spoke of it as an old Irish tradition, but did not give his authority
for saying so. The story, as he gave it, contained no allusion to an
"aunt" or "mother." I do not know whether it will be worthy of
publication: but here it is, and you can make what use of it you like:--

"Last Sunday morning at six o'clock in the evening, as I was
sailing over the tops of the mountains in my little boat, I met
two men on horseback riding on one mare: so I asked them 'Could
they tell me whether the little old woman was dead yet, who was
hanged last Saturday week for drowning herself in a shower of
feathers?' They said they could not positively inform me, but if
I went to Sir Gammar Vans he could tell me all about it. 'But
how am I to know the house?' said I. 'Ho, 'tis easy enough,'
said they, 'for it's a brick house, built entirely of flints,
standing alone by itself in the middle of sixty or seventy
others just like it.' 'Oh, nothing in the world is easier,' said
I. 'Nothing _can_ be easier,' said they: so I went on my way.
Now this Sir G. Vans was a giant, and bottlemaker. And as all
giants, who _are_ bottlemakers, usually pop out of a little
thumb bottle from behind the door, so did Sir G. Vans. 'How d'ye
do?' says he. 'Very well, thank you,' says I. 'Have some
breakfast with me?' 'With all my heart,' says I. So he gave me a
slice of beer, and a cup of cold veal; and there was a little
dog under the table that picked up all the crumbs. 'Hang him,'
says I. 'No, don't hang him,' says he; 'for he killed a hare
yesterday. And if you don't believe me, I'll show you the hare
alive in a basket.' So he took me into his garden to show me the
curiosities. In one corner there was a fox hatching eagle's
eggs; in another there was an iron apple tree, entirely covered
with pears and lead; in the third there was the hare which the