But after a time he began to think that something was amiss with the cows. He went to the cow-house the first thing every morning, and one morning he noticed the cows looking so tired they could hardly stand. When it came to milking time they found not a drop of milk. The girls, who went out to milk the cows, came back with empty cans, saying:
‘The milk has gone up into the cows’ horns!’
Colcheragh began to think that some one had put an evil eye on his cows, so he swept up some of the dust from the cross four-roads close by, in a shovel, and sprinkled it on their backs. But the cows got no better. Then he wondered if some one was coming at night to steal the milk. He made up his mind to sit in the cow-house all night to see if he could catch the thief.
So one night after everyone had gone to bed he crept out of the house and hid himself under some straw in a corner of the cow-house. Hour after hour of the dark lonesome night crept on, and he heard nothing but the cows’ breathing and their rustle in the straw. He was very cold and stiff, and he had just made up his mind to go into the house, when a glimmering light showed under the door; and then he heard Things laughing and talking—queer talk—he knew that they were not right people. The cow-house door opened and in came a whole lot of Little Men, dressed in green coats and leather caps. Keeking through the straw, he saw their horns hung by their sides, their whips in their hands, and scores of little dogs of every colour—green, blue, yellow, scarlet, and every colour you can think of—at their heels. The cows were lying down. The Little Fellows loosed the yokes from the cows’ necks, hopped on their backs, a dozen, maybe, on each cow, and cracked their little whips. The cows jumped to their feet and Themselves galloped off!
Colcheragh ran to the stable, got on a horse, and made chase after his cows. The night was dark, but he could hear the whizz of the little whips through the air, the click of the cows’ hoofs on stones, and the little dogs going:
‘Yep, yep, yep!’
He heard, too, the laughing of Themselves. Then one of them would be singing out to the dogs, calling them up by name, giving a call out of him:
‘Ho la, ho la, la!’
Colcheragh followed these sounds, keeping close at their heels. On and on they went, helter-skelter over hedges and over ditches till they got to the Fairy Hill, and Colcheragh was still following them, though on any other night he would not have gone within a mile of the great green mound. When the Little Fellows came to the hill they sounded a tan-ta-ra-ra-tan on their horns. The hill opened, bright light streamed out, and sounds of music and great merriment. Themselves passed through, and Colcheragh slid off his horse and slipped unnoticed in after them. The hill closed behind them and he found himself in a fine room, lit up till it was brighter than the summer noonday. The whole place was crowded with Little People, young and old, men and women, all decked out for a ball, that grand—he had never looked on the like. Among them were some faces that he thought he had seen before, but he took no notice of them, nor they of him. In one part there was dancing to the music of Hom Mooar—that was the name of the fiddler—and when he played all men must follow him whether they would or no. The dancing was like the dancing of flowers in the wind, such dancing as he had never seen before.
In another part his cows were being killed and roasted, and after the dance there was a great feast, with scores of tables set out with silver and gold and everything of the best to eat and drink. There was roast and boiled, and sollaghan and cowree, and puddings and pies, and jough and wine—a feast fit for the Governor himself. When they were taking their seats one of them, whose face he thought he knew, whispered to him: ‘Don’t thee taste nothin’ here or thou will be like me, and never go back to thy ones no more.’