THE RAGWEED
From Ireland
Tom was as clean, clever, and tight looking a lad as any in the whole county Cork. One fine holiday in harvest-time, he was taking a ramble and was sauntering along the sunny side of a hedge, when suddenly he heard a crackling sound among the leaves.
“Dear me!” said he, “but isn’t it really surprising to hear the stone-chats singing so late in the season!”
And with that he stole along, going on the tips of his toes, to see if he could get sight of what was making the noise. He looked sharply under the bushes, and what should he see in a nook in the hedge but a big brown pitcher holding a gallon or more of dark looking liquor. And standing close to it was a little, diny, dony bit of an old man as big as your thumb, with a tiny cocked hat stuck on the top of his head, and a deesy, daushy, leather apron hanging down before him.
The little old man pulled a little brown stool from under the hedge, and, standing upon it, dipped a little cup into the pitcher. Then he took the cup out, full of the brown liquor, and putting it on the ground, sat down on the stool under the shadow of the pitcher. He began to put a heel-piece on a bit of a boot just the size for himself.
“Bless my soul!” said Tom to himself, in great surprise, “I’ve often heard tell of the Leprechauns, but I never rightly believed in them! But here’s one in real earnest! Now if I set about things right, I’m a made man! Folks say that a body must never take his eyes off them or they’ll get away.”
So Tom stole nearer, with his eyes fixed on the little man, just as a cat does with a mouse. And when he got close up to him, he said softly:—