{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_31763/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_31763","id":"gutenberg_31763","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31763","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Fairy tales -- Ireland","Folklore -- Ireland","Nobel Prizes in Literature"],"text":"E-text prepared by Sankar Viswanathan, David Edwards, and the Project\nGutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from\npage images generously made available by Internet Archive\n(http://www.archive.org)\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original illustrations.\n      See 31763-h.htm or 31763-h.zip:\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/31763/pg31763-images.html)\n      or\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/files/31763/31763-h.zip)\n\n\n      Images of the original pages are available through\n      Internet Archive. See\n      http://www.archive.org/details/fairytalesirish00yeatrich\n\n\n\n\n\nIRISH FAIRY TALES\n\nEdited\n\nWith an Introduction\n\nby\n\nW. B. YEATS\n\nAuthor of 'The Wanderings of Oisin,' Etc.\n\nIllustrated by Jack B. Yeats\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: \"PLAYING AWAY ON THE PIPES AS MERRILY AS IF NOTHING HAD\nHAPPENED.\" (_Page_ 48.)]\n\n\n\nLondon\nT. Fisher Unwin\n1892\n\n\n\n\n_WHERE MY BOOKS GO._\n\n    _All the words that I gather,\n      And all the words that I write,\n    Must spread out their wings untiring,\n      And never rest in their flight,\n    Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,\n      And sing to you in the night,\n    Beyond where the waters are moving,\n      Storm darkened or starry bright._\n\n_W. B. YEATS._\n\nLONDON, _January 1892_.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n                                                            PAGE\n\n   INTRODUCTION                                               1\n\n   LAND AND WATER FAIRIES\n\n   THE FAIRIES' DANCING-PLACE                                13\n\n   THE RIVAL KEMPERS                                         17\n\n   THE YOUNG PIPER                                           32\n\n   A FAIRY ENCHANTMENT                                       49\n\n   TEIGUE OF THE LEE                                         53\n\n   THE FAIRY GREYHOUND                                       69\n\n   THE LADY OF GOLLERUS                                      77\n\n\n   EVIL SPIRITS\n\n   THE DEVIL'S MILL                                          95\n\n   FERGUS O'MARA AND THE AIR-DEMONS                         112\n\n   THE MAN WHO NEVER KNEW FEAR                              123\n\n\n   CATS\n\n   SEANCHAN THE BARD AND THE KING OF THE CATS               141\n\n   OWNEY AND OWNEY-NA-PEAK                                  151\n\n\n   KINGS AND WARRIORS\n\n   THE KNIGHTING OF CUCULAIN                                185\n\n   THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE                         195\n\n\n   APPENDIX\n\n   CLASSIFICATION OF IRISH FAIRIES                          223\n\n   AUTHORITIES ON IRISH FOLKLORE                            234\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nAN IRISH STORY-TELLER\n\n\nI am often doubted when I say that the Irish peasantry still believe\nin fairies. People think I am merely trying to bring back a little of\nthe old dead beautiful world of romance into this century of great\nengines and spinning-jinnies. Surely the hum of wheels and clatter of\nprinting presses, to let alone the lecturers with their black coats\nand tumblers of water, have driven away the goblin kingdom and made\nsilent the feet of the little dancers.\n\nOld Biddy Hart at any rate does not think so. Our bran-new opinions\nhave never been heard of under her brown-thatched roof tufted with\nyellow stone-crop. It is not so long since I sat by the turf fire\neating her griddle cake in her cottage on the slope of Benbulben and\nasking after her friends, the fairies, who inhabit the green\nthorn-covered hill up there behind her house. How firmly she believed\nin them! How greatly she feared offending them! For a long time she\nwould give me no answer but 'I always mind my own affairs and they\nalways mind theirs.' A little talk about my great-grandfather who\nlived all his life in the valley below, and a few words to remind her\nhow I myself was often under her roof when but seven or eight years\nold loosened her tongue, however. It would be less dangerous at any\nrate to talk to me of the fairies than it would be to tell some\n'Towrow' of them, as she contemptuously called English tourists, for I\nhad lived under the shadow of their own hillsides. She did not\nforget, however, to remind me to say after we had finished, 'God bless\nthem, Thursday' (that being the day), and so ward off their\ndispleasure, in case they were angry at our notice, for they love to\nlive and dance unknown of men.\n\nOnce started, she talked on freely enough, her face glowing in the\nfirelight as she bent over the griddle or stirred the turf, and told\nhow such a one was stolen away from near Coloney village and made to\nlive seven years among 'the gentry,' as she calls the fairies for\npoliteness' sake, and how when she came home she had no toes, for she\nhad danced them off; and how such another was taken from the\nneighbouring village of Grange and compelled to nurse the child of the\nqueen of the fairies a few months before I came. Her news about the\ncreatures is always quite matter-of-fact and detailed, just as if she\ndealt with any common occurrence: the late fair, or the dance at\nRosses last year, when a bottle of whisky was given to the best man,\nand a cake tied up in ribbons to the best woman dancer. They are, to\nher, people not so different from herself, only grander and finer in\nevery way. They have the most beautiful parlours and drawing-rooms,\nshe would tell you, as an old man told me once. She has endowed them\nwith all she knows of splendour, although that is not such a great\ndeal, for her imagination is easily pleased. What does not seem to us\nso very wonderful is wonderful to her, there, where all is so homely\nunder her wood rafters and her thatched ceiling covered with\nwhitewashed canvas. We have pictures and books to help us imagine a\nsplendid fairy world of gold and silver, of crowns and marvellous\ndraperies; but she has only that little picture of St. Patrick over\nthe fireplace, the bright-coloured crockery on the dresser, and the\nsheet of ballads stuffed by her young daughter behind the stone dog\non the mantelpiece. Is it strange, then, if her fairies have not the\nfantastic glories of the fairies you and I are wont to see in\npicture-books and read of in stories? She will tell you of peasants\nwho met the fairy cavalcade and thought it but a troop of peasants\nlike themselves until it vanished into shadow and night, and of great\nfairy palaces that were mistaken, until they melted away, for the\ncountry seats of rich gentlemen.\n\nHer views of heaven itself have the same homeliness, and she would be\nquite as naive about its personages if the chance offered as was the\npious Clondalkin laundress who told a friend of mine that she had seen\na vision of St. Joseph, and that he had 'a lovely shining hat upon him\nand a shirt-buzzom that was never starched in this world.' She would\nhave mixed some quaint poetry with it, however; for there is a world\nof difference between Benbulben and Dublinised Clondalkin.\n\nHeaven and Fairyland--to these has Biddy Hart given all she dreams of\nmagnificence, and to them her soul goes out--to the one in love and\nhope, to the other in love and fear--day after day and season after\nseason; saints and angels, fairies and witches, haunted thorn-trees\nand holy wells, are to her what books, and plays, and pictures are to\nyou and me. Indeed they are far more; for too many among us grow\nprosaic and commonplace, but she keeps ever a heart full of music. 'I\nstand here in the doorway,' she said once to me on a fine day, 'and\nlook at the mountain and think of the goodness of God'; and when she\ntalks of the fairies I have noticed a touch of tenderness in her\nvoice. She loves them because they are always young, always making\nfestival, always far off from the old age that is coming upon her and\nfilling her bones with aches, and because, too, they are so like\nlittle children.\n\nDo you think the Irish peasant would be so full of poetry if he had\nnot his fairies? Do you think the peasant girls of Donegal, when they\nare going to service inland, would kneel down as they do and kiss the\nsea with their lips if both sea and land were not made lovable to them\nby beautiful legends and wild sad stories? Do you think the old men\nwould take life so cheerily and mutter their proverb, 'The lake is not\nburdened by its swan, the steed by its bridle, or a man by the soul\nthat is in him,' if the multitude of spirits were not near them?\n\nW. B. YEATS.\n\nCLONDALKIN,\n\n_July 1891_.\n\n\n\n\nNOTE\n\n\nI have to thank Lady Wilde for leave to give 'Seanchan the Bard' from\nher _Ancient Legends of Ireland_ (Ward and Downey), the most poetical\nand ample collection of Irish folklore yet published; Mr. Standish\nO'Grady for leave to give 'The Knighting of Cuculain' from that prose\nepic he has curiously named _History of Ireland, Heroic Period_;\nProfessor Joyce for his 'Fergus O'Mara and the Air Demons'; and Mr.\nDouglas Hyde for his unpublished story, 'The Man who never knew\nFear.'\n\nI have included no story that has already appeared in my _Fairy and\nFolk Tales of the Irish Peasantry_ (Camelot Series).\n\nThe two volumes make, I believe, a fairly representative collection of\nIrish folk tales.\n\n\n\n\nLAND AND WATER FAIRIES\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIRIES' DANCING-PLACE\n\nBY WILLIAM CARLETON\n\n\nLanty M'Clusky had married a wife, and, of course, it was necessary to\nhave a house in which to keep her. Now, Lanty had taken a bit of a\nfarm, about six acres; but as there was no house on it, he resolved to\nbuild one; and that it might be as comfortable as possible, he\nselected for the site of it one of those beautiful green circles that\nare supposed to be the play-ground of the fairies. Lanty was warned\nagainst this; but as he was a headstrong man, and not much given to\nfear, he said he would not change such a pleasant situation for his\nhouse to oblige all the fairies in Europe. He accordingly proceeded\nwith the building, which he finished off very neatly; and, as it is\nusual on these occasions to give one's neighbours and friends a\nhouse-warming, so, in compliance with this good and pleasant old\ncustom, Lanty having brought home the wife in the course of the day,\ngot a fiddler and a lot of whisky, and gave those who had come to see\nhim a dance in the evening. This was all very well, and the fun and\nhilarity were proceeding briskly, when a noise was heard after night\nhad set in, like a crushing and straining of ribs and rafters on the\ntop of the house. The folks assembled all listened, and, without\ndoubt, there was nothing heard but crushing, and heaving, and pushing,\nand groaning, and panting, as if a thousand little men were engaged\nin pulling down the roof.\n\n'Come,' said a voice which spoke in a tone of command, 'work hard: you\nknow we must have Lanty's house down before midnight.'\n\nThis was an unwelcome piece of intelligence to Lanty, who, finding\nthat his enemies were such as he could not cope with, walked out, and\naddressed them as follows:\n\n'Gintlemen, I humbly ax yer pardon for buildin' on any place belongin'\nto you; but if you'll have the civilitude to let me alone this night,\nI'll begin to pull down and remove the house to-morrow morning.'\n\nThis was followed by a noise like the clapping of a thousand tiny\nlittle hands, and a shout of 'Bravo, Lanty! build half-way between the\ntwo White-thorns above the boreen'; and after another hearty little\nshout of exultation, there was a brisk rushing noise, and they were\nheard no more.