They spent some hours, as usual, in the garden, and Rooshkulum returned tired and exhausted. But when he expected to get his supper, and when she again brought him out, and ate the fine hot buttered cake before his very eyes, it was more than flesh and blood could stand. However, he pretended not to mind it in the least, but was very civil to the old lady, amusing her by his silly stories. “And now, ma’am,” said he, “let’s walk a little way down this sunny bank before we go in.” Certain it was that the sun did happen to shine on the bank at that very time, but it was to what were _growing_ on it that he wished to direct her close attention; for when he came to a certain place where there was a cavity filled by a rank growth of nettles, thistles, and thorns, he gave his charge such a shove as sent her sprawling and kicking in the midst of them, uttering wild shrieks, for the pain was great. But Rooshkulum had no notion of helping her out, and ran into the house, which was some distance away, desiring the farmer to run, for that his mother _would_ walk there, and had fallen into a hole, from which he could not get her out. And then the farmer ran, and cried, “O, mother, where are you? what has happened?” “Alas, my son! here I am down in this hole! Help me out! I am ruined, disfigured for life!” “And _who_ is it,” said the farmer, “that has dared to serve you thus?” “O,” said she, “it was Mehane! _Mehane a veil Mehane!_” (Myself has ruined myself!) “Who?” said the farmer, as he helped her out. “O, it was _Mehane_,” answered she; “_Mehane a veil Mehane!_” “Well, then,” said the farmer, “I suppose it can’t be helped, as it was yourself that did it. So here, ‘Boy!’ take her on your back, and carry her home: it was but an accident!” So Rooshkulum carried her off and put her to bed, she all the time crying out. “Ah! but it was _Myself_ that ruined Myself!” till her son thought her half cracked. She was quite unable to rise next morning; so Rooshkulum “the fool” made an excellent and hearty breakfast, which he took care also to share with the greyhound. But then the old lady called her son to her bedside, and explained how that it was “the Boy” who had done the mischief, “and I command you,” said she, “to get rid of him, and for that purpose desire him at once to go and make ‘cuisseh na cuissheh na guirach’ (the road of the sheeps’ feet), that you have long been intending to do, and then to send him with the flock over the road to the land of the giant; we shall then never see him more; and it is better to lose even a flock of sheep than have him longer here, now that he has discovered our trick.” The farmer called Rooshkulum to him, and taxed him with what he had done to his mother. “And,” said Rooshkulum, “_could you blame me_?”