Folk Tales of Breffny

by Bampton Hunt

II

M’Carthy and his lady had a fine life of it, they lacking for no comfort or splendour at all. The officer’s commission he had, brought himself over to England from time to time, and the lady M’Carthy would mind all until he was home. He saved up what money was superfluous, and all was gathered to repay the loan to the Jew only for a few pounds.

Well it happened that M’Carthy went to England, and there he fell in with a droll sort of a man was the best of company. They played cards together and they drank a great power of wine. In the latter end a dispute came about between them, for the both claimed to have the best woman.

“I have a lady beyond in Ireland,” says M’Carthy, “and she is an ornament to the roads when she is passing along. But no person gets seeing her these times and that is a big misfortune to the world.”

“What’s the cause?” asks the Englishman.

“I’d have a grief on me to think another man might be looking on her and I not standing by,” says M’Carthy. “So she gives me that satisfaction on her promised word: all the time I do be away she never quits the house, and no man body is allowed within.”

The Englishman let a great laugh out of him at the words.

“You are simple enough!” says he. “Don’t you know rightly when you are not in it herself will be feasting and entertaining and going on with every diversion?”

M’Carthy was raging at the impertinence of him, and he offered for to fight.

“What would that be proving?” says the Englishman. “Let you make a powerful big bet with myself that I will not be able for to bring you a token from your lady and a full description of her appearance.”

“I’ll be winning the money off you, surely!” says M’Carthy.

“Not at all,” says the Englishman. “I’m not in the least uneasy about it, for I’m full sure it’s the truth I’m after speaking of how she does be playing herself in your absence.”

“You’ll find me in this place and you coming back,” says M’Carthy. “Let you be prepared with the money to have along with you.”

The Englishman took ship to Ireland, and he came to the house of the lady M’Carthy. Herself was in the kitchen making a cake, and she seen the man walking up to the door. Away she run to the parlour, and in the hurry she forgot the lovely pearl ring she took off her finger when she began at the cooking. Well, he found the door standing open, and he seen the ring on the kitchen table. It was easy knowing it was no common article would be in the possession of any one but the mistress of the house. What did the lad do, only slip in and put it in his pocket. With that the waiting maid came and asked his business, the lady M’Carthy was after sending her down.

“Oh, no business at all,” says he. “But I am weary travelling and I thought I might rest in this place.”

He began for to flatter the girl and to offer her bribes, and in the latter end he got her to speak. She told him all what the mistress of the house was like; how she had a mole under her right arm and one on her left knee. Moreover she gave him a few long golden hairs she got out of the lady’s comb.

The Englishman went back to M’Carthy, brought him the tokens, and demanded the payment of the bet. And that is the way the poor gentleman spent the money he had saved up for the Jew.

M’Carthy sent word to his wife that he was coming home, and for her to meet him on the ship. She put her grandest raiment upon her and started away at once. She went out to the ship and got up on the deck where she seen her husband standing. When she went over to him he never said a word at all, but he swept her aside with his arm the way she fell into the water. Then he went on shore full sure he had her drowned.

But there was another ship coming in, and a miller that was on her seen the lady struggling in the sea. He was an aged man, yet he ventured in after her and he saved the poor creature’s life.

Well, the miller was a good sort of a man and he had great compassion for herself when she told him her story. She had no knowledge of the cause of her husband being vexed with her, and she thought it hard to believe the evidence of her senses that he was after striving to make away with her. The miller advised the lady M’Carthy to go on with the ship was sailing to another port, for may be if she went home after the man he would be destroying her.

When the ship came into harbour the news was going of a great lawsuit. The miller heard all, and he brought word to the lady that M’Carthy was in danger of death.

“There are three charges against him,” says the miller. “Your father has him impeached for stealing you away and you not wishful to be with him: that is the first crime.”

“That is a false charge,” says she, “for I helped for to plan the whole elopement. My father is surely saying all in good faith, but it is a lie the whole time.”

“A Jew has him accused for a sum of money was borrowed, and it due for repayment: that is the second crime,” says the miller.

“The money was all gathered up for to pay the debt,” says the lady. “Where can it be if M’Carthy will not produce it?”

“The law has him committed for the murder of yourself: and that is the third crime,” says the miller.

“And a false charge too, seeing you saved me in that ill hour. I am thinking I’d do well to be giving evidence in court of law, for it’s maybe an inglorious death they’ll be giving him,” says she.

“Isn’t that what he laid out for yourself?” asks the miller.

“It is surely, whatever madness came to him. But I have a good wish for him the whole time.”

“If that is the way of it we had best be setting out,” says he.

The lady and the miller travelled overland, it being a shorter journey nor the one they were after coming by sea. When they got to the court of law wasn’t the judge after condemning M’Carthy; and it was little the poor gentleman cared for the sentence of death was passed on him.

“My life is bitter and poisoned on me,” says he, “maybe the grave is the best place.”

With that the lady M’Carthy stood up in the court and gave out that she had not been destroyed at all, for the miller saved her from the sea.

They began the whole trial over again, and herself told how she planned the elopement, and her father had no case at all. She could not tell why M’Carthy was wishful to destroy her, and he had kept all to himself at the first trial. But by degrees all was brought to light: the villainy of the Englishman and the deceit was practised on them by him and the servant girl.

It was decreed that the money was to be restored by that villain, and the Jew was to get his payment out of it.

The lady M’Carthy’s father was in such rejoicement to see his daughter and she alive, that he forgave herself and the husband for the elopement. Didn’t the three of them go away home together and they the happiest people were ever heard tell of in the world.

VII

NALLAGH’S CHILD

In the ancient days there were a power of the Good People travelling the land of Breffny. It was easy knowing they were middling proud and conceity in themselves, for they rode upon what appeared to be horses and had music with them, no less! Children were changed by the fairies too, and no matter what way they were reared the like never grew to be right things.

There was once a man the name of Nallagh, lived in a tidy little place beyond the river. The wife and himself had one child, a gosoon, that could never be learned to speak, nor walk, nor stand upright, nor evenly to crawl upon the floor. The whole time the creature had all his makes and shapes natural and good only for a powerful great head was on him.

The mother had her own times minding the youngster. Evenly when he was right big she’d be lifting him out of the bed, at the morning of the day, and fixing him up in a chair. There he’d sit, watching the fire until the fall of night, seemingly contented and in the best of humour. He had great observation for all that would be doing in the place, and if the least thing went astray he’d have an odious cor on him. The fire was his whole delight, when a turf fell and the sparks flew he’d open his mouth until you’d swear he was going to let a crow out of him. But never a sound came at all.

It happened one time that Nallagh and the wife went to market, leaving the servant boy and servant girl to mind the place.

“Let you keep up a good fire for the youngster, the way he will not be lonesome, and he looking on the glowing turf is his whole delight. Let you attend to your business the same as if myself was standing by to bid you do all things particular and tasty,” says the mistress, and she going out at the door.

Not a long were the two by their lone before they quit working and began for to play themselves through the kitchen.

Says the servant boy: “We’d do well to be making a little feast, considering herself is not in it, and the wee coley but a silent creature will not be clashing on us at all.”

With that they brought the best of butter, cream and the like from the dairy, and the girl mixed all in a meskin for to make a butter cake. They built the fire with turf enough to roast the dinner of a giant, set the pot-hooks in the ears of the pan and let down the crook for to hang it on. “With the help of the Living Powers, that’ll be the luscious bit,” says the servant girl, putting down the batter for to bake.

The whole time they were at their diversions Nallagh’s child never quit watching the pair. Maybe it’s in expectation he was of getting his taste of the feast.

The butter cake was doing nicely, turning a grand colour and a lovely smell rising off it. The two heroes were in the best of humour, chatting other and funning, when all of a sudden the servant boy chanced to look out over the half door. “I declare to man, we’re destroyed entirely,” says he. “Himself and the mistress are without!”

Sure enough it was Nallagh and the wife were after delaying in the market but a short space only. The girl, hearing tell of them coming in on her sooner nor they were expected, had the wit to whip the butter cake off the fire, and she slipped it in under the chair where the child was all times sitting.

“It’s the queer old cor he’s putting on his countenance,” says she. “But what about it, considering he is unable for to clash on us!”

With that the father and mother came into the kitchen. And the four near fell dead with wonderment and fear, for when he seen the parents the wee lad cried out:

“Hot, hot under my chair!”