\n\nThe story, however, does not end here; for Lanty, when digging the\nfoundation of his new house, found the full of a _kam_[1] of gold: so\nthat in leaving to the fairies their play-ground, he became a richer\nman than ever he otherwise would have been, had he never come in\ncontact with them at all.\n\n[Footnote 1: _Kam_--a metal vessel in which the peasantry dip\nrushlights.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE RIVAL KEMPERS\n\nBY WILLIAM CARLETON\n\n\nIn the north of Ireland there are spinning meetings of unmarried\nfemales frequently held at the houses of farmers, called _kemps_.\nEvery young woman who has got the reputation of being a quick and\nexpert spinner attends where the kemp is to be held, at an hour\nusually before daylight, and on these occasions she is accompanied by\nher sweetheart or some male relative, who carries her wheel, and\nconducts her safely across the fields or along the road, as the case\nmay be. A kemp is, indeed, an animated and joyous scene, and one,\nbesides, which is calculated to promote industry and decent pride.\nScarcely anything can be more cheering and agreeable than to hear at a\ndistance, breaking the silence of morning, the light-hearted voices of\nmany girls either in mirth or song, the humming sound of the busy\nwheels--jarred upon a little, it is true, by the stridulous noise and\ncheckings of the reels, and the voices of the reelers, as they call\naloud the checks, together with the name of the girl and the quantity\nshe has spun up to that period; for the contest is generally commenced\ntwo or three hours before daybreak. This mirthful spirit is also\nsustained by the prospect of a dance--with which, by the way, every\nkemp closes; and when the fair victor is declared, she is to be looked\nupon as the queen of the meeting, and treated with the necessary\nrespect.\n\nBut to our tale. Every one knew Shaun Buie M'Gaveran to be the\ncleanest, best-conducted boy, and the most industrious too, in the\nwhole parish of Faugh-a-ballagh. Hard was it to find a young fellow\nwho could handle a flail, spade, or reaping-hook in better style, or\nwho could go through his day's work in a more creditable or\nworkmanlike manner. In addition to this, he was a fine, well-built,\nhandsome young man as you could meet in a fair; and so, sign was on\nit, maybe the pretty girls weren't likely to pull each other's caps\nabout him. Shaun, however, was as prudent as he was good-looking; and\nalthough he wanted a wife, yet the sorrow one of him but preferred\ntaking a well-handed, smart girl, who was known to be well-behaved and\nindustrious, like himself. Here, however, was where the puzzle lay on\nhim; for instead of one girl of that kind, there were in the\nneighbourhood no less than a dozen of them--all equally fit and\nwilling to become his wife, and all equally good-looking. There were\ntwo, however, whom he thought a trifle above the rest; but so nicely\nbalanced were Biddy Corrigan and Sally Gorman, that for the life of\nhim he could not make up his mind to decide between them. Each of them\nhad won her kemp; and it was currently said by them who ought to know,\nthat neither of them could over-match the other. No two girls in the\nparish were better respected, or deserved to be so; and the\nconsequence was, they had every one's good word and good wish. Now it\nso happened that Shaun had been pulling a cord with each; and as he\nknew not how to decide between, he thought he would allow them to do\nthat themselves if they could. He accordingly gave out to the\nneighbours that he would hold a kemp on that day week, and he told\nBiddy and Sally especially that he had made up his mind to marry\nwhichever of them won the kemp, for he knew right well, as did all\nthe parish, that one of them must. The girls agreed to this very\ngood-humouredly, Biddy telling Sally that she (Sally) would surely win\nit; and Sally, not to be outdone in civility, telling the same thing\nto her.\n\nWell, the week was nearly past, there being but two days till that of\nthe kemp, when, about three o'clock, there walks into the house of old\nPaddy Corrigan a little woman dressed in high-heeled shoes and a short\nred cloak. There was no one in the house but Biddy at the time, who\nrose up and placed a chair near the fire, and asked the little red\nwoman to sit down and rest herself. She accordingly did so, and in a\nshort time a lively chat commenced between them.\n\n'So,' said the strange woman, 'there's to be a great kemp in Shaun\nBuie M'Gaveran's?'\n\n'Indeed there is that, good woman,' replied Biddy, smiling and\nblushing to back of that again, because she knew her own fate\ndepended on it.\n\n'And,' continued the little woman, 'whoever wins the kemp wins a\nhusband?'\n\n'Ay, so it seems.'\n\n'Well, whoever gets Shaun will be a happy woman, for he's the moral of\na good boy.'\n\n'That's nothing but the truth, anyhow,' replied Biddy, sighing, for\nfear, you may be sure, that she herself might lose him; and indeed a\nyoung woman might sigh from many a worse reason. 'But,' said she,\nchanging the subject, 'you appear to be tired, honest woman, an' I\nthink you had better eat a bit, an' take a good drink of _buinnhe\nramwher_ (thick milk) to help you on your journey.'\n\n'Thank you kindly, a colleen,' said the woman; 'I'll take a bit, if\nyou plase, hopin', at the same time, that you won't be the poorer of\nit this day twelve months.'\n\n'Sure,' said the girl, 'you know that what we give from kindness ever\nan' always leaves a blessing behind it.'\n\n'Yes, acushla, when it _is_ given from kindness.'\n\nShe accordingly helped herself to the food that Biddy placed before\nher, and appeared, after eating, to be very much refreshed.\n\n'Now,' said she, rising up, 'you're a very good girl, an' if you are\nable to find out my name before Tuesday morning, the kemp-day, I tell\nyou that you'll win it, and gain the husband.'\n\n'Why,' said Biddy, 'I never saw you before. I don't know who you are,\nnor where you live; how then can I ever find out your name?'\n\n'You never saw me before, sure enough,' said the old woman, 'an' I\ntell you that you never will see me again but once; an' yet if you\nhave not my name for me at the close of the kemp, you'll lose all, an'\nthat will leave you a sore heart, for well I know you love Shaun\nBuie.'\n\nSo saying, she went away, and left poor Biddy quite cast down at what\nshe had said, for, to tell the truth, she loved Shaun very much, and\nhad no hopes of being able to find out the name of the little woman,\non which, it appeared, so much to her depended.\n\nIt was very near the same hour of the same day that Sally Gorman was\nsitting alone in her father's house, thinking of the kemp, when who\nshould walk in to her but our friend the little red woman.\n\n'God save you, honest woman,' said Sally, 'this is a fine day that's\nin it, the Lord be praised!'\n\n'It is,' said the woman, 'as fine a day as one could wish for: indeed\nit is.'\n\n'Have you no news on your travels?' asked Sally.\n\n'The only news in the neighbourhood,' replied the other, 'is this\ngreat kemp that's to take place at Shaun Buie M'Gaveran's. They say\nyou're either to win him or lose him then,' she added, looking\nclosely at Sally as she spoke.\n\n'I'm not very much afraid of that,' said Sally, with confidence; 'but\neven if I do lose him, I may get as good.'\n\n'It's not easy gettin' as good,' rejoined the old woman, 'an' you\nought to be very glad to win him, if you can.'\n\n'Let me alone for that,' said Sally. 'Biddy's a good girl, I allow;\nbut as for spinnin', she never saw the day she could leave me behind\nher. Won't you sit an' rest you?' she added; 'maybe you're tired.'\n\n'It's time for you to think of it,' _thought_ the woman, but she spoke\nnothing: 'but,' she added to herself on reflection, 'it's better late\nthan never--I'll sit awhile, till I see a little closer what she's\nmade of.'\n\nShe accordingly sat down and chatted upon several subjects, such as\nyoung women like to talk about, for about half an hour; after which\nshe arose, and taking her little staff in hand, she bade Sally\ngood-bye, and went her way. After passing a little from the house she\nlooked back, and could not help speaking to herself as follows:\n\n    'She's smooth and smart,\n    But she wants the heart;\n    She's tight and neat,\n    But she gave no meat.'\n\nPoor Biddy now made all possible inquiries about the old woman, but to\nno purpose. Not a soul she spoke to about her had ever seen or heard\nof such a woman. She felt very dispirited, and began to lose heart,\nfor there is no doubt that if she missed Shaun it would have cost her\nmany a sorrowful day. She knew she would never get his equal, or at\nleast any one that she loved so well. At last the kemp day came, and\nwith it all the pretty girls of the neighbourhood to Shaun Buie's.\nAmong the rest, the two that were to decide their right to him were\ndoubtless the handsomest pair by far, and every one admired them. To\nbe sure, it was a blythe and merry place, and many a light laugh and\nsweet song rang out from pretty lips that day. Biddy and Sally, as\nevery one expected, were far ahead of the rest, but so even in their\nspinning that the reelers could not for the life of them declare which\nwas the better. It was neck-and-neck and head-and-head between the\npretty creatures, and all who were at the kemp felt themselves wound\nup to the highest pitch of interest and curiosity to know which of\nthem would be successful.\n\nThe day was now more than half gone, and no difference was between\nthem, when, to the surprise and sorrow of every one present, Biddy\nCorrigan's _heck_ broke in two, and so to all appearance ended the\ncontest in favour of her rival; and what added to her mortification,\nshe was as ignorant of the red little woman's name as ever. What was\nto be done? All that could be done was done. Her brother, a boy of\nabout fourteen years of age, happened to be present when the accident\ntook place, having been sent by his father and mother to bring them\nword how the match went on between the rival spinsters. Johnny\nCorrigan was accordingly despatched with all speed to Donnel\nM'Cusker's, the wheelwright, in order to get the heck mended, that\nbeing Biddy's last but hopeless chance. Johnny's anxiety that his\nsister should win was of course very great, and in order to lose as\nlittle time as possible he struck across the country, passing through,\nor rather close by, Kilrudden forth, a place celebrated as a resort of\nthe fairies. What was his astonishment, however, as he passed a\nWhite-thorn tree, to hear a female voice singing, in accompaniment to\nthe sound of a spinning-wheel, the following words:\n\n    'There's a girl in this town doesn't know my name;\n    But my name's Even Trot--Even Trot.'\n\n'There's a girl in this town,' said the lad, 'who's in great distress,\nfor she has broken her heck, and lost a husband. I'm now goin' to\nDonnel M'Cusker's to get it mended.'\n\n'What's her name?' said the little red woman.\n\n'Biddy Corrigan.'\n\nThe little woman immediately whipped out the heck from her own wheel,\nand giving it to the boy, desired him to take it to his sister, and\nnever mind Donnel M'Cusker.\n\n'You have little time to lose,' she added, 'so go back and give her\nthis; but don't tell her how you got it, nor, above all things, that\nit was Even Trot that gave it to you.'\n\nThe lad returned, and after giving the heck to his sister, as a matter\nof course told her that it was a little red woman called Even Trot\nthat sent it to her, a circumstance which made tears of delight start\nto Biddy's eyes, for she knew now that Even Trot was the name of the\nold woman, and having known that, she felt that something good would\nhappen to her. She now resumed her spinning, and never did human\nfingers let down the thread so rapidly. The whole kemp were amazed at\nthe quantity which from time to time filled her pirn. The hearts of\nher friends began to rise, and those of Sally's party to sink, as hour\nafter hour she was fast approaching her rival, who now spun if\npossible with double speed on finding Biddy coming up with her. At\nlength they were again even, and just at that moment in came her\nfriend the little red woman, and asked aloud, 'Is there any one in\nthis kemp that knows my name?' This question she asked three times\nbefore Biddy could pluck up courage to answer her. She at last said,\n\n    'There's a girl in this town does know your name--\n    Your name is Even Trot--Even Trot.'