“It might have been a squirrel,” suggested David, the dust of the city still clouding his mind.
“Aye, but I’m thinking it wasn’t. And if there’s a fairy up yonder in the Hill Country I’m thinking ye’ll find him. ’Twill give ye one thing more to do, eh, laddy?” Johanna tightened the arm about him and laughed softly.
“But how would fairies get over here? I shouldn’t think they would ever want to leave Ireland; and I thought they never came out in winter.”
“They might come because they had been locked out.” Johanna’s eyes suddenly began to dance mysteriously, and she put her lips close to David’s ear that the noise and jar of the train might not drown one word of what she was going to say:
“Whist, laddy! Do ye mind what day it is? ’Tis the very last day of the fairy summer, the last day when they’ll be making the rings and dancing the reels over in Ireland.”
“Why, it’s Hallowe’en,” remembered David.
“Aye, that’s what! And after this night the fairies bolt the doors of their raths fast with magic and never come out again till May Eve, barring once in a white winter or so when they come out on Christmas Eve. But it happens every so often that a fairy gets locked out on this night. He stays dancing too long, or playing too many tricks, and when he gets back to the rath ’tis past cock-crow and the door is barred against him. Then there’s naught for him to do but to bide how and where he can till opening time comes on May Eve.”
“And if—and if—”
“Sure, if one should get locked out this night, what’s to prevent his coming over? What’s more likely than that he’d be saying to himself, ‘Faith, Ireland’ll be a mortal lonely place with the rest o’ the lads gone. I’ll try my luck in another country.’ And with that he follows the rest of the Irish and emigrates over here. And if he ever lands, ye mark my word, laddy, he’ll make straight for the Hill Country! That is, if he’s not there already ahead of himself.”
Johanna laughed and David laughed with her.