Hudden and Dudden and Donald O’Neary

Donald O’Neary had nothing but a cow, and even the cow had opinions. She gave her milk grudgingly and ate grass as if it had disappointed her. Donald’s neighbours, Hudden and Dudden, had more cows than manners and thought Donald’s poverty a personal insult.

“Sell her,” said Hudden, as if he were a king doling out wisdom with his porridge.

“Or we’ll help you,” said Dudden, which is what greed often says when it wants to look like kindness.

Donald stroked the cow’s nose. “I’ll find her a better fate than your charity,” he said, and set off toward town with a rope and a prayer that was mostly a joke.

At a bend in the road he met a tinker with a sack and a twinkle. “A fair day to you,” said the tinker. “I’ve a mind to buy a cow, and a better mind to trade.” Out of the sack he pulled a cudgel that lay quiet as a sleeping stick until he said, “Up and at ’em!” whereupon it leapt to and beat the air smartly.

“It’s a thief’s cure,” said the tinker. “Anyone robs you, this fellow will collect a tax.”

Donald’s eyes did a small, private dance. “And will it mind me?” he asked.

“Like a dog that’s read the catechism,” said the tinker solemnly.

So Donald traded cow for cudgel and went home lighter in hand and heavier in prospects. Hudden and Dudden laughed so hard their poor cows nearly gave cream out of fear. That night they slipped into Donald’s cottage to rob him of his last speck of flour and maybe his hope as well.

“Up and at ’em!” cried Donald, and the cudgel obliged. In the morning, Hudden and Dudden had bruises where they’d kept their meanness and Donald had his flour and a story.

News travels faster than a cow with a new gate. Soon the neighbours stopped by, noses long with curiosity, to see the magic stick. Donald let slip—by accident on purpose—that he had once owned a table that spread a feast at a tap and a donkey that dropped gold at a cough. “Alas,” he mourned, “all I have left is this cudgel.”

Greed breeds arithmetic. Hudden and Dudden counted what wasn’t theirs and decided to own it. They offered Donald a cart of turf, a pig, and two fat promises for the stick. Donald sighed and said he could not possibly part with it—unless—

“Unless?”

“Unless you take it to the crossroads and say a blessing over it,” he said piously. “It minds a holy word.”

They did so, solemn as bishops. While they were busy blessing a stick that needed no blessing, Donald visited their byres and swapped the tags on their best cows for tags on their worst. When the muddle finished, Donald’s pen was full of prospects.

Hudden and Dudden returned with the cudgel and no clue. “It’s dulled,” they complained. “It minds nothing now.”

“Ah,” said Donald, “say the words backwards. Many a thing is contrary.”

They stood in the lane saying nonsense while their wives watched from the doors and wondered if greed didn’t thin a man’s wits like broth.

In the end, the neighbours tried to drown Donald, which is a traditional cure for someone else’s good luck. They bundled him in a sack and carried him toward the river. “We’ll leave him where the current keeps accounts,” said Hudden.

At the bridge they set the sack down to rest their arms and argue which saint would forgive them quickest. Donald sang out, “Marry me, princess! I am too poor to wed a queen!”

A cattle drover coming by stopped and scratched his head. “What’s that?”

Donald whispered from the sack, “They’re sending me to marry a princess, but I’ve no taste for castles. If you take my place, I’ll give you my herd.”

The drover, who had a weakness for fairy stories and an empty purse, quickly untied the sack and climbed in. Donald tied the knot tidy and left the drover to his wedding. He drove the neighbours’ cows home on a road paved with his own laughter.

When Hudden and Dudden came back from their mercy and found the sack empty, they concluded that the river had been unusually efficient. Then Donald appeared with a river of cattle and a grin that could not be taxed.

“Where did you get them?” they croaked.

“Under the water,” he said. “A fine herd. The princess sent them as a dowry.”

Hudden and Dudden did not consult their wives or their wits. They tied stones to their waists and leapt into the river to fetch their own princesses. The river kept its accounts.

Donald O’Neary lived long, married well, and told his stories in winter. If this version is kinder to fools than some, it is because fools need kinder stories. The cudgel sits over the hearth, quiet as a stick, unless someone boasts at the table; then it taps the mantel once, to remind the room that luck likes company better than greed.