The servants were in odious dread, full sure they’d be found out and hunted from the place. For the butter cake was steaming mad from the fire, and the child never quit shouting:

“Hot, hot under my chair!”

He didn’t let another word out of him but only the one thing, saying it maybe a hundred times after other:

“Hot, hot under my chair.”

Well, if he was to say it a hundred times, or a thousand itself, Nallagh and the wife could not know what in under the shining Heaven he was striving for to tell. They were all of a tremblement with the wonder of the speech coming to him, and they never thought to consider was there sense in the words at all. It was a great miracle, surely, to hear the creature that never made a sound before, and he roaring out:

“Hot, hot under my chair!”

The old people were that put about they never thought to look round the place to see was anything astray; and I promise you the two heroes didn’t ask to clash on themselves.

The whole house was left through other until the fall of night, and every person in it was weary to the world with the dread and surprise was on them. After dark the mother puts the son to bed, fixing him up right comfortable. But it was not a sweet rest was laid out for the people of that house.

In the darkness of the black midnight, a powerful great storm shook the place. It was like as if the four winds of Heaven were striving together, and they horrid vexed with one another. There were strange noises in it too, music and shouting, the way it was easy knowing the Good People were out playing themselves, or maybe disputing in a war.

Thinking the child might be scared at the commotion, herself took a light in her hand and went over to his bed.

“Is all well with you, sonny?” says she, for she had a fashion of speaking with him, evenly if it was no answers he’d give.

But the little fellow was not in it at all, he was away travelling the world with the Fairy horsemen were after coming for him.

The whole disturbance died out as speedy and sudden as it came. The music dwined in the far distance and the wind was still as the dawn of a summer’s day. Sure it was no right tempest at all but an old furl blast the Good People had out for their diversion.

The child was never restored to Nallagh and the wife. The fairies left them in peace from that out; they never heard the music on the distant hills, nor the regiments of horsemen passing by. The whole time it was lonesome they’d be, and they looking on the empty chair where the strange child delighted to sit silent, watching the turf was glowing red.

VIII

THE ENCHANTED HARE

There was a strong farmer one time and he had nine beautiful cows grazing on the best of land. Surely that was a great prosperity, and you’d be thinking him the richest man in all the countryside. But it was little milk he was getting from his nine lovely cows, and no butter from the milk. They’d be churning in that house for three hours or maybe for five hours of a morning, and at the end of all a few wee grains of butter, the dead spit of spiders’ eggs, would be floating on the top of the milk. Evenly that much did not remain to it, for when herself ran the strainer in under them they melted from the churn.

There were great confabulations held about the loss of the yield, but the strength of the spoken word was powerless to restore what was gone. Herself allowed that her man be to have the evil eye, and it was overlooking his own cattle he was by walking through them and he fasting at the dawn of day. The notion didn’t please him too well, indeed he was horrid vexed at her for saying the like, but he went no more among the cows until after his breakfast time. Sure that done no good at all—it was less and less milk came in each day. And butter going a lovely price in the market, to leave it a worse annoyance to have none for to sell.

The man of the house kept a tongue hound that was odious wise. The two walked the cattle together, and it happened one day that they came on a hare was running with the nine cows through the field. The hound gave tongue and away with him after the hare, she making a great offer to escape.

“Maybe there is something in it,” says the man to himself. “I have heard my old grandfather tell that hares be’s enchanted people; let it be true or no, I doubt they’re not right things in any case.”

With that he set out for to follow his tongue hound, and the hunt went over the ditches and through the quick hedges and down by the lake.

“Begob it’s odious weighty I am to be diverting myself like a little gosoon,” says the man. And indeed he was a big, hearty farmer was leaving powerful gaps behind him where he burst through the hedges.

There was a small, wee house up an old laneway, and that was where the hunt headed for. The hare came in on the street not a yard in front of the tongue hound, and she made a lep for to get into the cabin by a hole on the wall convenient to the door. The hound got a grip of her and she rising from the ground. But the farmer was coming up close behind them and didn’t he let a great crow out of him.

“Hold your hold, my bully boy! Hold your hold!” The tongue hound turned at the voice of the master calling, and the hare contrived for to slip from between his teeth. One spring brought her in on the hole in the wall, but she splashed it with blood as she passed, and there was blood on the mouth of the hound.

The man came up, cursing himself for spoiling the diversion, but he was well determined to follow on. He took the coat off his back and he stuffed it into the opening the way the hare had no chance to get out where she was after entering, then he walked round the house for to see was there any means of escape for what was within. There wasn’t evenly a space where a fly might contrive to slip through, and himself was satisfied the hunt was shaping well.

He went to the door, and it was there the tongue hound went wild to be making an entry, but a lock and a chain were upon it. The farmer took up a stone and he broke all before him to get in after the hare they followed so far.

“The old house is empty this long time,” says he, “and evenly if I be to repair the destruction I make—sure what is the price of a chain and a lock to a fine, warm man like myself!”

With that he pushed into the kitchen, and there was neither sight nor sign of a hare to be found, but an old woman lay in a corner and she bleeding.

The tongue hound gave the mournfullest whine and he juked to his master’s feet, it was easy knowing the beast was in odious dread. The farmer gave a sort of a groan and he turned for to go away home.

“It’s a queer old diversion I’m after enjoying,” says he. “Surely there’s not a many in the world do be hunting hares through the fields and catching old women are bleeding to death.”

When he came to his own place the wife ran out of the house.

“Will you look at the gallons of beautiful milk the cows are after giving this day,” says she, pulling him in on the door.

Sure enough from that out there was a great plenty of milk and a right yield of butter on the churn.

IX

THE BRIDGE OF THE KIST

There was once a man the name of Michael Hugh, and he was tormented with dreams of a kist was buried in under a bridge in England. For awhile he took no heed to the visions were with him in the stillness of the night, but at long last the notion grew in his mind that he be to visit that place and find out was there anything in it.

“I could make right use of a treasure,” thinks he to himself. “For ’tis heart scalded I am with dwelling in poverty, and a great weariness is on me from toiling for a miserable wage.” Then he bethought of the foolishness of making the journey if all turned out a deceit.

“Sure I’ll be rid of belief in the dreams are driving me daft with their grandeur and perseverance,” says he. “Evenly failure will bring a sort of satisfaction for I’ll get fooling whatever spirit does be bringing the vision upon me.”

So my brave Michael Hugh took an ash plant in his hand, and away with him oversea to England to discover the bridge of the kist.

He was a twelvemonth travelling and rambling with no success to rise his heart, and he began for to consider he had better return to his own place. But just as he was making ready to turn didn’t he chance on a strong flowing river, and the sight near left his eyes when he found it was spanned by the bridge he was after dreaming of.

Well Michael Hugh went over and he looked down on the black depth of water was flowing in under the arch.

“It’ll be a hard thing surely to be digging for a kist in that place,” says he. “I’m thinking a man would find a sore death and no treasure at all if he lepped into the flood. But maybe it’s laid out for me to gather my fortune here, and some person may come for to give me instruction.”

With that he walked up and down over the bridge, hoping for further advice since he could not contrive a wisdom for his use. There was a house convenient to the river, and after awhile a man came from it.

“Are you waiting on any person in this place?” says he to Michael Hugh. “It’s bitter weather to be abroad and you be to be as hardy as a wild duck to endure the cold blast on the bridge.”

“I’m hardy surely,” Michael Hugh makes his answer. “But ’tis no easy matter to tell if I’m waiting on any person.”

“You’re funning me,” says the Englishman. “How would you be abroad without reason, and you having a beautiful wise countenance on you?”

With that Michael Hugh told him the story of the dreams that brought him from Ireland, and how he was expectant of a sign to instruct him to come at the kist. The Englishman let a great laugh.

“You’re a simple fellow,” says he. “Let you give up heeding the like of visions and ghosts, for there is madness in the same and no pure reason at all. There’s few has more nor better knowledge than myself of how they be striving to entice us from our work, but I’m a reasonable man and I never gave in to them yet.”

“Might I make so free as to ask,” says Michael Hugh, “what sort of a vision are you after resisting?”

“I’ll tell you and welcome,” says the Englishman. “There isn’t a night of my life but I hear a voice calling: ‘Away with you to Ireland, and seek out a man the name of Michael Hugh. There is treasure buried in under a lone bush in his garden, and that is in Breffny of Connacht.’ ”

The poor Irishman was near demented with joy at the words, for he understood he was brought all that journey to learn of gold was a stone’s throw from his own little cabin door.

