While young Denis was at “Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,” with French flourishes, and little Mistress Dorothy was sighing in the room above, the leprechaun went hopping upstairs. By this and that he came to old Berry’s door and opened it and went in, like a little green flame along the dusty floor.
Old Berry was wanting. He always lived in his little room under the roof, and went with the house when it changed hands. He spent most of his time making verse he could never finish, and sometimes he went out and gathered ferns and the red sheep-sorrel that grows among buttercups. He was too old to be surprised at anything, and when he saw the leprechaun he just said “Good evening to you, and my thanks for shutting the door behind you, for the draught’s cruel.”
“Good-evening to ye,” said the leprechaun, all at home and friendly, “good-evening to ye, and a pleasant star to sleep under. And what may ye be doing with your time now?”
“Making songs,” said old Berry, “but they won’t come out right nor end on the good word.”
“Won’t they, now?” answered the leprechaun. “There’s nothing I like better than songs, and I know a many. What might that song be about that’s under the heel of your hand this living moment?”
“Tears and dew,” said old Berry, rubbing his head, “two things that look much alike but someway taste different.”
“I know nought of the first, but of the last, what could be sweeter? And what’s the chune of your song?”
“It was a long time ago, and I’ve forgotten why, but this is the tune of it:
“ ‘When I left the green hills and fared my feet away,
All my heart went down to earth on every falling leaf,