\n\n'Ay,' said the old woman, 'and so it is; and let that name be your\nguide and your husband's through life. Go steadily along, but let your\nstep be even; stop little; keep always advancing; and you'll never\nhave cause to rue the day that you first saw Even Trot.'\n\nWe need scarcely add that Biddy won the kemp and the husband, and that\nshe and Shaun lived long and happily together; and I have only now to\nwish, kind reader, that you and I may live longer and more happily\nstill.\n\n\n\n\nTHE YOUNG PIPER\n\nBY CROFTON CROKER\n\n\nThere lived not long since, on the borders of the county Tipperary, a\ndecent honest couple, whose names were Mick Flannigan and Judy\nMuldoon. These poor people were blessed, as the saying is, with four\nchildren, all boys: three of them were as fine, stout, healthy,\ngood-looking children as ever the sun shone upon; and it was enough to\nmake any Irishman proud of the breed of his countrymen to see them\nabout one o'clock on a fine summer's day standing at their father's\ncabin door, with their beautiful flaxen hair hanging in curls about\ntheir head, and their cheeks like two rosy apples, and a big laughing\npotato smoking in their hand. A proud man was Mick of these fine\nchildren, and a proud woman, too, was Judy; and reason enough they had\nto be so. But it was far otherwise with the remaining one, which was\nthe third eldest: he was the most miserable, ugly, ill-conditioned\nbrat that ever God put life into; he was so ill-thriven that he never\nwas able to stand alone, or to leave his cradle; he had long, shaggy,\nmatted, curled hair, as black as the soot; his face was of a\ngreenish-yellow colour; his eyes were like two burning coals, and were\nfor ever moving in his head, as if they had the perpetual motion.\nBefore he was a twelvemonth old he had a mouth full of great teeth;\nhis hands were like kites' claws, and his legs were no thicker than\nthe handle of a whip, and about as straight as a reaping-hook: to\nmake the matter worse, he had the appetite of a cormorant, and the\nwhinge, and the yelp, and the screech, and the yowl, was never out of\nhis mouth.\n\nThe neighbours all suspected that he was something not right,\nparticularly as it was observed, when people, as they do in the\ncountry, got about the fire, and began to talk of religion and good\nthings, the brat, as he lay in the cradle, which his mother generally\nput near the fireplace that he might be snug, used to sit up, as they\nwere in the middle of their talk, and begin to bellow as if the devil\nwas in him in right earnest; this, as I said, led the neighbours to\nthink that all was not right, and there was a general consultation\nheld one day about what would be best to do with him. Some advised to\nput him out on the shovel, but Judy's pride was up at that. A pretty\nthing indeed, that a child of hers should be put on a shovel and\nflung out on the dunghill just like a dead kitten or a poisoned rat;\nno, no, she would not hear to that at all. One old woman, who was\nconsidered very skilful and knowing in fairy matters, strongly\nrecommended her to put the tongs in the fire, and heat them red hot,\nand to take his nose in them, and that would beyond all manner of\ndoubt make him tell what he was and where he came from (for the\ngeneral suspicion was, that he had been changed by the good people);\nbut Judy was too softhearted, and too fond of the imp, so she would\nnot give in to this plan, though everybody said she was wrong, and\nmaybe she was, but it's hard to blame a mother. Well, some advised one\nthing, and some another; at last one spoke of sending for the priest,\nwho was a very holy and a very learned man, to see it. To this Judy of\ncourse had no objection; but one thing or other always prevented her\ndoing so, and the upshot of the business was that the priest never\nsaw him.\n\nThings went on in the old way for some time longer. The brat continued\nyelping and yowling, and eating more than his three brothers put\ntogether, and playing all sorts of unlucky tricks, for he was mighty\nmischievously inclined, till it happened one day that Tim Carrol, the\nblind piper, going his rounds, called in and sat down by the fire to\nhave a bit of chat with the woman of the house. So after some time\nTim, who was no churl of his music, yoked on the pipes, and began to\nbellows away in high style; when the instant he began, the young\nfellow, who had been lying as still as a mouse in his cradle, sat up,\nbegan to grin and twist his ugly face, to swing about his long tawny\narms, and to kick out his crooked legs, and to show signs of great\nglee at the music. At last nothing would serve him but he should get\nthe pipes into his own hands, and to humour him his mother asked Tim\nto lend them to the child for a minute. Tim, who was kind to children,\nreadily consented; and as Tim had not his sight, Judy herself brought\nthem to the cradle, and went to put them on him; but she had no\noccasion, for the youth seemed quite up to the business. He buckled on\nthe pipes, set the bellows under one arm, and the bag under the other,\nworked them both as knowingly as if he had been twenty years at the\nbusiness, and lilted up 'Sheela na guira' in the finest style\nimaginable.\n\nAll were in astonishment: the poor woman crossed herself. Tim, who, as\nI said before, was _dark_, and did not well know who was playing, was\nin great delight; and when he heard that it was a little _prechan_ not\nfive years old, that had never seen a set of pipes in his life, he\nwished the mother joy of her son; offered to take him off her hands if\nshe would part with him, swore he was a _born_ piper, a natural\n_genus_, and declared that in a little time more, with the help of a\nlittle good instruction from himself, there would not be his match in\nthe whole country. The poor woman was greatly delighted to hear all\nthis, particularly as what Tim said about natural _genus_ quieted some\nmisgivings that were rising in her mind, lest what the neighbours said\nabout his not being right might be too true; and it gratified her\nmoreover to think that her dear child (for she really loved the whelp)\nwould not be forced to turn out and beg, but might earn decent bread\nfor himself. So when Mick came home in the evening from his work, she\nup and told him all that had happened, and all that Tim Carrol had\nsaid; and Mick, as was natural, was very glad to hear it, for the\nhelpless condition of the poor creature was a great trouble to him. So\nnext day he took the pig to the fair, and with what it brought set\noff to Clonmel, and bespoke a bran-new set of pipes, of the proper\nsize for him.\n\nIn about a fortnight the pipes came home, and the moment the chap in\nhis cradle laid eyes on them he squealed with delight and threw up his\npretty legs, and bumped himself in his cradle, and went on with a\ngreat many comical tricks; till at last, to quiet him, they gave him\nthe pipes, and he immediately set to and pulled away at 'Jig Polthog,'\nto the admiration of all who heard him.\n\nThe fame of his skill on the pipes soon spread far and near, for there\nwas not a piper in the six next counties could come at all near him,\nin 'Old Moderagh rue,' or 'The Hare in the Corn,' or 'The Fox-hunter's\nJig,' or 'The Rakes of Cashel,' or 'The Piper's Maggot,' or any of the\nfine Irish jigs which make people dance whether they will or no: and\nit was surprising to hear him rattle away 'The Fox-hunt'; you'd really\nthink you heard the hounds giving tongue, and the terriers yelping\nalways behind, and the huntsman and the whippers-in cheering or\ncorrecting the dogs; it was, in short, the very next thing to seeing\nthe hunt itself.\n\nThe best of him was, he was noways stingy of his music, and many a\nmerry dance the boys and girls of the neighbourhood used to have in\nhis father's cabin; and he would play up music for them, that they\nsaid used as it were to put quicksilver in their feet; and they all\ndeclared they never moved so light and so airy to any piper's playing\nthat ever they danced to.\n\nBut besides all his fine Irish music, he had one queer tune of his\nown, the oddest that ever was heard; for the moment he began to play\nit everything in the house seemed disposed to dance; the plates and\nporringers used to jingle on the dresser, the pots and pot-hooks used\nto rattle in the chimney, and people used even to fancy they felt the\nstools moving from under them; but, however it might be with the\nstools, it is certain that no one could keep long sitting on them, for\nboth old and young always fell to capering as hard as ever they could.\nThe girls complained that when he began this tune it always threw them\nout in their dancing, and that they never could handle their feet\nrightly, for they felt the floor like ice under them, and themselves\nevery moment ready to come sprawling on their backs or their faces.\nThe young bachelors who wished to show off their dancing and their new\npumps, and their bright red or green and yellow garters, swore that it\nconfused them so that they never could go rightly through the _heel\nand toe_ or _cover the buckle_, or any of their best steps, but felt\nthemselves always all bedizzied and bewildered, and then old and young\nwould go jostling and knocking together in a frightful manner; and\nwhen the unlucky brat had them all in this way, whirligigging about\nthe floor, he'd grin and chuckle and chatter, for all the world like\nJacko the monkey when he has played off some of his roguery.\n\nThe older he grew the worse he grew, and by the time he was six years\nold there was no standing the house for him; he was always making his\nbrothers burn or scald themselves, or break their shins over the pots\nand stools. One time, in harvest, he was left at home by himself, and\nwhen his mother came in she found the cat a-horseback on the dog, with\nher face to the tail, and her legs tied round him, and the urchin\nplaying his queer tune to them; so that the dog went barking and\njumping about, and puss was mewing for the dear life, and slapping her\ntail backwards and forwards, which, as it would hit against the dog's\nchaps, he'd snap at and bite, and then there was the philliloo.\nAnother time, the farmer with whom Mick worked, a very decent,\nrespectable man, happened to call in, and Judy wiped a stool with her\napron, and invited him to sit down and rest himself after his walk. He\nwas sitting with his back to the cradle, and behind him was a pan of\nblood, for Judy was making pig's puddings. The lad lay quite still in\nhis nest, and watched his opportunity till he got ready a hook at the\nend of a piece of twine, which he contrived to fling so handily that\nit caught in the bob of the man's nice new wig, and soused it in the\npan of blood. Another time his mother was coming in from milking the\ncow, with the pail on her head: the minute he saw her he lilted up his\ninfernal tune, and the poor woman, letting go the pail, clapped her\nhands aside, and began to dance a jig, and tumbled the milk all a-top\nof her husband, who was bringing in some turf to boil the supper. In\nshort, there would be no end to telling all his pranks, and all the\nmischievous tricks he played.