says Saint Pathrick, “an’ I’ll believe you, but not before.”

“I left it at home on the dhresser,” says the dhragon, in a thremblin’ voice.

“Well, I don’t mind ridin’ wud you to see if it’s the thruth you’re tellin’ me; but mark you,” says Saint Pathrick, “if it’s bringin’ me on a wild goose chase you are, I’ll thransmogrify you into a laughing jackass an’ ordher you to the sayside for the little boys an’ girls to ride about on in the summer time; an’ a sayside donkey you’ll remain until the Day of Judgment, like the wandherin’ Jew.”

“Oh murdher!” says the dhragon. “Sure ’twould be better go to the knacker’s at wance than that, an’ to tell you the thruth—for I see there’s no use in thryin’ to desayve you—I lost the paper hundhreds of years ago, but take my word for it, blessed Saint Pathrick, I’m not a dhragon by breed at all.”

“Prove it, as I said before,” says the Saint, “an’ I’ll see what’s to be done for you.”

Of coorse the dhragon knew he couldn’t prove the lie, an’ he bethought him he’d thry and palaver the Saint a bit, so says he,—

“I know you’re afther doin’ a dale of good for the counthry, for between ourselves most of the varmint here wor a dirty lot, an’ ’twas right glad I was to hear your own sweet self had made a clane sweep of ’em. I was thinkin’ often, many centuries back, of turnin’ informer agen the whole thribe of ’em, an’ only I got a bad touch of rheumatics about twenty-five year ago, which kept me on the bed ever since, I’d have been the first to give your own self a welcome in these parts.”

An’ then clearin’ his throat he began to sing out in a voice like a second-hand foghorn, “The dear little Shamrock.”

Begor, Saint Pathrick got such a fit of laughin’ at the dhragon’s way of singin’ a song that he nearly fell off his horse.

“’Tis the divil’s playboy you are,” says he. “Tell me,” says he, “fair an’ honest, are you afther comin’ straight from the County Cork?”

“I am,” says the dhragon, turnin’ the colour of mouldy cheese. “An’ how the mischief do you know that?”

“I know mostly everything,” says the Saint.

“So it seems,” says the dhragon, lookin’ more on aisey than ever. “What you don’t know, Pathrick,” says he, thryin’ to humour the dacent man, “isn’t worth larnin’ or I’m no judge of characther.”

“There you’re wrong,” says Saint Pathrick. “However, I’m purty sartin on wan point and that is that your afther kissin’ the Blarney Stone.”

“Well, don’t be talkin’,” says the dhragon, “but the knowledge that’s in you is enough to make me blush to the roots of my tail wud envy.”

“It’s thrue, isn’t it?” says the Saint.

“’Tis,” says the dhragon. “Just as I was abreast of Spike Island it sthruck me I’d venture inland an’ have a look at the sighths, for ’tis often I heard tell of the vartues of the Blarney Stone.”

All this time Saint Pathrick was dyin’ of curiosity to know where the mischief this dhragon was while he was deliverin’ the curse which banished the reptiles, but of coorse he didn’t like to let on to a dhragon that he was ignorant of anything. The remark about Spike Island gev him a kind of a sort of an idaya, an’ says he,—

“’Tis fond of a swim you are, Misther Dhragon.”

“You’re right there,” says the dhragon; “but how the mischief you knows all about my feelin’s an’ habits is a hardher puzzle to me every minute.”

“I towld you there wor some things I didn’t know,” says Saint Pathrick, who was never ashamed of tellin’ the thruth; “an’ if you’ll enlighten me on a few points, fair an’ honest, mind you, I’ll make an honourable thratey wud you.”

“It’s a bargain,” says the dhragon, nearly ready to jump out of his scales at the notion of makin’ an honourable thratey wud the great persecuthor of the dhragon thribe. “I’ll tell you anything you axes, wudout a word of a lie, if you passes your promise to spare my life, for as dhragons go I’m only in the prime of manhood.”

“All right,” says Saint Pathrick. “I’ll tell you the terms of the thratey when you answers my queshtions, but mind that ’tis the thruth you tell me, for ’tis the divil’s own liar you are.”

“Fire away,” says the dhragon, “an’ I’ll answer you sthraight, for I know ’tis useless to thry an’ bamboozle a larned saint like yerself.”

“Where wor you the day I banished all the varmint from this counthry?”

“Well, to the best of my belief,” says the dhragon, “I was hove-to in a fog that day off the banks of Newfoundland. You see, not like the other dhragons you sent to kingdom-come, I had always a great taste for the wather, an’ when I was quite a youngsther I larned how to swim an’ dive. Now when I heard that your own self was goin’ to desthroy the breed, I made wan jump into the Atlantic off Cape Clear, an’ sthruck out for the westhern ocean; an’ that’s how I got out of yer reverence’s clutches.”

“That explains it, of coorse,” says Saint Pathrick. “Now tell me,” says he, “how many more of ye is there in this vale of tears, so far as yer knowledge goes?”

“Divil a wan more but meself,” says the dhragon; an’, begor, the tears came rowlin’ down the poor baste’s cheeks as he said the words. “I’m the last of the dhragons, worse luck!”

