You
would think there was little here to make Hudden and Dudden jealous,
but so it is, the more one has the more one wants, and Donald's
neighbors lay awake of nights scheming how they might get hold of his
little strip of grass land.
One day Hudden met Dudden, and they were soon grumbling as usual,
and all to the tune of, "If only we could get that vagabond, Donald
O'Neary, out of the country."
"Let's kill Daisy," said Hudden at last; "if that doesn't make him
clear out, nothing will."
No sooner said than agreed; and it wasn't dark before Hudden and
Dudden crept up to the little shed where lay poor Daisy, trying her
best to chew the cud, though she hadn't had as much grass in the day
as would cover your hand. And when Donald came to see if Daisy was all
snug for the night, the poor beast had only time to lick his hand once
before she died.
Well, Donald was a shrewd fellow, and, downhearted though he was,
began to think if he could get any good out of Daisy's death. He
thought and he thought, and the next day you might have seen him
trudging off early to the fair, Daisy's hide over his shoulder, every
penny he had jingling in his pockets. Just before he got to the fair,
he made several slits in the hide, put a penny in each slit, walked
into the best inn of the town as bold as if it belonged to him, and,
hanging the hide up to a nail in the wall, sat down.
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