But he was a conny sort of a person, and he never let on to the other that Michael Hugh was the name of him, nor that he came from Breffny of Connacht.

The Englishman invited him into his house for to rest there that night, and he didn’t spare his advice that dreams were a folly and sin.

“You have me convinced of the meaning of my visions,” says Michael Hugh. “And what’s more I’ll go home as you bid me.”

Next morning he started out, and he made great haste with the desire was on him to get digging the gold.

When he came to his own place in Connacht he made straight for a loy and then for the lone bush. Not a long was he digging before he hoked out a precious crock full of treasure, and he carried it into the house.

There was a piece of a flag stone lying on top of the gold, and there was a writing cut into it. What might be the meaning of that Michael Hugh had no notion, for the words were not Gaelic nor English at all.

It happened one evening that a poor scholar came in for to make his cailee.

“Can you read me that inscription, mister?” asks Michael Hugh, bringing out the flag.

“Aye surely,” says the poor scholar. “That is a Latin writing, and I am well learned in the same.”

“What meaning is in it?” asks the other.

“ ‘The same at the far side,’ ” says the scholar. “And that is a droll saying surely when it gives no information beyond.”

“Maybe it will serve my turn, mister!” says Michael Hugh, in the best of humour.

After the scholar was gone on his way, didn’t himself take the loy and out to the garden. He began for to dig at the far side of the lone bush, and sure enough he found a second beautiful kist the dead spit of the first.

It was great prosperity he enjoyed from that out. And he bought the grandest of raiment, the way the neighbours began for to call him Michael Hughie the Cock.

X

THE CHILD AND THE FIDDLE

There was a woman one time, and she had the fretfullest child in all Ireland. He lay in the cradle and lamented from morning to night and from dark to the dawn of day. There was no prosperity nor comfort in that house from he came to it. All things went astray within in the kitchen and without upon the farm: the cattle fell sick, the potatoes took a blight, there was not a taste of butter on the churn, and evenly the cat began for to dwine and dwine away. But of all the misfortunes that come the woefullest was the continual strife between the man and woman of the house, and they a couple that were horrid fond aforetime.

It happened when the child was about eighteen months of age that a strange man was hired to work on the farm. Surely he’d never have ventured into the place if he had heard tell of the ill luck was in it, but he was from distant parts and didn’t know a heth.

One day he chanced to be in from the work a while before the master of the house, and herself was gone to the spring for water. The hired man sat down by the kitchen fire, taking no heed of the child was watching him from the cradle. The little fellow quit his lamenting; he sat up straight, with a countenance on him like a wise old man.

“I will be playing you a tune on the fiddle, for I’m thinking ’tis fond of the music you are,” says he.

The man near fell into the fire with wonderment to hear the old-fashioned talk. He didn’t say one word in answer, but he waited to see what would be coming next.

The small weak infant pulled a fiddle out from under the pillow of the cradle, and he began for to play the loveliest music was ever heard in this world. He had reels and jigs, songs and sets; merry tunes would rise the heart of man and mournful tunes would fill the mind with grief.

The man sat listening, and he was all put through other, thinking the child was no right thing.

After a time the little lad quit playing, he put back the fiddle where he took it from and began at his old whimpering again. Herself came in at the door with a bucket of water in her hand. Well the man walked out and he called her after him.

“That is a strange child you have, mistress,” says he.

“A strange child, surely, and a sorrowful,” she makes answer. “It is tormented with his roaring you are, no person could be enduring it continually.”

“Did ever he play on the fiddle in your hearing?” asks the man.

“Is it raving you are?” says she.

“I am not, mistress,” he answers. “He is after giving me the best of entertainment with reels and marches and jigs.”

“Let you quit funning me!” says she, getting vexed.

“I see you are doubting my words,” he replies. “Do you stand here without where he’ll not be looking on you at all. I’ll go into the kitchen, and maybe he’ll bring out the fiddle again.”

With that he went in, leaving herself posted convenient to the window.

Says he to the child, “I’m thinking there’s not above a score of fiddlers in all Ireland having better knowledge of music nor yourself. Sure that is a great wonder and you but an innocent little thing.”

“Maybe it’s not that innocent I am,” says the child. “And let me tell you there isn’t one fiddler itself to be my equal in the land.”

“You’re boasting, you bold wee coley,” says the man.

The child sat up in a great rage, pulled the fiddle from under the pillow and began for to play a tune was grander nor the lot he gave first.

The man went out to herself.

“Are you satisfied now?” he asks.

“My heart beats time to his reels,” says she. “Run down to the field and send the master to this place that he may hear him too.”

The man of the house came up in a terrible temper.

“If it’s lies you are telling me, I’ll brain the pair of you with the loy,” says he, when he heard the news of the fiddle.

“Put your ear to the window it’s soft he is playing now,” says his wife.

But the words weren’t out of her mouth before a blast of loud music was heard. Himself ran in on the door, and he seen the gosoon sitting up playing tunes.

“Let you be off out of this,” says he, “or I’ll throw you at the back of the fire, for you are no right thing at all.”

With that the little fellow made a powerful great lep out of the cradle, across the floor and away with him out over the fields.

But he left his fiddle behind, and the master of the house threw it down on the burning turf. And that was no true fiddle at all, only a piece of an old bog stick was rotten with age.

XI

THE CUTTING OF THE TREE

There was a wild sort of a lad the name of Francis Pat, and he was a great warrant to be entertaining the people with his airy talk. He was the whole go in every spree and join was held in the countryside; and the neighbours all had a fine welcome when he’d come to make his cailee.

He joined the world when he was about thirty years of age, and he got a fine sensible woman with a nice little handful of money. Herself didn’t care to be rambling at all, and she’d sit with her stitching or knitting when he went out after dark.

It chanced one time, not a long from they were married, that Francis Pat went to a raffle was held in the next townland. When the company set out for to go away home, in the black darkness of the night, every person in it was afraid to pass down by the fort.

“What is on you at all?” says Francis Pat. “I think scorn on the lot of you are in dread of the Good People.”

“God be with them—and their faces from us, their backs to us, the way they’re good friends,” says an old man. “I have great experience to know that it’s a danger to evenly make fun in speech of the like.”

“Away with you by the long hard road,” says Francis Pat. “’Tis I will walk my lone past the fort, and I dare the fairies to molest me.” The neighbours strove to break his intention, but he was persistent and proud.

When he came to the fort he seen a light, he heard voices speaking and the blows of an axe against wood.

“There is one more daring nor myself abroad this hour,” thinks Francis Pat. “I never heard tell of any person having audacity to interfere with the trees of the circle.”

Curiosity came on him to know who could it be, and he juked over to the light. He seen no sign of the men, however he peeped, but he heard the words and the blows.

“Where’ll we carry the wood?” says a voice.

“To the house on the hill,” says another. “We be to bring out the wife of Francis Pat, and the tree may stop there in her stead.”

“He’ll never know the differ,” says the first. “It’s a fine thing surely to make an image from a tree that a man couldn’t know from herself.” With that there was great laughter and cheering, but the lad didn’t wait to hear more—he sped away home to the house on the hill.

Not a heth did he let on to the wife about what he was after discovering, but he had a strong oath taken in his own mind that the fairies should not lift her from him.

He bolted the door of the kitchen, and the two went into the room. After awhile there came a cry on the street without, and it dwined away into the byre. The cows began for to stamp and strive to get free of the bails.

“Let you go out and see what ails the creatures,” says herself.

“There is nothing on them,” says he. “I’ll not leave this place till the sun rises for day.”

Then there came a powerful blast of wind, and the pigs set up the awfullest lamentation.

“I’m not that lazy but I’ll find out what it is,” says herself.

“You’ll stop where you are,” says he. “Didn’t you hear the blast going by, and every person knows that pigs see the wind?”

“Whatever they’re beholding this minute is a sore distress to the creatures,” she answers.

“Aye!” he allows. “The wind is red, and that is the cause of them crying.” There came a crash on the door of the kitchen and it blew in; the plates were dashed off the dresser, and the saucepans fell from the nails on the wall.

