place. He hoped thus to draw pilgrims to it and get for it a great
reputation as a healing place for the lame and the halt, the palsied
and the rheumatic. Thus the monastery would be enriched and all the
monks get fat.

But Taffy was a happy-go-lucky fellow, who cared little about money
and would not sell; for, with his harp, he enjoyed both fun and fame.

One day, in the crowd that stood around his door waiting to begin to
hop and whirl, Morgan espied the bard who had compared his voice to a
cow and a cur. The bard had come to see whether the stories about the
harp were true or not.

He found to his own discomfort what was the fact and the reality,
which were not very convenient for him. As soon as the harp music
began, his feet began to go up, and his legs to kick and whirl. The
more Morgan played, the madder the dance and the wilder the antics of
the crowd, and in these the bard had to join, for he could not help
himself. Soon they all began to spin round and round on the flagstones
fronting the door, as if crazy. They broke the paling of the garden
fence. They came into the house and knocked over the chairs and sofa,
even when they cracked their shins against the wood. They bumped their
heads against the walls and ceiling, and some even scrambled over the
roof and down again. The bard could no more stop his weary legs than
could the other lunatics.

To Morgan his revenge was so sweet, that he kept on until the bard's
legs snapped, and he fell down on top of people that had tumbled from
shear weariness, because no more strength was left in them.