Discover the enchanting world of Irish mythology with "The Crock of Gold" by James Stephens. This whimsical tale invites readers on a magical journey filled with mischief, philosophy, and the pursuit of happiness, as the lines between reality and the fantastical blur. As you dive into this delightful narrative, you might wonder: What if the true treasure in life lies not in gold, but in the connections we forge and the wisdom we gain? But here’s a thought-provoking twist: Could the chaos and humor of the characters reveal deeper truths about the human condition? Experience the rich tapestry of life in this beautifully crafted story, where leprechauns and philosophers collide in a search for the legendary pot of gold. Stephens' lyrical prose brings to life the vibrant spirit of Ireland, making this work a captivating read for anyone who loves a good story. Are you ready to embrace the magic and mystery of this timeless tale? Engage with short, impactful paragraphs that transport you to a world where whimsy reigns supreme. This book is not just a story; it’s an exploration of what it means to truly live. This is your chance to uncover the treasures hidden within "The Crock of Gold." Will you allow this enchanting narrative to inspire your own journey? Don’t miss the opportunity to own this literary gem. Purchase "The Crock of Gold" now and embark on a whimsical adventure through the heart of Irish folklore!
James Stephens’ collection of Irish Fairy Tales is presented in this beautiful volume alongside gorgeous illustrations by Arthur Rackham. James Stephens was an Irish novelist and poet, and his retellings of Irish myths and fairy tales combine humour and lyricism, making them light and fun reads. This edition of Irish Fairy Tales features a series of dazzling colour and black-and-white illustrations from the masterful Golden Age artist Arthur Rackham. Tales featured in this volume include: The Story of Tuan Mac Cairill The Boyhood of Fionn The Birth of Bran The Wooing of Becfola Oisin’s Mother The Little Brawl at Allen The Carl of the Drab Coat
Bardell V. Pickwick, has been considered by academicians and scholars of great significance and value to literature. This forms a part of the knowledge base for future generations. So that the book is never forgotten we have represented this book in a print format as the same form as it was originally first published. Hence any marks or annotations seen are left intentionally to preserve its true nature.
MARY MAKEBELIEVE lived with her mother in a small room at the very top of a big, dingy house in a Dublin back street. As long as she could remember she had lived in that top back room. She knew every crack in the ceiling, and they were numerous and of of mildew on strange shapes. Every spot the ancient wall-paper was familiar. She had, indeed, watched the growth of most from a greyish shade to a dark stain, from a spot to a great blob, and the holes in the skirting of the walls, out of which at night time the cockroaches came rattling, she knew also. There was but one window in the room, and when she wished to look out of it she had to push the window up, because the grime of many years had so encrusted the glass that it was of no more than the demi-semi-transparency of thin horn. When she did look there was nothing to see but a bulky array of chimney-pots crowning a next-door house, and these continually hurled jays of soot against her window therefore, she did not care to look out often, for each time that she did so she was forced to wash herself, and as water had to be carried from the very bottom of the five -story house up hundreds and hundreds of stairs to her room, she disliked having to use too much water. Her mother seldom washed at all. She held that washing was very unhealthy and took the natural gloss off the face, and that, moreover, soap either tightened the skin or made it wrinkle. Her own face was very tight in some places and very loose in others, and Mary Makebelieve often thought that the tight places were spots which her mother used to wash when she was young, and the loose parts were those which had never been washed at all. She thought that she would prefer to be either loose all over her face or tight all over it, and, therefore, when she washed she did it thoroughly, and when she abstained she allowed of no compromise. Her mothers face was the colour of old, old ivory. Her nose was like a great strong beak, and on it the skin was stretched very tightly, so that her nose shone dully when the candle was lit. Her eyes were big and as black as pools of ink and as bright as the eyes of a bird. Her hair also was black, it was as smooth as the finest silk, and when unloosened it hung straightly down, shining about her ivory face. Her lips were thin and scarcely coloured at all, and her hands were sharp, quick hands, all seeming knuckle when she closed them and all fingers when they were opened again. Mary Makebelieve loved her mother very dearly, and her mother returned her affection with an overwhelming passion that sometimes surged into physically painful caresses. When her mother hugged her for any length of time she soon wept, rocking herself and her daughter to and fro, and her clutch became then so frantic that poor Mary Makebelieve found it difficult to draw her breath but she would not for the world have disturbed the career of her mothers love. Indeed, she found some pleasure in the fierceness of those caresses, and welcomed the pain far more than she reprobated it. Her mother went out early every morning to work, and seldom returned home until late at night. She was a charwoman, and her work was to scrub out rooms and wash down staircases. She also did cooking when she was asked, and needlework when she got any to do...
The said town was hard on the borders of a wood which men held to be mighty great or maybe measureless; though few indeed had entered it and they that had brought back tales wild and confused thereof.
