LEGEND OF BOTTLE HILL
From Ireland
It was in the good days, when the Little People were more frequently seen than they are in these unbelieving times, that a farmer, named Mick Purcell, rented a few acres of barren ground not far from the city of Cork.
Mick had a wife and seven children. They did all that they could to get on, which was very little, for the poor man had no child grown big enough to help him in his work; and all that the poor woman could do was to mind the children, milk the cow, boil the potatoes, and carry the eggs to market. So besides the difficulty of getting enough to eat, it was hard on them to pay the rent.
Well, they did manage to get along for a good while; but at last came a bad year, and the little field of oats was spoiled, and the chickens died of the pip, and the pig got the measles, and poor Mick found that he hadn’t enough to pay half his rent.
“Why, then, Molly,” said he, “what’ll we do?”
“Wisha, then, mavourneen, what would you do but take the cow to the Fair of Cork, and sell her?” said she. “And Monday is Fair-day, so you must go to-morrow.”
“And what’ll we do when she’s gone?” said Mick.
“Never a know I know, Mick, but sure God won’t leave us without help. And you know how good He was to us when little Billy was sick, and we had nothing at all for him to take—that good doctor gentleman came riding past and asked for a drink of milk, and he gave us two shillings, and sent me things and a bottle for the child; and he came to see Billy and never left off his goodness until he was well.”
“Oh, you are always hopeful, Molly, and I believe you are right, after all,” Mick said, “so I won’t be sorry for selling the cow. I’ll go to-morrow, and you must put a needle and thread through my coat, for you know it’s ripped under the arm.”