Francis Pat had to hold herself by the arm to keep her from running to gather the delf. Voices came shouting, and there was a stamping of feet through the house. The woman began for to cry and to roar, but himself kept a hold on her and nothing enticed him away.

At dawn the commotion died out.

“What was it at all?” asks herself.

“Sure what would it be only a wind was fit to batter the horns off the cows!” says Francis Pat.

When they went into the kitchen what did they find only the image lying on the floor. The wood was cut into the living likeness of the woman of the house, and the Good People had thrown it there in the anger of the disappointment was on them.

So my brave Francis Pat told his wife the whole story of the cutting of the tree.

XII

THE LITTLE SETTLEMENT

There was a strong farmer one time and he was the boastfullest man in all Ireland. He had a tidy, comfortable place, sure enough, but to hear him speaking you’d be thinking his house was built of silver and thatched with the purest gold.

Herself was a very different sort of a person, kindly and simple-hearted; she took no pleasure in making out she had more property and grandeur than another body; and she was neither envious, uncharitable, nor a clash.

The two had but one child, a daughter, and she was their whole delight. Bride was a beautiful white girl with a countenance on her would charm a king from his golden throne to be walking the bogs with herself. The boys were flocking after her by the score, and she had but to raise her hand to draw any one of them to her side. But, being a seemly, well-reared lass, she took her diversion without any consideration of marriage at all—well satisfied her father would be making a fitting settlement for her when the time came.

The youth of the world will always be playing themselves and chatting together, all the while them that have right wit and a good upbringing do leave their settlement in the hands of the parents have the best understanding for the same.

“I’m thinking,” says himself one evening, “that it’s old and stiff I am growing. It might be a powerful advantage to take a son-in-law into the place, the way I’d get sitting in peace by the hearth, and he out in the fields attending to the management of all.”

“Bride is full young to be joining the world,” says his wife. “But I will not be putting any hindrance in the way of it, for maybe it’s better contented she’d be to have a fine man of her own, foreby to be looking on an old pair like ourselves, and we dozing by the fire of an evening.”

“I’ll be making a little settlement for her, surely,” says himself.

The next day he gave out through the country that Bride was to be married. What with the little handful of money, the fine farm of land and the looks of the girl, the suitors were coming in plenty. There were strong farmers, small farmers, tradesmen and dealers; a cow doctor, a blacksmith, and evenly a man that travelled in tea. Himself was disgusted with all; he put out the farmers and dealers very civil and stiff, but the tea man he stoned down the road for a couple of miles.

The next suitor to come was a beautiful young lad the name of Shan Alec. He was a tasty worker, and he had the best of good money was left him by his da. Now if you were to seek all Ireland ten times through, I’ll go bail you wouldn’t be finding a more suitable match nor Shan Alec and Bride. The girl and her mother were fair wild with delight, but they got an odious disappointment for didn’t himself run the poor boy out of the house.

“I’m surprised at you,” says the wife. “Why couldn’t you have wit and give that decent lad an honourable reception?”

“Is it to give my daughter to yon country coley?” says he. “And I the warmest man in these parts.”

“A better match for her like isn’t walking this earth,” says the wife.

“Hold your whisht, woman,” says he. “I’d sooner let the devil have her than see her join the world with Shan Alec.”

“What is on you at all to be speaking such foolishness?” asks herself.

“I’d have you to know,” says he, “that I’ll have a gentleman for my son-in-law and no common person at all.”

“It is the raving of prosperity is on you,” says she. “And that is the worst madness out.”

“Speak easy,” says he, “or maybe I’ll correct you with the pot stick.”

With that she allowed he be to be gone daft entirely, or he’d never have such an unseemly thought as to raise his hand to a woman.

“Hold your whisht,” he answers. “Surely ’tis both hand and foot I’ll be giving you unless you quit tongueing.”

Not a long afterwards a splendid gentleman came to the house, and he riding on a horse.

“I have heard tell,” says he to the farmer, “that you are seeking a suitable settlement for your daughter.”

“If your honour wants a wife,” says himself. “Let you be stepping in, for it’s maybe in this house you’ll find her.”

With that the gentleman got down off his horse, and it was an honourable reception they made him. Evenly herself was content to remember the scorn put on poor Shan Alec, when she seen the magnificent suitor was come.

The gentleman had a smile on his face when he heard all the boasts of the farmer.

“My good man,” says he, “I think scorn on your money and land, for I’d have you to know that I am a King in my own place. But that girl sitting by the hearth has a lovely white countenance on her, and her heart I am seeking for love of the same.”

“Oh mother,” says Bride in a whisper, “will you send him away?”

“Is it raving you are?” asks herself.

“I’d go through fire and water for my poor Shan Alec!” says Bride.

“Will you hold your whisht,” says her mother. “That is no right talk for a well-reared girl.”

The farmer and the gentleman made their agreement and opened the bottle of whiskey. There was to be a nice little feast for to celebrate the settlement, and the cloth was set in the parlour on account of the grandeur of the suitor and he not used to a kitchen at all.

When the supper was served didn’t the servant girl call the mistress out to the kitchen.

“Oh mam,” says she. “I couldn’t get word with you in private before. Let you hunt that lad from the place.”

“And why, might I ask?” says herself.

“Sure how would he be a right gentleman and he having a foot on him like a horse?” says the girl.

With that the mistress began to lament and to groan.

“What’ll I do! What’ll I do, and I scared useless with dread?”

“I’ll go in and impeach him,” says the servant girl.

In she went to the parlour.

“Quit off out of this,” says she. “We’ll have no horse feet in this place.”

The master got up to run her from the room.

“Look under the table at your lovely gentleman’s foot!” says she.

The farmer done as she bid, but he was that set in his own conceit he just answers:

“What harm is in a reel foot? It’s no ornament surely, but that’s all there is to it.”

“Many’s the reel foot I’ve laid eyes on,” she says. “But yon is the hoof of a horse.”

“It’s truth you are speaking,” says the gentleman. “I am the devil and no person less.”

“Quit off from here,” says the servant. “A decent girl, like us two, need never be fearing your like. I’d hit you a skelp with the pot stick as soon as I’d stand on a worm.”

“You can’t put me out,” says the devil. “For the man of the house has me promised his daughter.”

“There is no person living,” says Bride, “might have power on the soul of another. If my sins don’t deliver me into your hand the word of my da is no use.”

“Then I’ll be taking himself,” says the devil, making ready to go.

“You may wait till he’s dead,” cries the woman of the house. “He made you no offer of his bones and his flesh.”

“The tongues of three women would argue the devil to death,” says he, and away with him in a grey puff of smoke. The man and woman of the house began for to pray. But says Bride to the servant:

“Let you slip off to Shan Alec and bid him come up—for it’s maybe an honourable reception is waiting him here.”

XIII

THE TILLAGE IN THE FORT

There was a man in these parts, and he thought it hard to see a square inch of ground go to loss. He had a small wee farm on the top of a windy hill, and there was a fort on the sweetest of the fields. He couldn’t pass by but he’d think of how much potatoes might be grown within in the circle. Well with the dint of consideration didn’t he finally decide for to plant it.

He never let on to his wife, but away out with the loy, and he made great work before the fall of night. When he came in he carried a lengthy thorn root in his hand.

“What are you holding?” asks herself.

“An old thorn I hoked out of the ground,” says he. “I brought it in for the fire.”

“Is it making gaps in the quick hedges you are?” she asks.

“Not at all,” says he. “I have the circle beyond rooted up for to set potatoes in it.”

“Is it the fort!” says she.

When she heard what he was after doing she began for to roar and to cry.

“It is destroyed we are in this ill hour,” she lamented. “The Good People will be following us surely with the black wrath of vengeance and spite. Never before did I hear of a man setting spuds in a fort.”

“Quit raving,” says he.

“Many and many’s the time I have seen them, they riding down by the hill; their fiddles and fifes I have heard, their shouts and their laughs. But I had no cause for a dread till it come on me now,” she replies.

With that herself took the thorn from the fire, where he was after casting it down; she left it out on the door of the house.

“Let their branch stop beyond on the street,” says she, “the way they will not be entering here and they seeking for to bring it away.”

In the black darkness of midnight there came the awfullest cry on the street, on past the house and into the byre. Then a great lamentation came from the cows and the ass.

“The creatures are a killing this night,” says herself.

The man rose out of his bed and he kindled a light. He had the heart to go out to the beasts to see what ailed them at all. There was no loss on the cows nor the ass, and the cry and the shouting were gone.