\n\nSoon after, some mischances began to happen to the farmer's cattle. A\nhorse took the staggers, a fine veal calf died of the black-leg, and\nsome of his sheep of the red-water; the cows began to grow vicious,\nand to kick down the milk-pails, and the roof of one end of the barn\nfell in; and the farmer took it into his head that Mick Flannigan's\nunlucky child was the cause of all the mischief. So one day he called\nMick aside, and said to him, 'Mick, you see things are not going on\nwith me as they ought, and to be plain with you, Mick, I think that\nchild of yours is the cause of it. I am really falling away to nothing\nwith fretting, and I can hardly sleep on my bed at night for thinking\nof what may happen before the morning. So I'd be glad if you'd look\nout for work somewhere else; you're as good a man as any in the\ncountry, and there's no fear but you'll have your choice of work.' To\nthis Mick replied, 'that he was sorry for his losses, and still\nsorrier that he or his should be thought to be the cause of them; that\nfor his own part he was not quite easy in his mind about that child,\nbut he had him and so must keep him'; and he promised to look out for\nanother place immediately.\n\nAccordingly, next Sunday at chapel Mick gave out that he was about\nleaving the work at John Riordan's, and immediately a farmer who lived\na couple of miles off, and who wanted a ploughman (the last one having\njust left him), came up to Mick, and offered him a house and garden,\nand work all the year round. Mick, who knew him to be a good employer,\nimmediately closed with him; so it was agreed that the farmer should\nsend a car[2] to take his little bit of furniture, and that he should\nremove on the following Thursday.\n\n[Footnote 2: Car, a cart.]\n\nWhen Thursday came, the car came according to promise, and Mick loaded\nit, and put the cradle with the child and his pipes on the top, and\nJudy sat beside it to take care of him, lest he should tumble out and\nbe killed. They drove the cow before them, the dog followed, but the\ncat was of course left behind; and the other three children went along\nthe road picking skeehories (haws) and blackberries, for it was a fine\nday towards the latter end of harvest.\n\nThey had to cross a river, but as it ran through a bottom between two\nhigh banks, you did not see it till you were close on it. The young\nfellow was lying pretty quiet in the bottom of the cradle, till they\ncame to the head of the bridge, when hearing the roaring of the water\n(for there was a great flood in the river, as it had rained heavily\nfor the last two or three days), he sat up in his cradle and looked\nabout him; and the instant he got a sight of the water, and found they\nwere going to take him across it, oh, how he did bellow and how he did\nsqueal! no rat caught in a snap-trap ever sang out equal to him.\n'Whist! A lanna,' said Judy, 'there's no fear of you; sure it's only\nover the stone bridge we're going.'--'Bad luck to you, you old rip!'\ncried he, 'what a pretty trick you've played me to bring me here!' and\nstill went on yelling, and the farther they got on the bridge the\nlouder he yelled; till at last Mick could hold out no longer, so\ngiving him a great skelp of the whip he had in his hand, 'Devil choke\nyou, you brat!' said he, 'will you never stop bawling? a body can't\nhear their ears for you.' The moment he felt the thong of the whip he\nleaped up in the cradle, clapped the pipes under his arm, gave a most\nwicked grin at Mick, and jumped clean over the battlements of the\nbridge down into the water. 'Oh, my child, my child!' shouted Judy,\n'he's gone for ever from me.' Mick and the rest of the children ran to\nthe other side of the bridge, and looking over, they saw him coming\nout from under the arch of the bridge, sitting cross-legged on the top\nof a white-headed wave, and playing away on the pipes as merrily as if\nnothing had happened. The river was running very rapidly, so he was\nwhirled away at a great rate; but he played as fast, ay, and faster,\nthan the river ran; and though they set off as hard as they could\nalong the bank, yet, as the river made a sudden turn round the hill,\nabout a hundred yards below the bridge, by the time they got there he\nwas out of sight, and no one ever laid eyes on him more; but the\ngeneral opinion was that he went home with the pipes to his own\nrelations, the good people, to make music for them.\n\n\n\n\nA FAIRY ENCHANTMENT\n\n_Story-teller_--MICHAEL HART\n\n_Recorder_--W. B. YEATS\n\n\nIn the times when we used to travel by canal I was coming down from\nDublin. When we came to Mullingar the canal ended, and I began to\nwalk, and stiff and fatigued I was after the slowness. I had some\nfriends with me, and now and then we walked, now and then we rode in a\ncart. So on till we saw some girls milking a cow, and stopped to joke\nwith them. After a while we asked them for a drink of milk. 'We have\nnothing to put it in here,' they said, 'but come to the house with\nus.' We went home with them and sat round the fire talking. After a\nwhile the others went, and left me, loath to stir from the good fire.\nI asked the girls for something to eat. There was a pot on the fire,\nand they took the meat out and put it on a plate and told me to eat\nonly the meat that came from the head. When I had eaten, the girls\nwent out and I did not see them again.\n\nIt grew darker and darker, and there I still sat, loath as ever to\nleave the good fire; and after a while two men came in, carrying\nbetween them a corpse. When I saw them I hid behind the door. Says one\nto the other, 'Who'll turn the spit?' Says the other, 'Michael Hart,\ncome out of that and turn the meat!' I came out in a tremble and began\nturning the spit. 'Michael Hart,' says the one who spoke first, 'if\nyou let it burn we will have to put you on the spit instead,' and on\nthat they went out. I sat there trembling and turning the corpse until\nmidnight. The men came again, and the one said it was burnt, and the\nother said it was done right, but having fallen out over it, they both\nsaid they would do me no harm that time; and sitting by the fire one\nof them cried out, 'Michael Hart, can you tell a story?' 'Never a\none,' said I. On that he caught me by the shoulders and put me out\nlike a shot.\n\nIt was a wild, blowing night; never in all my born days did I see such\na night--the darkest night that ever came out of the heavens. I did\nnot know where I was for the life of me. So when one of the men came\nafter me and touched me on the shoulder with a 'Michael Hart, can you\ntell a story now?'--'I can,' says I. In he brought me, and, putting me\nby the fire, says 'Begin.' 'I have no story but the one,' says I,\n'that I was sitting here, and that you two men brought in a corpse\nand put it on the spit and set me turning it.' 'That will do,' says\nhe; 'you may go in there and lie down on the bed.' And in I went,\nnothing loath, and in the morning where was I but in the middle of a\ngreen field.\n\n\n\n\nTEIGUE OF THE LEE\n\nBY CROFTON CROKER\n\n\nI can't stop in the house--I won't stop in it for all the money that\nis buried in the old castle of Carrigrohan. If ever there was such a\nthing in the world!--to be abused to my face night and day, and nobody\nto the fore doing it! and then, if I'm angry, to be laughed at with a\ngreat roaring ho, ho, ho! I won't stay in the house after to-night, if\nthere was not another place in the country to put my head under.' This\nangry soliloquy was pronounced in the hall of the old manor-house of\nCarrigrohan by John Sheehan. John was a new servant; he had been only\nthree days in the house, which had the character of being haunted, and\nin that short space of time he had been abused and laughed at by a\nvoice which sounded as if a man spoke with his head in a cask; nor\ncould he discover who was the speaker, or from whence the voice came.\n'I'll not stop here,' said John; 'and that ends the matter.'\n\n'Ho, ho, ho! be quiet, John Sheehan, or else worse will happen to\nyou.'\n\nJohn instantly ran to the hall window, as the words were evidently\nspoken by a person immediately outside, but no one was visible. He had\nscarcely placed his face at the pane of glass when he heard another\nloud 'Ho, ho, ho!' as if behind him in the hall; as quick as lightning\nhe turned his head, but no living thing was to be seen.\n\n'Ho, ho, ho, John!' shouted a voice that appeared to come from the\nlawn before the house: 'do you think you'll see Teigue?--oh, never! as\nlong as you live! so leave alone looking after him, and mind your\nbusiness; there's plenty of company to dinner from Cork to be here\nto-day, and 'tis time you had the cloth laid.'\n\n'Lord bless us! there's more of it!--I'll never stay another day\nhere,' repeated John.\n\n'Hold your tongue, and stay where you are quietly, and play no tricks\non Mr. Pratt, as you did on Mr. Jervois about the spoons.'\n\nJohn Sheehan was confounded by this address from his invisible\npersecutor, but nevertheless he mustered courage enough to say, 'Who\nare you? come here, and let me see you, if you are a man'; but he\nreceived in reply only a laugh of unearthly derision, which was\nfollowed by a 'Good-bye--I'll watch you at dinner, John!'\n\n'Lord between us and harm! this beats all! I'll watch you at dinner!\nmaybe you will! 'tis the broad daylight, so 'tis no ghost; but this is\na terrible place, and this is the last day I'll stay in it. How does\nhe know about the spoons? if he tells it I'm a ruined man! there was\nno living soul could tell it to him but Tim Barrett, and he's far\nenough off in the wilds of Botany Bay now, so how could he know it? I\ncan't tell for the world! But what's that I see there at the corner of\nthe wall! 'tis not a man! oh, what a fool I am! 'tis only the old\nstump of a tree! But this is a shocking place--I'll never stop in it,\nfor I'll leave the house to-morrow; the very look of it is enough to\nfrighten any one.'\n\nThe mansion had certainly an air of desolation; it was situated in a\nlawn, which had nothing to break its uniform level save a few tufts of\nnarcissuses and a couple of old trees coeval with the building. The\nhouse stood at a short distance from the road, it was upwards of a\ncentury old, and Time was doing his work upon it; its walls were\nweather-stained in all colours, its roof showed various white patches,\nit had no look of comfort; all was dim and dingy without, and within\nthere was an air of gloom, of departed and departing greatness, which\nharmonised well with the exterior. It required all the exuberance of\nyouth and of gaiety to remove the impression, almost amounting to awe,\nwith which you trod the huge square hall, paced along the gallery\nwhich surrounded the hall, or explored the long rambling passages\nbelow stairs. The ballroom, as the large drawing-room was called, and\nseveral other apartments, were in a state of decay; the walls were\nstained with damp, and I remember well the sensation of awe which I\nfelt creeping over me when, boy as I was, and full of boyish life and\nwild and ardent spirits, I descended to the vaults; all without and\nwithin me became chilled beneath their dampness and gloom--their\nextent, too, terrified me; nor could the merriment of my two\nschoolfellows, whose father, a respectable clergyman, rented the\ndwelling for a time, dispel the feelings of a romantic imagination\nuntil I once again ascended to the upper regions.\n\nJohn had pretty well recovered himself as the dinner-hour approached,\nand several guests arrived. They were all seated at the table, and had\nbegun to enjoy the excellent repast, when a voice was heard in the\nlawn.\n\n'Ho, ho, ho! Mr. Pratt, won't you give poor Teigue some dinner? ho,\nho! a fine company you have there, and plenty of everything that's\ngood; sure you won't forget poor Teigue?'\n\nJohn dropped the glass he had in his hand.\n\n'Who is that?' said Mr. Pratt's brother, an officer of the artillery.\n\n'That is Teigue,' said Mr. Pratt, laughing, 'whom you must often have\nheard me mention.'\n\n'And pray, Mr. Pratt,' inquired another gentleman, 'who _is_ Teigue?'\n\n'That,' he replied, 'is more than I can tell. No one has ever been\nable to catch even a glimpse of him. I have been on the watch for a\nwhole evening with three of my sons, yet, although his voice sometimes\nsounded almost in my ear, I could not see him. I fancied, indeed, that\nI saw a man in a white frieze jacket pass into the door from the\ngarden to the lawn, but it could be only fancy, for I found the door\nlocked, while the fellow, whoever he is, was laughing at our trouble.