"There's a dear little plant that grows in our Isle, 'Twas Saint Patrick himself, sure, that set it; And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile, And with dew from his eye often wet it. It shines thro' the bog, thro' the brake, and the mireland, And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland. The dear little shamrock, The sweet little shamrock, The dear little, sweet little, shamrock of Ireland. CHAPTER VI GOOD ST. PATRICK Grandmother Barry heard the song, and went to the door to see who was singing it so heartily. When she saw the peddler with the children she hurried to put an extra bowl and plate on the table, and bustled about the room setting out the simple meal. The potatoes were baking in the embers, the kettle was boiling cheerfully over the burning peat, and a big dish of oaten stirabout was already steaming on the table. "I'll make a good cup of tay, and well have a supper fit for the king," Grandmother Barry said aloud to herself, as she measured out the tea carefully and poured the boiling water over it. Then she went again to the door to give the stranger a hearty welcome. Kathleen rang the bell to call her father down from his work-bench, Danny milked the little cow, and "in just no time at all" they were ready for supper. "'Tis a sin and a shame that Kathleen is not wearing her green dress for St. Patrick," said Grandmother Barry, as she saw the knot of green ribbon in the peddler's coat. "I put it on her to wear to Mass, but 'tis her best and not to be worn common when she's here at home. 'Twas a grand morning, and Father Burke gave the children a good talk about St. Patrick." "A fine morning it was, woman dear," said the peddler, "and a grand day for the best saint that ever lived in ould Ireland. "Tell us what Father Burke said about him," he added, turning to Kathleen. Poor Kathleen flushed and hung her head. "Sure, I know he stood on Croagh Patrick, over in County Mayo, and drove all the snakes out of the whole country into the sea," she said, wishing she could remember some of the stories the good priest had told them. "I'm not so sure about that," said the peddler; "but it is true that there is not one to be found in the whole island. Some say there was never a snake here, and some say the good saint drove them all out with one stroke of his big stick. However it is, he is the best saint that ever lived, and a glory to Ireland, praise be to him!" "Father Burke says he was only a lad when he was stolen away from his father and mother in Scotland, and brought to Ireland to tend swine for one of the chiefs," said Mary Ellen shyly. "He was sixteen years old, and as straight and handsome a lad as ever lived," said the peddler. "Was he a saint then?" asked Kathleen. "Whist, child," exclaimed Grandmother Barry, "would a saint tend wild pigs on the mountains for any man, chief or no chief?"