But when, in the course of another year, neither Mihal nor Pauthrick appeared, the widow’s grief was unbounded. How was she, then, astonished, when “the fool,” as he was yet always called, although his real name was Rooshkulum, actually volunteered to do the same! Nothing could stop him: go he would. So the cake was baked, the hen was killed and roasted, and Rooshkulum, “the fool,” set out on _his_ expedition. And _there_, at the rock in the wood, was that very same greyhound; and as soon as she had looked him in the face, he said, “Why, poor thing! I have here what I cannot eat, and you seem badly to need it; here are these bones and some of this cake.” It was _then_ the greyhound addressed him. “Come with me,” said she; “lo! here is the well, of which _your two brothers_ could not drink: behold! here is the honey on the top, clear and pure, but the blood is far beneath!” When “the fool” had satisfied himself at this well, he followed the greyhound to the farmer’s house. It _may_ be barely possible that by the road he received from her some excellent advice. The conversation that ensued when Rooshkulum arrived at the farmer’s, and offered himself for his servant, was much of the same nature as I have before detailed while relating the former part of my story. “But,” said Rooshkulum the fool, “I will not bind myself to these terms for ever; I might get tired of you, or you of me; so, if you please, I will agree to stop with you for certain till we both hear the cuckoo cry when we are together.” To this they agreed, and went into the house. However, just before they stepped in, the farmer asked Rooshkulum his name. “Why,” said he, “mine is a very curious name: it is so curious a name, indeed, that you would never learn it; and where is the occasion of breaking your jaws every minute trying to call me ‘Pondracaleuthashochun,’ which _is_ my real name, when you may as well call me always ‘the Boy?’” “Well! that will do,” answered the master. The dinner was now prepared, and laid out on the plates, and the old tricks about to be played. Rooshkulum, as with the others, could not find fault, for, fool as he was, he knew the consequences. As he went out with the old lady, she too inquired his name. “Why, really,” said he to her, “mine is a name that no one, I venture to say, was ever called before. All my brothers and sisters died, and my father and mother thought that perhaps an unusual queer kind of name might have luck, so they called me ‘_Mehane_.’” And, reader, if thou understandest not our vernacular, know that “Mehane” signifies in English “myself.”