\nHe visits us occasionally, and sometimes a long interval passes\nbetween his visits, as in the present case; it is now nearly two years\nsince we heard that hollow voice outside the window. He has never done\nany injury that we know of, and once when he broke a plate, he\nbrought one back exactly like it.'\n\n'It is very extraordinary,' exclaimed several of the company.\n\n'But,' remarked a gentleman to young Mr. Pratt, 'your father said he\nbroke a plate; how did he get it without your seeing him?'\n\n'When he asks for some dinner we put it outside the window and go\naway; whilst we watch he will not take it, but no sooner have we\nwithdrawn than it is gone.'\n\n'How does he know that you are watching?'\n\n'That's more than I can tell, but he either knows or suspects. One day\nmy brothers Robert and James with myself were in our back parlour,\nwhich has a window into the garden, when he came outside and said,\n\"Ho, ho, ho! Master James and Robert and Henry, give poor Teigue a\nglass of whisky.\" James went out of the room, filled a glass with\nwhisky, vinegar, and salt, and brought it to him. \"Here, Teigue,\"\nsaid he, \"come for it now.\"--\"Well, put it down, then, on the step\noutside the window.\" This was done, and we stood looking at it.\n\"There, now, go away,\" he shouted. We retired, but still watched it.\n\"Ho, ho! you are watching Teigue! go out of the room, now, or I won't\ntake it.\" We went outside the door and returned, the glass was gone,\nand a moment after we heard him roaring and cursing frightfully. He\ntook away the glass, but the next day it was on the stone step under\nthe window, and there were crumbs of bread in the inside, as if he had\nput it in his pocket; from that time he has not been heard till\nto-day.'\n\n'Oh,' said the colonel, 'I'll get a sight of him; you are not used to\nthese things; an old soldier has the best chance, and as I shall\nfinish my dinner with this wing, I'll be ready for him when he speaks\nnext--Mr. Bell, will you take a glass of wine with me?'\n\n'Ho, ho! Mr. Bell,' shouted Teigue. 'Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, you were a\nQuaker long ago. Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, you're a pretty boy! a pretty\nQuaker you were; and now you're no Quaker, nor anything else: ho, ho!\nMr. Bell. And there's Mr. Parkes: to be sure, Mr. Parkes looks mighty\nfine to-day, with his powdered head, and his grand silk stockings and\nhis bran-new rakish-red waistcoat. And there's Mr. Cole: did you ever\nsee such a fellow? A pretty company you've brought together, Mr.\nPratt: kiln-dried Quakers, butter-buying buckeens from Mallow Lane,\nand a drinking exciseman from the Coal Quay, to meet the great\nthundering artillery general that is come out of the Indies, and is\nthe biggest dust of them all.'\n\n'You scoundrel!' exclaimed the colonel, 'I'll make you show yourself';\nand snatching up his sword from a corner of the room, he sprang out of\nthe window upon the lawn. In a moment a shout of laughter, so hollow,\nso unlike any human sound, made him stop, as well as Mr. Bell, who\nwith a huge oak stick was close at the colonel's heels; others of the\nparty followed to the lawn, and the remainder rose and went to the\nwindows. 'Come on, colonel,' said Mr. Bell; 'let us catch this\nimpudent rascal.'\n\n'Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, here I am--here's Teigue--why don't you catch him?\nHo, ho! Colonel Pratt, what a pretty soldier you are to draw your\nsword upon poor Teigue, that never did anybody harm.'\n\n'Let us see your face, you scoundrel,' said the colonel.\n\n'Ho, ho, ho!--look at me--look at me: do you see the wind, Colonel\nPratt? you'll see Teigue as soon; so go in and finish your dinner.'\n\n'If you're upon the earth, I'll find you, you villain!' said the\ncolonel, whilst the same unearthly shout of derision seemed to come\nfrom behind an angle of the building. 'He's round that corner,' said\nMr. Bell, 'run, run.'\n\nThey followed the sound, which was continued at intervals along the\ngarden wall, but could discover no human being; at last both stopped\nto draw breath, and in an instant, almost at their ears, sounded the\nshout--\n\n'Ho, ho, ho! Colonel Pratt, do you see Teigue now? do you hear him?\nHo, ho, ho! you're a fine colonel to follow the wind.'\n\n'Not that way, Mr. Bell--not that way; come here,' said the colonel.\n\n'Ho, ho, ho! what a fool you are; do you think Teigue is going to show\nhimself to you in the field, there? But, colonel, follow me if you\ncan: you a soldier! ho, ho, ho!' The colonel was enraged: he followed\nthe voice over hedge and ditch, alternately laughed at and taunted by\nthe unseen object of his pursuit (Mr. Bell, who was heavy, was soon\nthrown out); until at length, after being led a weary chase, he found\nhimself at the top of the cliff, over that part of the river Lee,\nwhich, from its great depth, and the blackness of its water, has\nreceived the name of Hell-hole. Here, on the edge of the cliff, stood\nthe colonel out of breath, and mopping his forehead with his\nhandkerchief, while the voice, which seemed close at his feet,\nexclaimed, 'Now, Colonel Pratt, now, if you're a soldier, here's a\nleap for you! Now look at Teigue--why don't you look at him? Ho, ho,\nho! Come along; you're warm, I'm sure, Colonel Pratt, so come in and\ncool yourself; Teigue is going to have a swim!' The voice seemed as if\ndescending amongst the trailing ivy and brushwood which clothes this\npicturesque cliff nearly from top to bottom, yet it was impossible\nthat any human being could have found footing. 'Now, colonel, have you\ncourage to take the leap? Ho, ho, ho! what a pretty soldier you are.\nGood-bye; I'll see you again in ten minutes above, at the house--look\nat your watch, colonel: there's a dive for you'; and a heavy plunge\ninto the water was heard. The colonel stood still, but no sound\nfollowed, and he walked slowly back to the house, not quite half a\nmile from the Crag.\n\n'Well, did you see Teigue?' said his brother, whilst his nephews,\nscarcely able to smother their laughter, stood by.\n\n'Give me some wine,' said the colonel. 'I never was led such a dance\nin my life; the fellow carried me all round and round till he brought\nme to the edge of the cliff, and then down he went into Hell-hole,\ntelling me he'd be here in ten minutes; 'tis more than that now, but\nhe's not come.'\n\n'Ho, ho, ho! colonel, isn't he here? Teigue never told a lie in his\nlife: but, Mr. Pratt, give me a drink and my dinner, and then\ngood-night to you all, for I'm tired; and that's the colonel's\ndoing.' A plate of food was ordered; it was placed by John, with fear\nand trembling, on the lawn under the window. Every one kept on the\nwatch, and the plate remained undisturbed for some time.\n\n'Ah! Mr. Pratt, will you starve poor Teigue? Make every one go away\nfrom the windows, and Master Henry out of the tree, and Master Richard\noff the garden wall.'\n\nThe eyes of the company were turned to the tree and the garden wall;\nthe two boys' attention was occupied in getting down; the visitors\nwere looking at them; and 'Ho, ho, ho!--good luck to you, Mr. Pratt!\n'tis a good dinner, and there's the plate, ladies and gentlemen.\nGood-bye to you, colonel!--good-bye, Mr. Bell! good-bye to you all!'\nbrought their attention back, when they saw the empty plate lying on\nthe grass; and Teigue's voice was heard no more for that evening.\nMany visits were afterwards paid by Teigue; but never was he seen, nor\nwas any discovery ever made of his person or character.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIRY GREYHOUND\n\n\nPaddy M'Dermid was one of the most rollicking boys in the whole county\nof Kildare. Fair or pattern[3] wouldn't be held barring he was in the\nmidst of it. He was in every place, like bad luck, and his poor little\nfarm was seldom sowed in season; and where he expected barley, there\ngrew nothing but weeds. Money became scarce in poor Paddy's pocket;\nand the cow went after the pig, until nearly all he had was gone.\nLucky however for him, if he had _gomch_ (sense) enough to mind it, he\nhad a most beautiful dream one night as he lay tossicated (drunk) in\nthe Rath[4] of Monogue, because he wasn't able to come home. He dreamt\nthat, under the place where he lay, a pot of money was buried since\nlong before the memory of man. Paddy kept the dream to himself until\nthe next night, when, taking a spade and pickaxe, with a bottle of\nholy water, he went to the Rath, and, having made a circle round the\nplace, commenced diggin' sure enough, for the bare life and sowl of\nhim thinkin' that he was made up for ever and ever. He had sunk about\ntwice the depth of his knees, when _whack_ the pickaxe struck against\na flag, and at the same time Paddy heard something breathe quite near\nhim. He looked up, and just fornent him there sat on his haunches a\ncomely-looking greyhound.\n\n[Footnote 3: A merry-making in the honour of some patron saint.]\n\n[Footnote 4: Raths are little fields enclosed by circular ditches.\nThey are thought to be the sheep-folds and dwellings of an ancient\npeople.]\n\n[Illustration: \"FORNENT HIM THERE SAT ON HIS HAUNCHES A COMELY-LOOKING\nGREYHOUND.\" (_Page 71._)]\n\n'God save you,' said Paddy, every hair in his head standing up as\nstraight as a sally twig.\n\n'Save you kindly,' answered the greyhound--leaving out God, the beast,\nbekase he was the divil. Christ defend us from ever seeing the likes\no' him.\n\n'Musha, Paddy M'Dermid,' said he, 'what would you be looking after in\nthat grave of a hole you're diggin' there?'\n\n'Faith, nothing at all, at all,' answered Paddy; bekase you see he\ndidn't like the stranger.\n\n'Arrah, be easy now, Paddy M'Dermid,' said the greyhound; 'don't I\nknow very well what you are looking for?'\n\n'Why then in truth, if you do, I may as well tell you at wonst,\nparticularly as you seem a civil-looking gentleman, that's not above\nspeaking to a poor gossoon like myself.' (Paddy wanted to butter him\nup a bit.)\n\n'Well then,' said the greyhound, 'come out here and sit down on this\nbank,' and Paddy, like a gomulagh (fool), did as he was desired, but\nhad hardly put his brogue outside of the circle made by the holy\nwater, when the beast of a hound set upon him, and drove him out of\nthe Rath; for Paddy was frightened, as well he might, at the fire that\nflamed from his mouth. But next night he returned, full sure the money\nwas there. As before, he made a circle, and touched the flag, when my\ngentleman, the greyhound, appeared in the ould place.\n\n'Oh ho,' said Paddy, 'you are there, are you? but it will be a long\nday, I promise you, before you trick me again'; and he made another\nstroke at the flag.\n\n'Well, Paddy M'Dermid,' said the hound, 'since you will have money,\nyou must; but say, how much will satisfy you?'\n\nPaddy scratched his conlaan, and after a while said--\n\n'How much will your honour give me?' for he thought it better to be\ncivil.\n\n'Just as much as you consider reasonable, Paddy M'Dermid.'\n\n'Egad,' says Paddy to himself, 'there's nothing like axin' enough.'\n\n'Say fifty thousand pounds,' said he. (He might as well have said a\nhundred thousand, for I'll be bail the beast had money gulloure.)\n\n'You shall have it,' said the hound; and then, after trotting away a\nlittle bit, he came back with a crock full of guineas between his\npaws.\n\n'Come here and reckon them,' said he; but Paddy was up to him, and\nrefused to stir, so the crock was shoved alongside the blessed and\nholy circle, and Paddy pulled it in, right glad to have it in his\nclutches, and never stood still until he reached his own home, where\nhis guineas turned into little bones, and his ould mother laughed at\nhim. Paddy now swore vengeance against the deceitful beast of a\ngreyhound, and went next night to the Rath again, where, as before, he\nmet Mr. Hound.\n\n'So you are here again, Paddy?' said he.