“The last of ’em!” says Saint Pathrick, fairly delighted to hear such good news.

“Ay, indeed,” says the dhragon. “Of late the breed has been havin’ a hard time of it. Saint George, over in England beyant, desthroyed all my relations there, except wan eldherly faymale cousin by the mother’s side.”

“An’ what became of her?” axes Saint Pathrick.

“As misfortune should have it,” says the dhragon, “the poor craychur emigrated over here on a raft, an’ never bein’ at say before she got so mortial sick that by the time I got to her side she was heavin’ the last gasp.”

“An’ have you no family at all at all?” axes Saint Pathrick.

“Naither chick nor child,” says the dhragon. “In my airly youth I was rather gay, an’ could never knuckle down to mathrimony. Of coorse, if I had the laiste suspicion yerself was comin’ over here, I’d have settled down beforehand, an’ brought up a family whom I’d take care would larn how to swim an’ dive. But yer reverence took the win’ out of my sails complately, an’ as I’ve said before, I’m the last of the dhragons.”

Begor, the poor baste quite broke down as he towld his story to Saint Pathrick, an’ to tell the thruth, though he was mighty glad to know there was an end to the breed of dhragons for ever an’ ever, the great Saint couldn’t help feelin’ for the poor angashore.

“Look here,” says he, afther wipin’ a tear out of his eye, for ’tis a rale tindher-hearted Saint he was, “I won’t be very hard on you. The terms of the thratey will be that you take your hook straight to the Shannon, an’ do no damage on the road to man or mortial, an’ I’ll allow you to live the remainder of your naatural life in the salt ocean, where you’ll be known to future generations as the great Say-Sarpint. But if ever you shoves yer snout on dhry land the thratey will be broke, an’ you’ll die of the lockjaw. I gave you a taste of what that means a while back.”

“It’s a bargain,” says the dhragon, glad of any thratey that would save his life. “But raley you might sthretch a point for me—a poor misforthunate exile.”

“What is it?” says Saint Pathrick.

“Well, to tell the truth, I’m fairly famished wud the hunger. When I met your good self I was headin’ for that castle over beyant. There’s a fine, fat landlord lives there—he rides sixteen stone, I’m towld—and between yerself an’ meself ’twould be only a holy an’ a wholesome deed to make an end of the rack-rentin’ vagabone.”

“I can’t allow it,” says Saint Pathrick, “though indeed I agrees wud you that his room ’ud be betther than his company; but sure even if you swallyed him his sons ’ud only be glad to take up the runnin’.”

“Arrah, my dear man,” says the dhragon, “’tis swally sons an’ all I would, for I’m shrunk wud the hunger.”

Begor, ’twas a great temptation to Saint Pathrick, but he struv agen it an’ shuk his head.

“I can’t allow it, Misther Dhragon,” says he. “Sure you can have a fine male of salmon when you gets into the river—they’re as thick as flies there now an’ as fat as butther. Content yerself wud a snack of salmon if you’ll be said by me. The best in the land wouldn’t turn up their noses at the fish in the Shannon.”

“Ah! but if yerself wor livin’ on fish as long as I have been, you’d give a dale for a change of diet. You’re mighty hard on me, Pathrick.”

“Hard on you, you scoundhrel!” says the Saint. “This is what comes of havin’ too much sintiment. It’s as like as not I’ll be hauled over the coals for makin’ a bargain at all wud a heretic, but as I’ve passed my word to you I won’t dhraw back, for I was never known yet to violate a thratey. Don’t let me hear another grumble out of you now, or ’tis lose my timper I will.”

Hunger an’ vexation wor beginnin’ to tell on the dhragon by this time, an’ he was startin’ to give a few ugly lashes wud his tail, but when he saw the dark look in Saint Pathrick’s face an’ knew there was no chance of gettin’ round him, he purtended he was only thryin’ to scratch his ear. But, of coorse, Saint Pathrick was up to the thricks and schames of dhragons, an’ says he in an angry voice,—

“How dar’ you show timper you bla’guard? Keep your ugly tail study, or I’ll stand up in the stirrups this minute an’ read the Curse of Crummle agen you.”

Begor, the bare mintion of the Curse of Crummle sent a cowld thrill through the whole six hundhred feet of the dhragon’s carcase, an’ in a thremblin’ tone he implored Saint Pathrick not to say the words. “Don’t, acorra,” says he. “Betther die of lockjaw at wance than have Crummle hove at me.”

“I thought I’d fix you, my bucko,” says Saint Pathrick. “Stir your stumps now, for I feel I’m gettin’ an appetite for breakfast meself, an’ I’m greatly in favour of regular livin’.”

“Well, I wish you as good an appetite as my own,” says the dhragon, “an’ I’ll be biddin’ you a last farewell.”

“Good-bye,” says Saint Pathrick. “An’ mind you keep your tail study on the road to the Shannon. You can scratch your ear,” says he, wud a laugh, “as soon as you get abreast of Scatthery Island.”

An’ that’s how the great Saint Pathrick got rid of the last of the dhragons.