He went back to the house, but not a long was he in before the very same trouble rose in the byre. Out with him again to make sure what was wrong, and he found not a single heth astray.

He was back in his bed when a third cry passed on the wind. The ass let a roar was more nor horrid lonesome, and the cows were stamping and roaring with dread. All the while there was nothing in it when the master went out.

There was no sound more until hard on the break of day. A laugh that was hateful to hear passed the house, and a hand struck hard on the window.

Himself rose early, and he opened the door. What did he see only the ass lying dead on the street, and the two cows were destroyed in the byre.

“’Twas the fairies, surely,” says he. “And they brought this destruction upon me for hoking a hole in their farm.”

“It’s a powerful great price they’re after charging you for the hire of a small piece of ground,” says herself, coming out. “But the thorn stick is gone off the street where I threw it last night, and if that had remained in the house they’d have murdered ourselves.”

XIV

THE NEW DECK OF CARDS

Of all the contrivances of the art and learning of man there is none more curious nor cards. They have a connection with beings are not right things at all, and it is well known that an Evil Angel can house himself for a while in a new deck of cards.

There was a young lad called Terry the Luck, and he a great warrant for gaining all games of skill and of chance. He was that strongly renowned the roulette men would warn him away from their boards in a fair, and the thimble trick man fled clean from the street when he come; the gosoons were in dread to toss pence with himself for the coin fell head or tail as he called.

Now it happened one night that Terry the Luck was on his way home from the sports, and he carried a new deck of cards in his hand. He was in the best of humour for he was after winning a powerful bet on a race. Part of the gain was snug in his pocket, and the remainder had paid for the drink of his friends and himself.

The road to his home was lonely, for he lived in a backward townland. The river passed within sight of his door, and it spanned by a bridge was four arches long.

When Terry the Luck set his foot on the bridge didn’t he wheel away round and start in the wrong direction.

“That’s a strange thing,” says he. “Sure my legs were right steady till now.”

With that he went at it again, but he couldn’t succeed for to cross. He went back about twenty yards and took a run at it—that was no use either. Well any person that seen his antics that night would have died of the laughter. Back he’d go and race up to the bridge for all he was worth, but whenever his foot came upon it he’d turn like a leaf on the wind and away to where he started from. What was more nor horrid vexatious for the poor fellow was to see the light shining in his own kitchen window beyond, and he not fit to get home.

“’Tis enchanted I am,” says he.

At long last he thought of the new deck of cards, and he laid them down by the roadside before he made another attempt to go home. He passed the bridge without the least hindrance, but when he went into the house he began to consider it was all a foolishness only.

“What use is there in laying out money for cards, and throwing them there to be rotting with damp?” says he.

Back he went across the river to fetch the new deck of cards. But if he was to strive till he died of exhaustion he couldn’t get over the bridge and they in his hand.

“I’ll lay them in under a stone until dawn,” says he. “Maybe whatever is in them will quit before then.”

So he settled his cards in a safe hiding hole, and away with him to his bed.

He rose with the early dawn for to bring out the deck. But there wasn’t a heth to be found where he stowed it away—and the earth by the stone was all burnt into ash.

XV

THE LIFTING OF A CHILD

There was a woman, a short while since, and she lived on a snug little farm convenient to the lough. She went to the byre for to milk, of a May morning, and no person stopped in the house only a young child in the cradle.

Not a long was herself without, maybe the half of an hour, and when she came in there was no appearance of any disorder or strife in the kitchen. But the poor wee child lay cold and dead in the cradle. The mother began for to roar and lament, and her heart was feeble with dread.

There came a knock on the door, and a neighbouring man lifted the latch and walked in. He never let on to observe the woeful countenance of herself, but he says, in a hearty voice:

“Will you tell me how is the child?”

“He is after dying on us,” she answers. “And he right well this hour past.”

The man went over to the cradle, and he lepped three foot off the floor when he seen the wee corpse lying there.

“It’s the strangest thing at all,” she laments. “And what’ll I be saying to himself when he lands in from his work.”

“Let you be telling him,” says the man, “that the little fellow is in my house this day.”

“’Tis queer advice you are speaking to be bidding me utter the like of yon lie, forenenst the innocent corpse,” says herself.

“Not a lie in the world, mam,” he answers. “Sure I am just after leaving your child by my own kitchen fire, and he wrapped up in a shawl.”

With that she took a hold of the pot stick for to run him from the place—she was odious vexed to think he’d make mock of her sore lamentations.

“Ar’n’t you the ungrateful besom,” says he, “to go destroying a decent neighbour with a pot stick, and he after saving your son from the power of the Good People?”

“Let you tell a straight story, or quit off from here,” she answers. “For I am heart scalded listening to your old nonsense and lies.”

“’Tis striving I was not to give you your death of a scare,” says he. “But the strangest thing is after coming to pass in this house. Let you sit down and have good courage, the way I’ll be telling you a rejoiceful news.”

With that herself brought him over a chair, dusting it clean on her apron, then she pulled up the creepy and sat down to attend to his words.

“Did you hear any noise of disturbance,” says he, “wherever you were?”

“I did not,” she answers. “And not a far was I from this place at all. I went to the byre for to milk; and no noise was in it only the cow breathing and the splash of the milk in the can.”

“That’s more nor horrid strange,” says he. “For I was passing down by the lough and I heard a powerful commotion up here. There was laughter and cheering, the tramp of men’s boots on the street, and horses galloping by. Thinks I to myself, ‘The fairies are out contriving some old villainy this morning of May.’ What did I do only walk up among them, and I seen no person at all. When I came to the house the poor wee child was a handing out on the window, but I could not behold the fairies were at the lifting.

“Well I’d have you to know I’m a brave and venturesome man, with a heart as strong as an eagle! What did I do only make my way in among the whole throng of Good People, and I standing on their feet, and pushing them off to the wall to make space for myself. I took a hold of the child for to pull him from the invisible hands were lifting him out, and, as sure as I’m sitting here, I brought him safe from the lot.

“There went a whole roar of annoyance from the fairies, and they mounted up on their horses and away. But I brought the little fellow to my own house for fear they’d return for him to this place.”

The poor mother was wild with delight to hear tell the son was alive.

“Let’s be going to fetch him,” says she. “And he’ll never be left in the house by his lone from this out.”

The two went down to the neighbour’s house, and sure enough the child was in it asleep by the fire.

The man had to carry him home, for herself was exhausted with fright.

“Maybe the Good People are gone up to remove what they left in the cradle,” says she.

But when they went into the kitchen wasn’t the old corpse in it yet.

“We be to bury yon article,” says herself. But the man allowed there was no need to be treating the like the same as a right thing.

“Throw it in on the back of the fire,” says he.

Herself was in dread to lay her hand on the likeness of the child. So the man lifted it out of the cradle and threw it down on the fire. And it blazed away up the chimney for a second’s time and departed in a puff of smoke.

XVI

THE VOICE AT THE DOOR

There was one time a poor widow woman he name of Cathleen the Hollow, for her house was down in a dip of the ground. She had two fine beautiful sons, Shan the Hollow and Hughie Cathleen. Shan was a dancer could step on a plate and not put a break in the delf; and Hughie could sing every ballad and song was ever heard tell of at all.

They were wild daring lads, too, the way there was great talk of them in the countryside. And the lamentations of the youth of the world were more nor a fright when news came round to the neighbours that Hughie was dead.

He lay down of a Friday night, and he in the best of health, on the Saturday morning the brother went to rouse him, and found him perished dead.

Well there was a most elegant wake, not a one in those parts but paid respect to the corpse. And there wasn’t the least suspicion but that Hughie come by his death of some natural cause.

It was maybe a fortnight after the burying that the sleep quit Shan the Hollow entirely. If evenly he began for to doze in his bed he’d be roused up again by a rap on the door—but when he stepped out there was no person visible there.

“Oh mother,” says he, “I’m thinking poor Hughie is walking the world.”

“He is not,” says she. “For he was a decent lad would find peace in the grave. But there is some person making free with this house, for not a day goes by but I miss some article of food.”

Shan let it be, but his mind was uneasy for Hugh. And not a long after he heard a voice go past in the night, and it singing a beautiful song. He rose and he went to the door.

“Oh Hughie,” says he, “is that your spirit travelling the earth?”