\n\n'Yes, you big blaggard,' said Paddy, 'and I'll never leave this place\nuntil I pull out the pot of money that's buried here.'\n\n'Oh, you won't,' said he. 'Well, Paddy M'Dermid, since I see you are\nsuch a brave venturesome fellow I'll be after making you up if you\nwalk downstairs with me out of the could'; and sure enough it was\nsnowing like murder.\n\n'Oh may I never see Athy if I do,' returned Paddy, 'for you only want\nto be loading me with ould bones, or perhaps breaking my own, which\nwould be just as bad.'\n\n''Pon honour,' said the hound, 'I am your friend; and so don't stand\nin your own light; come with me and your fortune is made. Remain where\nyou are and you'll die a beggar-man.' So bedad, with one palaver and\nanother, Paddy consented; and in the middle of the Rath opened up a\nbeautiful staircase, down which they walked; and after winding and\nturning they came to a house much finer than the Duke of Leinster's,\nin which all the tables and chairs were solid gold. Paddy was\ndelighted; and after sitting down, a fine lady handed him a glass of\nsomething to drink; but he had hardly swallowed a spoonful when all\naround set up a horrid yell, and those who before appeared beautiful\nnow looked like what they were--enraged 'good people' (fairies).\nBefore Paddy could bless himself, they seized him, legs and arms,\ncarried him out to a great high hill that stood like a wall over a\nriver, and flung him down. 'Murder!' cried Paddy; but it was no use,\nno use; he fell upon a rock, and lay there as dead until next morning,\nwhere some people found him in the trench that surrounds the _mote_ of\nCoulhall, the 'good people' having carried him there; and from that\nhour to the day of his death he was the greatest object in the world.\nHe walked double, and had his mouth (God bless us) where his ear\nshould be.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LADY OF GOLLERUS\n\nBY CROFTON CROKER\n\n\nOn the shore of Smerwick harbour, one fine summer's morning, just at\ndaybreak, stood Dick Fitzgerald 'shoghing the dudeen,' which may be\ntranslated, smoking his pipe. The sun was gradually rising behind the\nlofty Brandon, the dark sea was getting green in the light, and the\nmists clearing away out of the valleys went rolling and curling like\nthe smoke from the corner of Dick's mouth.\n\n''Tis just the pattern of a pretty morning,' said Dick, taking the\npipe from between his lips, and looking towards the distant ocean,\nwhich lay as still and tranquil as a tomb of polished marble. 'Well,\nto be sure,' continued he, after a pause, ''tis mighty lonesome to be\ntalking to one's self by way of company, and not to have another soul\nto answer one--nothing but the child of one's own voice, the echo! I\nknow this, that if I had the luck, or may be the misfortune,' said\nDick, with a melancholy smile, 'to have the woman, it would not be\nthis way with me! and what in the wide world is a man without a wife?\nHe's no more surely than a bottle without a drop of drink in it, or\ndancing without music, or the left leg of a scissors, or a\nfishing-line without a hook, or any other matter that is no ways\ncomplete. Is it not so?' said Dick Fitzgerald, casting his eyes\ntowards a rock upon the strand, which, though it could not speak,\nstood up as firm and looked as bold as ever Kerry witness did.\n\nBut what was his astonishment at beholding, just at the foot of that\nrock, a beautiful young creature combing her hair, which was of a\nsea-green colour; and now the salt water shining on it appeared, in\nthe morning light, like melted butter upon cabbage.\n\nDick guessed at once that she was a Merrow,[5] although he had never\nseen one before, for he spied the _cohuleen driuth_, or little\nenchanted cap, which the sea people use for diving down into the\nocean, lying upon the strand near her; and he had heard that, if once\nhe could possess himself of the cap she would lose the power of going\naway into the water: so he seized it with all speed, and she, hearing\nthe noise, turned her head about as natural as any Christian.\n\n[Footnote 5: Sea fairy.]\n\nWhen the Merrow saw that her little diving-cap was gone, the salt\ntears--doubly salt, no doubt, from her--came trickling down her\ncheeks, and she began a low mournful cry with just the tender voice\nof a new-born infant. Dick, although he knew well enough what she was\ncrying for, determined to keep the _cohuleen driuth_, let her cry\nnever so much, to see what luck would come out of it. Yet he could not\nhelp pitying her; and when the dumb thing looked up in his face, with\nher cheeks all moist with tears, 'twas enough to make any one feel,\nlet alone Dick, who had ever and always, like most of his countrymen,\na mighty tender heart of his own.\n\n'Don't cry, my darling,' said Dick Fitzgerald; but the Merrow, like\nany bold child, only cried the more for that.\n\nDick sat himself down by her side, and took hold of her hand by way of\ncomforting her. 'Twas in no particular an ugly hand, only there was a\nsmall web between the fingers, as there is in a duck's foot; but 'twas\nas thin and as white as the skin between egg and shell.\n\n'What's your name, my darling?' says Dick, thinking to make her\nconversant with him; but he got no answer; and he was certain sure\nnow, either that she could not speak, or did not understand him: he\ntherefore squeezed her hand in his, as the only way he had of talking\nto her. It's the universal language; and there's not a woman in the\nworld, be she fish or lady, that does not understand it.\n\nThe Merrow did not seem much displeased at this mode of conversation;\nand making an end of her whining all at once, 'Man,' says she, looking\nup in Dick Fitzgerald's face; 'man, will you eat me?'\n\n'By all the red petticoats and check aprons between Dingle and\nTralee,' cried Dick, jumping up in amazement, 'I'd as soon eat myself,\nmy jewel! Is it I eat you, my pet? Now, 'twas some ugly ill-looking\nthief of a fish put that notion into your own pretty head, with the\nnice green hair down upon it, that is so cleanly combed out this\nmorning!'\n\n'Man,' said the Merrow, 'what will you do with me if you won't eat\nme?'\n\nDick's thoughts were running on a wife: he saw, at the first glimpse,\nthat she was handsome; but since she spoke, and spoke too like any\nreal woman, he was fairly in love with her. 'Twas the neat way she\ncalled him man that settled the matter entirely.\n\n'Fish,' says Dick, trying to speak to her after her own short fashion;\n'fish,' says he, 'here's my word, fresh and fasting, for you this\nblessed morning, that I'll make you Mistress Fitzgerald before all the\nworld, and that's what I'll do.'\n\n'Never say the word twice,' says she; 'I'm ready and willing to be\nyours, Mister Fitzgerald; but stop, if you please, till I twist up my\nhair.' It was some time before she had settled it entirely to her\nliking; for she guessed, I suppose, that she was going among\nstrangers, where she would be looked at. When that was done, the\nMerrow put the comb in her pocket, and then bent down her head and\nwhispered some words to the water that was close to the foot of the\nrock.\n\nDick saw the murmur of the words upon the top of the sea, going out\ntowards the wide ocean, just like a breath of wind rippling along,\nand, says he, in the greatest wonder, 'Is it speaking you are, my\ndarling, to the salt water?'\n\n'It's nothing else,' says she, quite carelessly; 'I'm just sending\nword home to my father not to be waiting breakfast for me; just to\nkeep him from being uneasy in his mind.'\n\n'And who's your father, my duck?' said Dick.\n\n'What!' said the Merrow, 'did you never hear of my father? he's the\nking of the waves to be sure!'\n\n'And yourself, then, is a real king's daughter?' said Dick, opening\nhis two eyes to take a full and true survey of his wife that was to\nbe. 'Oh, I'm nothing else but a made man with you, and a king your\nfather; to be sure he has all the money that's down at the bottom of\nthe sea!'\n\n'Money,' repeated the Merrow, 'what's money?'\n\n''Tis no bad thing to have when one wants it,' replied Dick; 'and may\nbe now the fishes have the understanding to bring up whatever you bid\nthem?'\n\n'Oh yes,' said the Merrow, 'they bring me what I want.'\n\n'To speak the truth then,' said Dick, ''tis a straw bed I have at home\nbefore you, and that, I'm thinking, is no ways fitting for a king's\ndaughter; so if 'twould not be displeasing to you, just to mention a\nnice feather bed, with a pair of new blankets--but what am I talking\nabout? may be you have not such things as beds down under the water?'\n\n'By all means,' said she, 'Mr. Fitzgerald--plenty of beds at your\nservice. I've fourteen oyster-beds of my own, not to mention one just\nplanting for the rearing of young ones.'\n\n'You have?' says Dick, scratching his head and looking a little\npuzzled. ''Tis a feather bed I was speaking of; but, clearly, yours is\nthe very cut of a decent plan to have bed and supper so handy to each\nother, that a person when they'd have the one need never ask for the\nother.'\n\nHowever, bed or no bed, money or no money, Dick Fitzgerald determined\nto marry the Merrow, and the Merrow had given her consent. Away they\nwent, therefore, across the strand, from Gollerus to Ballinrunnig,\nwhere Father Fitzgibbon happened to be that morning.\n\n'There are two words to this bargain, Dick Fitzgerald,' said his\nReverence, looking mighty glum. 'And is it a fishy woman you'd marry?\nThe Lord preserve us! Send the scaly creature home to her own people;\nthat's my advice to you, wherever she came from.'\n\nDick had the _cohuleen driuth_ in his hand, and was about to give it\nback to the Merrow, who looked covetously at it, but he thought for a\nmoment, and then says he, 'Please your Reverence, she's a king's\ndaughter.'\n\n'If she was the daughter of fifty kings,' said Father Fitzgibbon, 'I\ntell you, you can't marry her, she being a fish.'\n\n'Please your Reverence,' said Dick again, in an undertone, 'she is as\nmild and as beautiful as the moon.'\n\n'If she was as mild and as beautiful as the sun, moon, and stars, all\nput together, I tell you, Dick Fitzgerald,' said the Priest, stamping\nhis right foot, 'you can't marry her, she being a fish.'\n\n'But she has all the gold that's down in the sea only for the asking,\nand I'm a made man if I marry her; and,' said Dick, looking up slily,\n'I can make it worth any one's while to do the job.'\n\n'Oh! that alters the case entirely,' replied the Priest; 'why there's\nsome reason now in what you say: why didn't you tell me this before?\nmarry her by all means, if she was ten times a fish. Money, you know,\nis not to be refused in these bad times, and I may as well have the\nhansel of it as another, that may be would not take half the pains in\ncounselling you that I have done.'\n\nSo Father Fitzgibbon married Dick Fitzgerald to the Merrow, and like\nany loving couple, they returned to Gollerus well pleased with each\nother. Everything prospered with Dick--he was at the sunny side of the\nworld; the Merrow made the best of wives, and they lived together in\nthe greatest contentment.\n\nIt was wonderful to see, considering where she had been brought up,\nhow she would busy herself about the house, and how well she nursed\nthe children; for, at the end of three years there were as many young\nFitzgeralds--two boys and a girl.\n\nIn short, Dick was a happy man, and so he might have been to the end\nof his days if he had only had the sense to take care of what he had\ngot; many another man, however, beside Dick, has not had wit enough to\ndo that.\n\nOne day, when Dick was obliged to go to Tralee, he left the wife\nminding the children at home after him, and thinking she had plenty to\ndo without disturbing his fishing-tackle.\n\nDick was no sooner gone than Mrs. Fitzgerald set about cleaning up the\nhouse, and chancing to pull down a fishing-net, what should she find\nbehind it in a hole in the wall but her own _cohuleen driuth_. She\ntook it out and looked at it, and then she thought of her father the\nking, and her mother the queen, and her brothers and sisters, and she\nfelt a longing to go back to them.