seen at all otherwise, that are in the world but not of the world. You could be as blind as I am to the things of this world, yet you could see those other things by once eating of the hazel berries. (He lapses into revery again.)
Boy.—I do not understand that very well all at once! But what is it all, about the seven rivers,—for it is that you have not finished telling me.
Blind Singer.—It is that you ought to know, and every young lad of Ireland to know and to remember the same!
It was the virtue of the hazel berries that gave that gift of wisdom and of seeing what is needed to be seen, but is not,—it was that virtue that went into the waters of the Well when the berries dropped in it, and it went out from that into the Seven Rivers that flowed all about Ireland. There was not any region in Ireland so far away from a river that all who wanted to gain the virtue of the waters could not go there and drink. And out of the gift they had then, by way of it,—they had the powers of wisdom and arts. They had poetry, the gift of fine sayings,—out of those waters; they had music, and the knowledge to gain skill in all the arts of a hand that is cunning and of a quick eye.
And out of that wisdom and clear sight they got from drinking of the waters of these rivers would come such a great joy to them that it would not fade at all. Out of that again would be love, and it is arts indeed that are out of the desire to tell of joy and love in pleasing and skillful ways.
By way of these arts the people of Ireland from long ago, grew strong in the one vision and in the one understanding,—for it was all of them in all parts that drank out of these rivers that brought the one wisdom to them out of the one Well. (He speaks this last slowly and impressively, then he makes a long pause.)
Boy (After sitting a bit awed a moment).—It is a strange story teller indeed, you are! I have a little understanding of what you say to me, and then again it goes from me. After awhile yet it may be I can get hold of it to keep!
Blind Man (More to himself than to the Boy).—It is that Well of Hazels indeed, that has its roots in the deep heart of Ireland. Those that do not love her can take the substance of her industry from her and the growth off her fields,—and they may trample on the stones of her threshold,—but what is in the deep Well that reaches to the soul of her,—that they cannot take. (He relapses into silence.)
Boy (Somewhat timidly after a pause).—Tell me now, who are