“It’s myself is walking the world, and I not buried at all,” says the voice. “The Good People have me away, and the corpse was an old image cut from bog stick that they left in my bed to deceive you.”

“Then it’s yourself is using the food from this house, my poor boy?” says Shan.

“Aye, indeed,” says the voice, “and sometimes it’s little I find. It does be hard on me to refuse the noble refreshment the fairies set out, but if I’d eat of the like I could never escape from their power. Do you tell herself to leave me a mug of sweet milk and a morsel of bread on the sill of the window, to keep me from hungering more.”

“You’ll have the best in the house left ready against you come,” says Shan. “But will you tell me what way am I to contrive a rescue?”

“It’s easy enough,” says the voice. “But I’m diverting myself with the fairies, and I’ll not be coming home for a while. They took me out oversea to America and showed me the wonders are there. Sure maybe it’s in France I’ll be at the dawning of day!”

“I’d liefer sit by our own fireside than travel the realms of the world with their like,” says Shan. “Let you give them the slip and come home.”

“I seen the King’s daughter of Spain, and a Queen of the East,” says the voice. “For let me be telling you there’s few like myself with the fairies, the way they are showing me great respect.”

Shan gets vexed at the words and he says: “Is it boasting forenenst your own brother you are? Sure we come of a poor stock of people, and I have heard tell there are lords of the fairies.”

“It’s my singing has them crazed about me,” says the voice, “for they have right understanding for music and songs.”

“Is there any man or woman of these parts excepting yourself abroad with them now?” asks Shan.

“Not a one at this present. But at dark to-morrow we are going for to lift young Cassidy’s wife.”

Well Shan kept inquiring of Hughie when would he like to come home. At long last the lad gave out he’d be ready in three weeks from that hour.

“Let you come to the fort,” says he, “and meet the whole host of the fairies. We’ll give them the slip at the gap.” With that the voice went away off the street, singing till the sound dwined out in the distance. But my poor Shan was that put about he couldn’t decide what to do. At the dawn of the morning he set off to visit the Priest, and he informed him every word he was after hearing. Well his Reverence couldn’t believe there was anything in it only a dream of the night.

“Let your Reverence go to the Cassidy’s and keep herself from their hands,” says Shan. “For the Good People are determined to lift her away.”

“Go home now and attend to your farm,” says the Priest. “’Tis the raving of grief is on you for the brother you lost.”

Still and all his Reverence set out for Cassidy’s that evening to see was anything wrong. Didn’t he find the Good People before him and they had herself brought away. “Oh if only I had come in time,” says he. “But I might be some hindrance to them yet.”

With that he went down to the hollow, and Shan was sitting within in the house. Says the Priest: “Let you not stir from this for the calling of voices that pass. You are after informing me of an intention you have for to rescue your brother on a set and certain night. Now give me your promise to make no attempt of the sort—for it’s into the power of the fallen angels you’d go, and you’d not get him rescued at all.”

“I be to make an offer anyway,” says Shan.

“Very well,” says the Priest. “I’ll send four strong men of this parish to rope you down in your bed on that ill night.”

Didn’t they hold my poor Shan from his offer to bring home the brother, and surely it was well done for his own destruction was in it. But the voice came no more to the window and the bread lay uncut on the sill.

XVII

THE EARL’S SON OF THE SEA

When the Good People fell from the Heavens above, didn’t some of them sink in the sea, and there they are dwelling this day.

Many and many a story is told of their diversions and how they be wrecking the ships; but the strangest account I ever heard tell was the fisherman’s daughter that met the Earl’s son of the sea.

She was travelling the sands by her lone, on the west coast of Ireland, and when she came near to the rocks she heard the notes of a harp. Of course she was curious to know who was out playing in that place and no dwelling near; so over she went towards the sound, and what did she come on only a beautiful yellow-haired man.

“It’s destroyed in a short space you’ll be,” she calls out, “for the tide is beginning to rise and you’ll be dashed dead on the rocks.”

“Do you know who I am?” says he.

“I do not,” she answers. “But you’re surely a stranger to these parts or you wouldn’t sit there with the waves beginning to rise.”

“Maybe I travelled this bay before you were born,” says he.

With that she let a laugh out of her.

“I’m thinking the two of us are about the one age,” says she. “So quit your old-fashioned talk and come on out of that till I show you the way up the cliff.”

“You’re a beautiful girl,” says the stranger, “and the wish is on me to please you. Climb up out of reach of the rising sea and I’ll play you a tune on the harp.”

Well she travelled back over the sand and up by the path to the cliff, never doubting but the stranger was following on. But when she looked down she seen him below on the rock.

“It is drownded you’ll be,” she calls out.

“Let you not be uneasy,” says he.

With that he began for to play on the harp, and the music enchanted the fisherman’s child and the tears ran down from her eyes. When she looked again to the rock wasn’t the stranger washed from it and a big white wave curled up from the place.

“I’m after finding and losing a beautiful boy,” says she, and she went away home lamenting his death.

Not a long after she was travelling the sands, and she heard the music again. There was himself sitting up on the rock as sound as a salmon at play.

“I doubt you’re no right thing,” says she.

“Maybe not,” he allows. “But I’ll rise your heart with a tune—if it was crying I had you the last time it’s laughing I’ll see you this day.”

With that he played the cleverest dancing tune on the harp, and he had the fisherman’s daughter in the best of humour.

After a while he says, “I’m thinking you have a poor way of living in your home, for it’s hard set to earn a bit and a sup that the fishermen are in this place.”

“We’re miserable, surely,” she answers.

“I’ll be making you a great advancement,” says he. “For I’d have you to know that there’s plenty of wealth in my power. Let you quit from your own friends and marry myself. It’s a beautiful castle I’ll build you, out on a rock in the ocean, and jewels and pearls for your portion to wear.”

“A lonesome life,” says she, “to be watching the wild birds fly over the waves, and maybe a ship passing by. Moreover you are no right thing, evenly if you have the appearance of a beautiful gentleman. It’s a poor man of these parts will join the world with myself.”

“Sure I’m an Earl’s son of the sea,” he allows.

But the grandeur didn’t tempt her at all.

“A sea marriage would be no marriage,” she answers, and with that she bid him good-day.

“Let your man never travel the sea,” he answers, “for I’ll destroy the ship from under his feet and leave him dead on a wave.”

He lepped down into the water and away with him from out of her sight.

The fisherman’s daughter never heard him out harping again, nor seen a sight of his face. And after a while she forgot the queer lad entirely. Didn’t she marry a farmer inland, and it was a comfortable life they enjoyed.

But a notion took himself that he’d prosper more in the States, for he was greedy for gold. He took passage for the two on a great big ship, and away with them from Ireland.

Not a long were they at sea before a sudden furl blast met the ship, and a wave twenty times as high as a house stood up over the deck and broke down. Every person was killed dead and smashed into the wood of the ship only the fisherman’s daughter. She felt the vessel sink down from under her and she looked up and seen a beautiful castle rise up on a rock on the sea.

The Earl’s son came past on a wave and he lifted her up by the hair of her head for to land her out on the rock.

The fisherman’s daughter lived in that place for fourteen years and she lamenting the lonesome hours of each day. She seen the wild gulls flying and whales and every sort sailing the waves. She took no delight in the jewels nor the dresses were stored in that house, and the Earl’s son of the sea allowed she grew ugly and old.

It happened one day he was travelling in other parts that herself seen a ship coming down, and she waved a white flag out the window.

A man came out from the ship in a small little boat, and who was it only her own brother Michael.

“Oh sister dear,” says he, “is it sitting on a rock you are for fourteen weary years? Sure we heard tell of the loss of the vessel was bringing you out to the States.”

“It’s a fine castle is here,” says she. “But it’s lonesome I am for my home.”

“I see no more nor a rock and it green with the weed of the sea,” says Michael. “It’s on your eyes that there’s more in it, for I see nothing at all.”

With that she told him the whole story. And he was in dread for to bring her away lest the Earl’s son might destroy them.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” says he. “It’s back to Ireland I’ll sail, and I’ll get an image made the down likeness of yourself. When we set that up on the rock himself will believe you are in it, and we may get away.”

So he rowed his wee boat to the ship and home he sailed to Ireland. He got the finest image made, and it the dead spit of herself. With that in his keeping he travelled the sea till he came to the rock and his sister still sat there lamenting. But she had a red flag hung out and that was the sign they’d agreed for him not to come near. So he be to wait until she put up a white one, and then he knew that the Earl’s son was not near.