\n\nShe sat down on a little stool and thought over the happy days she had\nspent under the sea; then she looked at her children, and thought on\nthe love and affection of poor Dick, and how it would break his heart\nto lose her. 'But,' says she, 'he won't lose me entirely, for I'll\ncome back to him again, and who can blame me for going to see my\nfather and my mother after being so long away from them?'\n\nShe got up and went towards the door, but came back again to look once\nmore at the child that was sleeping in the cradle. She kissed it\ngently, and as she kissed it a tear trembled for an instant in her eye\nand then fell on its rosy cheek. She wiped away the tear, and turning\nto the eldest little girl, told her to take good care of her brothers,\nand to be a good child herself until she came back. The Merrow then\nwent down to the strand. The sea was lying calm and smooth, just\nheaving and glittering in the sun, and she thought she heard a faint\nsweet singing, inviting her to come down. All her old ideas and\nfeelings came flooding over her mind, Dick and her children were at\nthe instant forgotten, and placing the _cohuleen driuth_ on her head\nshe plunged in.\n\nDick came home in the evening, and missing his wife he asked Kathleen,\nhis little girl, what had become of her mother, but she could not tell\nhim. He then inquired of the neighbours, and he learned that she was\nseen going towards the strand with a strange-looking thing like a\ncocked hat in her hand. He returned to his cabin to search for the\n_cohuleen driuth_. It was gone, and the truth now flashed upon him.\n\nYear after year did Dick Fitzgerald wait expecting the return of his\nwife, but he never saw her more. Dick never married again, always\nthinking that the Merrow would sooner or later return to him, and\nnothing could ever persuade him but that her father the king kept her\nbelow by main force; 'for,' said Dick, 'she surely would not of\nherself give up her husband and her children.'\n\nWhile she was with him she was so good a wife in every respect that to\nthis day she is spoken of in the tradition of the country as the\npattern for one, under the name of THE LADY OF GOLLERUS.\n\n\n\n\nEVIL SPIRITS\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL'S MILL\n\nBY SAMUEL LOVER\n\n\nYou see, sir, there was a colonel wanst, in times back, that owned a\npower of land about here--but God keep uz, they said he didn't come by\nit honestly, but did a crooked turn whenever 'twas to sarve himself.\n\nWell, the story goes that at last the divil (God bless us) kem to him,\nand promised him hapes o' money, and all his heart could desire and\nmore, too, if he'd sell his sowl in exchange.\n\nHe was too cunnin' for that; bad as he was--and he was bad enough God\nknows--he had some regard for his poor sinful sowl, and he would not\ngive himself up to the divil, all out; but, the villain, he thought he\nmight make a bargain with the _old chap_, and get all he wanted, and\nkeep himself out of harm's way still: for he was mighty 'cute--and,\nthroth, he was able for Owld Nick any day.\n\nWell, the bargain was struck, and it was this-a-way: the divil was to\ngive him all the goold ever he'd ask for, and was to let him alone as\nlong as he could; and the timpter promised him a long day, and said\n'twould be a great while before he'd want him at all, at all; and whin\nthat time kem, he was to keep his hands aff him, as long as the other\ncould give him some work he couldn't do.\n\nSo, when the bargain was made, 'Now,' says the colonel to the divil,\n'give me all the money I want.'\n\n'As much as you like,' says Owld Nick; 'how much will you have?'\n\n'You must fill me that room,' says he, pointin' into a murtherin' big\nroom that he emptied out on purpose--'you must fill that room,' says\nhe, 'up to the very ceilin' with goolden guineas.'\n\n'And welkem,' says the divil.\n\nWith that, sir, he began to shovel the guineas into the room like mad;\nand the colonel towld him, that as soon as he was done, to come to him\nin his own parlour below, and that he would then go up and see if the\ndivil was as good as his word, and had filled the room with the\ngoolden guineas. So the colonel went downstairs, and the owld fellow\nworked away as busy as a nailer, shovellin' in the guineas by\nhundherds and thousands.\n\nWell, he worked away for an hour and more, and at last he began to get\ntired; and he thought it _mighty odd_ that the room wasn't fillin'\nfasther. Well, afther restin' for awhile, he began agin, and he put\nhis shouldher to the work in airnest; but still the room was no\nfuller at all, at all.\n\n'Och! bad luck to me,' says the divil, 'but the likes of this I never\nseen,' says he, 'far and near, up and down--the dickens a room I ever\nkem across afore,' says he, 'I couldn't cram while a cook would be\ncrammin' a turkey, till now; and here I am,' says he, 'losin' my whole\nday, and I with such a power o' work an my hands yit, and this room no\nfuller than five minutes ago.'\n\nBegor, while he was spakin' he seen the hape o' guineas in the middle\nof the flure growing _littler and littler_ every minit; and at last\nthey wor disappearing, for all the world like corn in the hopper of a\nmill.\n\n'Ho! ho!' says Owld Nick, 'is that the way wid you?' says he; and wid\nthat, he ran over to the hape of goold--and what would you think, but\nit was runnin' down through a great big hole in the flure, that the\ncolonel made through the ceilin' in the room below; and that was the\nwork he was at afther he left the divil, though he purtended he was\nonly waitin' for him in his parlour; and there the divil, when he\nlooked down the hole in the flure, seen the colonel, not content with\nthe _two_ rooms full of guineas, but with a big shovel throwin' them\ninto a closet a' one side of him as fast as they fell down. So,\nputting his head through the hole, he called down to the colonel:\n\n'Hillo, neighbour!' says he.\n\nThe colonel looked up, and grew as white as a sheet, when he seen he\nwas found out, and the red eyes starin' down at him through the hole.\n\n'Musha, bad luck to your impudence!' says Owld Nick: 'it is sthrivin'\nto chate _me_ you are,' says he, 'you villain!'\n\n'Oh, forgive me for this wanst!' says the colonel, 'and, upon the\nhonour of a gintleman,' says he, 'I'll never----'\n\n'Whisht! whisht! you thievin' rogue,' says the divil, 'I'm not angry\nwith you at all, at all, but only like you the betther, bekase you're\nso cute;--lave off slaving yourself there,' says he, 'you have got\ngoold enough for this time; and whenever you want more, you have only\nto say the word, and it shall be yours to command.'\n\nSo with that, the divil and he parted for that time: and myself\ndoesn't know whether they used to meet often afther or not; but the\ncolonel never wanted money, anyhow, but went on prosperous in the\nworld--and, as the saying is, if he took the dirt out o' the road, it\nid turn to money wid him; and so, in course of time, he bought great\nestates, and was a great man entirely--not a greater in Ireland,\nthroth.\n\nAt last, afther many years of prosperity, the owld colonel got\nstricken in years, and he began to have misgivings in his conscience\nfor his wicked doings, and his heart was heavy as the fear of death\ncame upon him; and sure enough, while he had such murnful thoughts,\nthe divil kem to him, and towld him _he should go wid him_.\n\nWell, to be sure, the owld man was frekened, but he plucked up his\ncourage and his cuteness, and towld the divil, in a bantherin' way,\njokin' like, that he had partic'lar business thin, that he was goin'\nto a party, and hoped an _owld friend_ wouldn't inconvaynience him\nthat-a-way.\n\nThe divil said he'd call the next day, and that he must be ready; and\nsure enough in the evenin' he kem to him; and when the colonel seen\nhim, he reminded him of his bargain that as long as he could give him\nsome work he couldn't do, he wasn't obleeged to go.\n\n'That's thrue,' says the divil.\n\n'I'm glad you're as good as your word, anyhow,' says the colonel.\n\n'I never bruk my word yit,' says the owld chap, cocking up his horns\nconsaitedly; 'honour bright,' says he.\n\n'Well then,' says the colonel, 'build me a mill, down there, by the\nriver,' says he, 'and let me have it finished by to-morrow mornin'.'\n\n'Your will is my pleasure,' says the owld chap, and away he wint; and\nthe colonel thought he had nicked Owld Nick at last, and wint to bed\nquite aisy in his mind.\n\nBut, _jewel machree_, sure the first thing he heerd the next mornin'\nwas that the whole counthry round was runnin' to see a fine bran new\nmill that was an the river-side, where the evening before not a thing\nat all, at all, but rushes was standin', and all, of coorse, wonderin'\nwhat brought it there; and some sayin' 'twas not lucky, and many more\nthroubled in their mind, but one and all agreein' it was no _good_;\nand that's the very mill forninst you.\n\nBut when the colonel heered it he was more throubled than any, of\ncoorse, and began to conthrive what else he could think iv to keep\nhimself out iv the claws of the _owld one_. Well, he often heerd tell\nthat there was one thing the divil never could do, and I darsay you\nheerd it too, sir,--that is, that he couldn't make a rope out of the\nsands of the say; and so when the _owld one_ kem to him the next day\nand said his job was done, and that now the mill was built he must\neither tell him somethin' else he wanted done, or come away wid him.\n\nSo the colonel said he saw it was all over wid him. 'But,' says he, 'I\nwouldn't like to go wid you alive, and sure it's all the same to you,\nalive or dead?'\n\n'Oh, that won't do,' says his frind; 'I can't wait no more,' says he.\n\n'I don't want you to wait, my dear frind,' says the colonel; 'all I\nwant is, that you'll be plased to kill me before you take me away.'\n\n'With pleasure,' says Owld Nick.\n\n'But will you promise me my choice of dyin' one partic'lar way?' says\nthe colonel.\n\n'Half a dozen ways, if it plazes you,' says he.\n\n'You're mighty obleegin',' says the colonel; 'and so,' says he, 'I'd\nrather die by bein' hanged with a rope _made out of the sands of the\nsay_,' says he, lookin' mighty knowin' at the _owld fellow_.\n\n'I've always one about me,' says the divil, 'to obleege my frinds,'\nsays he; and with that he pulls out a rope made of sand, sure enough.\n\n'Oh, it's game you're makin',' says the colonel, growin' as white as a\nsheet.\n\n'The _game is mine_, sure enough,' says the owld fellow, grinnin',\nwith a terrible laugh.\n\n'That's not a sand-rope at all,' says the colonel.\n\n'Isn't it?' says the divil, hittin' him acrass the face with the ind\niv the rope, and the sand (for it _was_ made of sand, sure enough)\nwent into one of his eyes, and made the tears come with the pain.\n\n'That bates all I ever seen or heerd,' says the colonel, sthrivin' to\nrally and make another offer; 'is there anything you _can't_ do?'\n\n'Nothing you can tell me,' says the divil, 'so you may as well leave\noff your palaverin' and come along at wanst.'\n\n'Will you give me one more offer,' says the colonel.\n\n'You don't desarve it,' says the divil; 'but I don't care if I do';\nfor you see, sir, he was only playin' wid him, and tantalising the\nowld sinner.\n\n'All fair,' says the colonel, and with that he ax'd him could he stop\na woman's tongue.\n\n'Thry me,' says Owld Nick.\n\n'Well then,' says the colonel, 'make my lady's tongue be quiet for the\nnext month and I'd thank you.'\n\n'She'll never trouble you agin,' says Owld Nick; and with that the\ncolonel heerd roarin' and cryin', and the door of his room was thrown\nopen and in ran his daughter, and fell down at his feet, telling him\nher mother had just dhropped dead.