"Come, Molly," he exclaimed, gaily, "kiss me before I start, an' wish me iligant luck."
Mary, with tearful eyes, replied, "Dear Corney, if you had all the luck I wish you, you wouldn't have to go out into the cowld to hunt for it."
"Well, God bless you, darlin', if I don't come back to you Cornalius O'Carrol, Esquire."
"You'll come home my own dear, contented husband."
"We'll see," said Corney, and away he went.
It was nothing but reasonable that he should pay a visit to the "Cross Kays" before he went on his fairy hunt, and it was nothing but natural upon his arrival there, to find his resolution had receded so far that it took sundry pots of beer to float it up again. At last, brimful of that unthinking recklessness, which the intoxicated generally mistake for courage, off he started on his expedition, singing remarkably loud, in order to persuade any lurking feeling of cowardice that might be within him, that he wouldn't be influenced by it a morsel. As he neared the village church, however, his voice unconsciously subsided into utter silence; there was a short cut through the churchyard to the place of his destination, but he made a full stop at the little stile; many and many a time had he crossed it night and morning, without a thought, and now it seemed to call up ghostly images; the wind as it moaned through the trees, appeared to address itself particularly to him; it wasn't more than a stone's throw to the other side, and he wanted to clear it with a bound. At this moment the rusty old clock suddenly squeaked and boomed out upon the startled air. The first stroke, so sharp and unexpected, shattered Corney's nerves like a stroke of paralysis; recovering from his fright, he laughed at his folly, but the sound of his own voice terrified him still more. It was not familiar to him—he didn't know it! A fancy came into his head that somebody was laughing for him, and he fairly shivered!
A sudden thought relieved him: there was no occasion to go through the churchyard at all!
"What a fool I am," thought he, "it isn't so far round, and there's plenty of time. Divil take me if I wouldn't go home agin, only Mary would think me such a coward, besides, didn't Phil do it? That's enough; faint heart never won anything worth spakin' of—so here goes."
About half an hour's walk brought him to the meadow in which lay the object of his search—a fairy-circle. Now this same fairy-circle, is nothing more nor less than a ring of grass, which, from some cause or another, probably known to botanists, but certainly a mystery to most people, is of a different shade of color to that which surrounds it. Tradition celebrates such places as the favorite resort of fairies, by whom they were formed, that they might pursue their midnight revelry without fear of danger from inimical powers. The Irish peasantry carefully avoid trespassing on those sacred precincts, and indeed scarcely ever pass them without making a reverential bow.
Our ambitious friend, Corney, hesitated for some time, before he entered the magic enclosure, exceedingly doubtful as to the treatment he should receive; at last, swallowing his trepidation with a spasmodic gulp, he placed one foot within the circle, taking care to propitiate the invisibles on whose exclusive property he was so unceremoniously intruding.