He got her safe to the boat, and they left the old image stuck up on the rock.

“There’s two little fellows like sea-monkeys he’s left to watch when he’s gone,” says herself. “But they didn’t see me slip out and they’ll never think but the statue is me. I haven’t the least fear of them bringing him word there is anything wrong, but if he returns we are lost for he won’t be that easy deceived.”

They made great sailing to Ireland, and the ship was coming in on the harbour the way they were sure they’d come safe. What did they see only the Earl’s son and he riding on a big white wave to catch up to them. The image was with him, and he threw it after the ship the way a hole was cleft in her side and she sank. But the fisherman’s daughter, her brother, and the sailors got on shore in a boat before he came at them again.

They seen him from the shore, and he flittering something with his two hands. What was it only the sea-monkeys, and he threw the bits of them up on the shore. He came in himself, but they pelted him from it with stones for his power was lost on the land.

But not a one of that family to this present day may venture into the waves, for the Earl’s son watches out to destroy them for vengeance and spite.

XVIII

THE GIRL AND THE FAIRIES

There was a beautiful young girl living in these parts, and she was greatly admired by every person that seen her.

It happened when she was about nineteen years of age that she fainted one day on the street before the house, where she was washing the spuds for dinner. The mother and sister went out for to carry her in, and they laid her down on the bed—the poor girl never rose from it more. Maybe a week she was lingering dying, not a word ever came from her lips and she used no food at all.

Not a long after the burying her mother heard a rapping on the window, close upon midnight. She rose and she says, “Oh Bridget dear, is it you?”

“It is indeed, mamma,” says a voice. “Let you give me a drink of sweet milk and a small taste of bread.”

“I’ve heard tell of the dead were uneasy, but never of one needing food,” says the mother.

“The fairies have me away,” answers Bridget. “’Tis myself is living this day, and you are after giving decent burial to an old thing they left in my place.”

With that the poor mother brought milk and bread to the window and handed it out.

“Will you ever contrive to get home, my poor Bridget?” says she.

“Aye surely,” answers the girl, “if the men of this place are worthy their keep. Let you make inquiries among them until you find two strong daring boys are willing to attempt my rescue.”

She went away off the street, and the mother went back to her bed.

The next evening there were some of the neighbours came in, and herself gave out all she was after hearing. There were two clever lads in it and they promised for to bring the girl snug and safe to her home.

Not a long after Bridget came back to the window to speak with the mother, so when she heard of the offer was made she says: “The Good People are going away over the moor on Wednesday night and I must journey with them. It is mounted on horses we’ll be, and tell the two lads I told them to stand by the gap and watch for the squad going through. I’ll be upon the third grey horse to go by, and let the two lads take a hold of me, one at each side. Now if they’re not full sure they’ll have courage and daring to hold their hold, let them not come near me at all. For if I pass on with the fairies they’ll kill me dead for vengeance that night.”

The mother promised she’d give the lads great warning to keep their hold and do all as Bridget was saying.

Well on the Wednesday night the venturesome lads went down to the gap of the fort field, and there they stood waiting one at each side of the pass. Not a long were they in it before the Good People began to go through. One grey horse went down beside another and a third came behind with Bridget sitting upon his back.

The two lads caught a hold of her, but didn’t the horse let a stag lep and they lost their grip on the girl. She gave the lonesomest cry as she was carried from them, and the fairies began for to cheer and to laugh.

“We’ll follow the Good People on,” says one of the boys, “and maybe we’ll vanquish them yet.”

So the two travelled after the riders, away towards the moor. The river flows convenient to that place, and a fine bridge spans it across. It was there that the awfullest cry rose out of the throng of the fairies, and when the boys came on to the bridge they seen it all red with my poor Bridget’s blood. The horsemen were after dashing her down on the stones to her death.

XIX

GOOD-NIGHT, MY BRAVE MICHAEL

There was a big gathering of neighbours sitting round a fire, telling stories of an evening, and some person says:

“There’s the strongest bolt and lock in all Ireland on the door there beyond, and it couldn’t be broken at all.”

With that the Good People were listening outside began for to laugh. Didn’t they whip the lock off the door and away with them through the fields.

Says the man of the house: “I’m thinking there’s danger abroad; let the lot of you stop here till dawn.”

But there was a big, venturesome man in it and he allowed he’d go home no spite of the fairies.

He started off by his lone, and he had a wet sort of field to pass through with a great shaking scraw to one side. It was an awful and dangerous place to any person not used to the like, but he knew his way by the pass.

He was travelling at a good speed when all on a sudden he heard the tramping of a score of horses behind him. Then they came up round himself, but he seen no person at all nor a sign of a horse or an ass.

“The fairies are in it,” says he.

With that one of them took a hold of him by the collar and turned him round on the path.

“Good-night, my brave Michael,” says the horsemen.

Then another of them took him by the shoulder and faced him away round again.

“Good-night, my brave Michael,” says he. Well the whole score of fairies kept turning him round until he seen the stars dropping down from the sky and his ears were deafened with a sound like the sea. And every one that took him by the shoulder would say: “Good-night, my brave Michael, good-night!”

The poor fellow didn’t know what in under the shining Heaven was he to do. He seen they were setting him astray, but he couldn’t continue for to keep on the path, and he was in odious dread they’d furl him into the shaking scraw where he’d sink from the sight of man.

A sudden thought struck his mind of a saying he heard from his ma. He whipped the coat off his back and he put it on with the wrong side turned out. And then he found he was standing alone in the field, on the edge of the scraw, and no person near him at all. So he went away home without any mishap, but indeed he was trembling with dread.

XX

THE LAD AND THE OLD LASSIE’S SONG

There was a young lad living in these parts, not long since at all, and his name was Francis John.

It chanced of a May morning that water was scarce for the tea, the way his mother put a bucket in his hand and hunted him off to the spring.

Now an old lassie lived by her lone in a little wee house was built right close to the path. The door stood open that morning, and my brave Francis John looked in when he went on his way to the well. He seen the old girl sitting on a small creepy stool by the fire, with a row of clay images baking in front of the turf. Wasn’t she singing a song—and a queer cracked voice was her own—every word of it came good and plain to the ears of the lad.

Ye that I bake before the fire,

Bring me the milk from my neighbour’s byre;

Gather the butter from off the churn

And set it forenenst me before you burn.

Francis John didn’t ask to disturb her diversions at all, so he went on his way and filled up his can at the spring. But all the road home the old lassie’s song tormented his mind, and as he came in at the door he began for to sing:

Ye that she bakes before the fire,

Bring me the milk from the neighbour’s byre;

Gather the butter from off the churn

And set it forenenst me before you burn.

With the power of the words coming from him didn’t the boots on his feet fill up with sweet milk, and it running out on the lace holes.

“Man, but that’s an enchanted song,” says he. And what did he do only step into four pounds of butter that fell on the threshold before him, for he never remarked it at all!

XXI

THE BASKET OF EGGS

There was a woman one time, and she on her way to the market, counting the price of her basket of eggs.

“If eggs are up,” says she, “I’ll be gaining a handful of silver, and evenly if prices be down I’ll not do too badly at all for I have a weighty supply.”

With that she remarked a little wee boy sitting down by the hedge, he stitching away at a brogue.

“If I had a hold of yon lad,” says she, “I’d make him discover a treasure—for the like of him knows where gold does be hid.”

She juked up behind him, like a cat would be after a bird, and she caught a strong grip of his neck.

Well he let an odious screech out of him, for he was horrid surprised.

“I have you, my gosoon,” says she.

“Oh surely you have, mam,” he answers. “The strength of your thumb is destroying my thrapple this day.”

“Will you show me a treasure?” says she.

“I’d have you to know,” he replies, “that the pot of gold I could convey you in sight of is guarded by the appearance of a very strange frog.”

“What do I care for the creeping beasts of the world,” says she. “Worse nor a frog wouldn’t scare me at all.”

“You’re a terrible fine woman, mistress dear,” says the leprachaun. “I’ve travelled a power of the earth and I never came in with your equal.”

“Go on with your old-fashioned chat,” she replies, but she was middling well pleased all the same.

