As soon as Taffy touched the harp
strings, the feet of everyone, young and old, began shuffling, nor
could anyone stop, so long as Morgan played. Even very old, lame and
one-legged people joined in. Several old women, whom nobody had ever
prevailed upon to get out of their chairs, were cured of their
rheumatism. Such unusual exercise was severe for them, but it seemed
to be healthful.
A shrewd monk, the business manager of the monastery near by, wanted
to buy Morgan's house, set up a sanatarium and advertise it as a holy
place. He hoped thus to draw pilgrims to it and get for it a great
reputation as a healing place for the lame and the halt, the palsied
and the rheumatic. Thus the monastery would be enriched and all the
monks get fat.
But Taffy was a happy-go-lucky fellow, who cared little about money
and would not sell; for, with his harp, he enjoyed both fun and fame.
One day, in the crowd that stood around his door waiting to begin to
hop and whirl, Morgan espied the bard who had compared his voice to a
cow and a cur. The bard had come to see whether the stories about the
harp were true or not.
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