pocket, this way, and take out wheat and throw it before them on the ground. The doves will eat the wheat, and you must pick your son out of the twelve. If you find him, you 'll have him; if you don't, you 'll never get him again."
After the Gruagach had said these words the old man ate his supper and went to bed.
In the dead of night the old fisherman's son came. "Oh, father!" said he, "it would be hard for you to pick me out among the twelve doves, if you had to do it alone; but I 'll tell you. When the Gruagach calls us in, and we go to pick up the wheat, I 'll make a ring around the others, walking for myself; and as I go I 'll give some of them a tip of my bill, and I 'll lift my wings when I 'm striking them. There was a spot under one of my arms when I left home, and you 'll see that spot under my wing when I raise it to-morrow. Don't miss the bird that I 'll be, and don't let your eyes off it; if you do, you 'll lose me forever."
Next morning the old man rose, had his breakfast, and kept thinking of what his son had told him.
At midday the Gruagach took his whistle and blew. Birds came to him from every part, and among others the twelve doves.
He took wheat from his pocket, threw it to the