“I’m a small little fellow,” says he, “and I couldn’t keep up with yourself. But it’s light in the body I am, the way I’d be never a burden at all and I sitting up on the handle of the basket.”

“Up with you,” she answers, “for I’ll soon put you down to walk by my side if you are not speaking the truth.”

But she didn’t find the least burden more on the basket when himself was on the handle.

He was a great warrant to flatter, and he had her in humour that day all the while he was watching out for a chance to escape, but she kept a hold of his ear.

What did he do only put his two wee hands down into the basket and he began for to bail out the eggs. She fetched him a terrible clout, but the harder she beat him the faster he threw out the eggs.

“Oh mam! oh mam!” says he, “what for are you skelping my head?”

“To make you quit breaking my eggs, you unmannerly coley,” says she.

“Sure it’s doing you favour I am,” he replies. “I’d have you to know when I spill an egg on the ground a well-grown spring chicken leps out.”

“Quit raving,” says she.

“If you doubt my word,” he makes answer, “let you turn and look back at the chickens are flocking along.”

With that she turned her head, and the leprachaun slipped from her grasp. He made one spring from the basket into the hedge, and he vanished away from the place.

“The wee lad has fooled me entirely,” says she, “and my beautiful eggs are destroyed—but I am the finest woman he’s seen, and that is a good thing to know!”

XXII

THE BROKEN BRANCH

There was a man in the olden time, and he owned a snug little farm.

What did he do, of a winter’s day, only break a great branch off a lone bush for to burn in the fire. A thorn went into his hand and it pierced it through.

“That was a sore jag,” says he.

But there was a little grey woman sitting in under the lone bush, and she let a terrible laugh.

There were two of the neighbours seen what occurred, and they passing down through the field. One of them ran away home, but the other, a venturesome lad, came across.

“What are you after doing, my poor fellow?” says he.

“I am after destroying my hand with a thorn,” says the man.

The neighbour allowed there was worse in it nor that.

“Did you hear the grey woman laugh?” he inquires.

“There is no woman here,” says the other.

“I seen her a while past, and I coming down to your side. She was sitting in under the bush, but now she is gone. When you drove the thorn through your hand she let a lamentable laugh that was worse nor a cry.”

The man didn’t believe it at all. But the jag in his hand festered up and he died for breaking the branch of the thorn.

XXIII

DIGGING FOR GOLD

In the ancient times a poor decent labouring man dreamt three nights of finding a kist was hid in the fort near his home.

So away there he went for to dig, and not long was he working at all when he came on the beautiful gold.

“In troth I am rich from this out,” he calls at the height of his voice.

With that the whole treasure fell down through the earth: he should not have spoken at all. Then there came a powerful great cat, and it was the guard of the kist. Now the man had the wit to take hold of the appearance before him, and let it strive never so hard it could not contrive to escape. “I’ll hold you,” says he, “till you tell me where is the gold!”

“Dig at the far side,” says a voice. But whether it came from the cat was past the man’s wit for to know.

Well he went over and began for to dig at the far side, and he came on a big copper pot. But no gold was in it at all.

XXIV

STORY OF A CHURN

There was a woman renowned for making the best of good butter.

Now it chanced in the spring that her man had three boys hired for to work at the setting of spuds. One morning they passed through the house when the churn was a making, and not one put his hand to the work nor uttered a blessing upon it.

Herself was horrid annoyed to think they’d be that unseemly and ignorant, yet she passed no remark of the sort. Didn’t her whole morning’s work go to loss for no yield come on the churn.

She was not very great with her neighbours, and the first time she chanced for to speak of what happened that day was next time she seen her own mother.

The old woman says: “If you have one of them three lads impeached for taking the yield from the churn, let you write his name backwards on a small slip of paper and burn it in a shovel over the fire.”

“What good’ll that be?” asks the daughter.

“It will be the means of restoring the butter was lifted away,” says the mother.

“I doubt not—and it two months and more since the loss,” says the young woman.

But she brought out the paper and ink for to write down the name of the lad she impeached. She set it down backwards and burnt it over the fire.

“Now,” says the mother, “go out to the churn.”

What did she find only five pounds of butter sitting within on the dry wood!

XXV

THE GANKEYNOGUE IN THE OAK CHEST

There was once a man of these parts and he had a great longing for to find a treasure.

It chanced one evening that he seen a gankeynogue in the field, sitting in under a bush, and he says:

“Yon lad will surely be worth a powerful weight of gold.”

With that he went over and caught a hold of the gankey.

“Let you discover a treasure,” says he, “or else I’ll keep you like a dog on a chain from this out.”

“Keep away!” says the gankey. “How would a poor creature like myself be finding treasure for a strong farmer!”

“Let you not let on to be miserable,” says the man, “for well I know it’s great wealth you enjoy.”

“Is it me!” says the gankeynogue. “Sure I support a lengthy family entirely by my own industry.”

But the farmer would not believe a word of the sort. He carried the gankey to his house and put him into a big oak chest.

“You’ll never get out except for to show me where treasure is lodged,” he allows.

But the gankeynogue wasn’t in notion of giving the least information. He sat up in the oak chest, hammering, shouting and singing until he had the people’s heads light.

All the while the farmer was determined to get the better of him and he never agreed to let him go.

The lad was his tenth day in the chest when the man of the house came running in that evening, shouting at the top of his voice:

“Darragh fort’s on fire! Darragh fort’s on fire!”

With that the gankey began the most woeful lamentations, and he hammering like mad to get out of the chest.

“What ails you at all?” asks the farmer.

“My wife and family are in that place,” says the gankey. “Let me away to bring them safe from the fire.”

“Will you show me a treasure?” asks the man. “Aye surely!” says the gankeynogue. “But let’s go first to Darragh fort to save my weak family, and then I’ll bestow the treasure.”

So the two started off for Darragh fort, and it not on fire at all—that was a story the man was after inventing for to scare the gankeynogue.

When they landed in sight of the place the man allowed the fire be to have burnt out. Didn’t the gankey make a run and lep in among the trees.

“I’m safe from you now,” says he.

But the man never let on to be vexed that he couldn’t see the lad any more, he listened to his voice speaking for to know the direction he went. Then he lay down in that part of the fort and let on to be asleep.

After a while he heard the gankeynogue telling his wife about how he was kept in the chest.

“I was ten days in that place,” says he. “And I full of venom against the farmer. But it’s the cunning lad I am, for I never let on where the treasure is buried at all.”

“Where is it?” asks the gankeynogue’s wife.

“Under a stone in the street before his house,” says the gankey. “And herself tripped and spilled a bucket of milk just over the place this morning. I was looking out on a hole in the chest, and still I never let on one word when I seen what happened.”

“You’re a wise little fellow, sure enough,” says his wife.

The farmer got up and away home with him after hearing what they said. He asked herself where she spilled the milk at the morning of the day.

“By that stone,” says she, setting her foot on a flag in the street.

He brought the loy and a crowbar for to hoke up the place, and didn’t he discover a beautiful treasure of gold.

XXVI

THE MAKER OF BROGUES

There was a young lad travelling the road to a fair, and he passed convenient to a field had a sand pit in the middle of it. What did he see, sitting up in that place with his legs dangling over the edge of the pit, only a little wee man making brogues. The lad took one lep into the field and he walked up to the cobbler.

“Good-morning, mister!” says he. “Might I make so bold as to ask what work you are doing this hour of the morning dew, and what makes you fancy the edge of a pit for a seat?”

“’Tis making brogues I am,” says the leprachaun, “and they for the Good People’s wear.”

“I’m thinking you’re watching a treasure,” says the lad.

“I’m not,” says the leprachaun. “But I know where there’s plenty hid.”

“You be to discover it for me,” says the lad.

“Let you wait till this one pair of brogues is made,” says the fairy.

So the lad agreed and he sat down to watch him at work.

“Begob,” says he, “I never seen any person could hammer in nails such a rate.”

“It’s a slow worker I’m counted in these parts,” says the leprachaun. “Let you look down into the pit at the man is cobbling below. I warrant it’s three nails he’s driving for each one of mine.”

The lad looked over the edge.

“There is no man in it at all!” says he.

With that the leprachaun let a laugh.

“There is not,” says he.

“There’s a sore chastisement waiting on you for deceiving me,” answers the other.

But when he stood on his feet and looked round wasn’t the leprachaun gone.

“I’m the fool of the whole wide world,” says the lad, and he travelled away to the fair.