\n\nThe minit the door opened, the divil runs and hides himself behind a\nbig elbow-chair; and the colonel was frekened almost out of his siven\nsinses by raison of the sudden death of his poor lady, let alone the\njeopardy he was in himself, seein' how the divil had _forestalled_ him\nevery way; and after ringin' his bell and callin' to his sarvants and\nrecoverin' his daughter out of her faint, he was goin' away wid her\nout of the room, whin the divil caught howld of him by the skirt of\nthe coat, and the colonel was obleeged to let his daughter be carried\nout by the sarvants, and shut the door afther them.\n\n'Well,' says the divil, and he grinn'd and wagg'd his tail, all as one\nas a dog when he's plaised; 'what do you say now?' says he.\n\n'Oh,' says the colonel, 'only lave me alone until I bury my poor\nwife,' says he, 'and I'll go with you then, you villain,' says he.\n\n'Don't call names,' says the divil; 'you had better keep a civil\ntongue in your head,' says he; 'and it doesn't become a gintleman to\nforget good manners.'\n\n'Well, sir, to make a long story short, the divil purtended to let him\noff, out of kindness, for three days antil his wife was buried; but\nthe raison of it was this, that when the lady his daughter fainted, he\nloosened the clothes about her throat, and in pulling some of her\ndhress away, he tuk off a goold chain that was on her neck and put it\nin his pocket, and the chain had a diamond crass on it (the Lord be\npraised!) and the divil darn't touch him while he had _the sign of the\ncrass_ about him.\n\nWell, the poor colonel (God forgive him!) was grieved for the loss of\nhis lady, and she had an _illigant berrin_--and they say that when the\nprayers was readin' over the dead, the owld colonel took it to heart\nlike anything, and the word o' God kem home to his poor sinful sowl at\nlast.\n\nWell, sir, to make a long story short, the ind of it was, that for the\nthree days o' grace that was given to him the poor deluded owld sinner\ndid nothin' at all but read the Bible from mornin' till night, and bit\nor sup didn't pass his lips all the time, he was so intint upon the\nHoly Book, but he sat up in an owld room in the far ind of the house,\nand bid no one disturb him an no account, and struv to make his heart\nbould with the words iv life; and sure it was somethin' strinthened\nhim at last, though as the time drew nigh that the _inimy_ was to\ncome, he didn't feel aisy, and no wondher; and, bedad the three days\nwas past and gone in no time, and the story goes that at the dead hour\no' the night, when the poor sinner was readin' away as fast as he\ncould, my jew'l, his heart jumped up to his mouth at gettin' a tap on\nthe shoulder.\n\n'Oh, murther!' says he, 'who's there?' for he was afeard to look up.\n\n'It's me,' says the _owld one_, and he stood right forninst him, and\nhis eyes like coals o' fire, lookin' him through, and he said, with a\nvoice that almost split his owld heart, 'Come!' says he.\n\n'Another day!' cried out the poor colonel.\n\n'Not another hour,' says Sat'n.\n\n'Half an hour!'\n\n'Not a quarther,' says the divil, grinnin' with a bitther laugh;\n'give over your reading I bid you,' says he, 'and come away wid me.'\n\n'Only gi' me a few minits,' says he.\n\n'Lave aff your palaverin' you snakin' owld sinner,' says Sat'n; 'you\nknow you're bought and sould to me, and a purty bargain I have o' you,\nyou owld baste,' says he; 'so come along at wanst,' and he put out his\nclaw to ketch him; but the colonel tuk a fast hould o' the Bible, and\nbegged hard that he'd let him alone, and wouldn't harm him antil the\nbit o' candle that was just blinkin' in the socket before him was\nburned out.\n\n'Well, have it so, you dirty coward,' says Owld Nick, and with that he\nspit an him.\n\nBut the poor owld colonel didn't lose a minit (for he was cunnin' to\nthe ind), but snatched the little taste o' candle that was forninst\nhim out o' the candlestick, and puttin' it an the Holy Book before\nhim, he shut down the cover of it and quinched the light. With that\nthe divil gave a roar like a bull, and vanished in a flash o' fire,\nand the poor colonel fainted away in his chair; but the sarvants heerd\nthe noise (for the divil tore aff the roof o' the house when he left\nit), and run into the room, and brought their master to himself agin.\nAnd from that day he was an althered man, and used to have the Bible\nread to him every day, for he couldn't read himself any more, by\nraison of losin' his eyesight when the divil hit him with the rope of\nsand in the face, and afther spit an him--for the sand wint into one\neye, and he lost the other that-a-way, savin' your presence.\n\n\n\n\nFERGUS O'MARA AND THE AIR-DEMONS\n\nBY DR. P. W. JOYCE\n\n\nOf all the different kinds of goblins that haunted the lonely places\nof Ireland in days of old, air-demons were most dreaded by the people.\nThey lived among clouds, and mists, and rocks, and they hated the\nhuman race with the utmost malignity. In those times lived in the\nnorth of Desmond (the present county of Cork) a man man named Fergus\nO'Mara. His farm lay on the southern slope of the Ballyhoura\nMountains, along which ran the open road that led to his house. This\nroad was not shut in by walls or fences; but on both sides there were\nscattered trees and bushes that sheltered it in winter, and made it\ndark and gloomy when you approached the house at night. Beside the\nroad, a little way off from the house, there was a spot that had an\nevil name all over the country, a little hill covered closely with\ncopsewood, with a great craggy rock on top, from which, on stormy\nnights, strange and fearful sounds had often been heard--shrill\nvoices, and screams, mingled with loud fiendish laughter; and the\npeople believed that it was the haunt of air-demons. In some way it\nhad become known that these demons had an eye on Fergus, and watched\nfor every opportunity to get him into their power. He had himself been\nwarned of this many years before, by an old monk from the neighbouring\nmonastery of Buttevant, who told him, moreover, that so long as he\nled a blameless, upright life, he need have no fear of the demons; but\nthat if ever he yielded to temptation or fell into any great sin, then\nwould come the opportunity for which they were watching day and night.\nHe never forgot this warning, and he was very careful to keep himself\nstraight, both because he was naturally a good man, and for fear of\nthe air-demons.\n\nSome time before the occurrence about to be related, one of Fergus's\nchildren, a sweet little girl about seven years of age, fell ill and\ndied. The little thing gradually wasted away, but suffered no pain;\nand as she grew weaker she became more loving and gentle than ever,\nand talked in a wonderful way, quite beyond her years, of the bright\nland she was going to. One thing she was particularly anxious about,\nthat when she was dying they should let her hold a blessed candle in\nher hand. They thought it very strange that she should be so\ncontinually thinking and talking of this; and over and over again she\nmade her father and mother promise that it should be done. And with\nthe blessed candle in her hand she died so calmly and sweetly that\nthose round her bed could not tell the exact moment.\n\nAbout a year after this, on a bright Sunday morning in October, Fergus\nset out for Mass. The place was about three miles away, and it was not\na chapel,[6] but a lonely old fort, called to this day Lissanaffrin,\nthe fort of the Mass. A rude stone altar stood at one side near the\nmound of the fort, under a little shed that sheltered the priest also;\nand the congregation worshipped in the open air on the green plot in\nthe centre. For in those days there were many places that had no\nchapels; and the people flocked to these open-air Masses as\nfaithfully as we do now to our stately comfortable chapels. The family\nhad gone on before, the men walking and the women and children riding;\nand Fergus set out to walk alone.\n\n[Footnote 6: A fort is the same as a rath (see p. 70); a few are\nfenced in with unmortared stone walls instead of clay ditches.]\n\nJust as he approached the Demons' Rock he was greatly surprised to\nhear the eager yelping of dogs, and in a moment a great deer bounded\nfrom the covert beside the rock, with three hounds after her in full\nchase. No man in the whole country round loved a good chase better\nthan Fergus, or had a swifter foot to follow, and without a moment's\nhesitation he started in pursuit. But in a few minutes he stopped up\nshort; for he bethought him of the Mass, and he knew there was little\ntime for delay. While he stood wavering, the deer seemed to slacken\nher pace, and the hounds gained on her, and in a moment Fergus dashed\noff at full speed, forgetting Mass and everything else in his\neagerness for the sport. But it turned out a long and weary chase.\nSometimes they slackened, and he was almost at the hounds' tails, but\nthe next moment both deer and hounds started forward and left him far\nbehind. Sometimes they were in full view, and again they were out of\nsight in thickets and deep glens, so that he could guide himself only\nby the cry of the hounds. In this way he was decoyed across hills and\nglens, but instead of gaining ground he found himself rather falling\nbehind.\n\nMass was all over and the people dispersed to their homes, and all\nwondered that they did not see Fergus; for no one could remember that\nhe was ever absent before. His wife returned, expecting to find him at\nhome; but when she arrived there was trouble in her heart, for there\nwere no tidings of him, and no one had seen him since he had set out\nfor Mass in the morning.\n\nMeantime Fergus followed up the chase till he was wearied out; and at\nlast, just on the edge of a wild moor, both deer and hounds\ndisappeared behind a shoulder of rock, and he lost them altogether. At\nthe same moment the cry of the hounds became changed to frightful\nshrieks and laughter, such as he had heard more than once from the\nDemons' Rock. And now, sitting down on a bank to rest, he had full\ntime to reflect on what he had done, and he was overwhelmed with\nremorse and shame. Moreover, his heart sank within him, thinking of\nthe last sounds he had heard; for he believed that he had been allured\nfrom Mass by the cunning wiles of the demons, and he feared that the\ndangerous time had come foretold by the monk. He started up and set\nout for his home, hoping to reach it before night. But before he had\ngot half-way night fell and a storm came on, great wind and rain and\nbursts of thunder and lightning. Fergus was strong and active,\nhowever, and knew every turn of the mountain, and he made his way\nthrough the storm till he approached the Demons' Rock.\n\nSuddenly there burst on his ears the very same sounds that he had\nheard on losing sight of the chase--shouts and shrieks and laughter. A\ngreat black ragged cloud, whirling round and round with furious gusts\nof wind, burst from the rock and came sweeping and tearing towards\nhim. Crossing himself in terror and uttering a short prayer, he rushed\nfor home. But the whirlwind swept nearer, till at last, in a sort of\ndim, shadowy light, he saw the black cloud full of frightful faces,\nall glaring straight at him and coming closer and closer. At this\nmoment a bright light dropped down from the sky and rested in front of\nthe cloud; and when he looked up, he saw his little child floating in\nthe air between him and the demons, holding a lighted candle in her\nhand. And although the storm was raging and roaring all round, she\nwas quite calm--not a breath of air stirred her long yellow hair--and\nthe candle burned quietly. Even in the midst of all his terror he\ncould observe her pale gentle face and blue eyes just as when she was\nalive, not showing traces of sickness or sadness now, but lighted up\nwith joy. The demons seemed to start back from the light, and with\ngreat uproar rushed round to the other side of Fergus, the black cloud\nstill moving with them and wrapping them up in its ragged folds; but\nthe little angel floated softly round, still keeping between them and\nher father. Fergus ran on for home, and the cloud of demons still kept\nfuriously whirling round and round him, bringing with them a whirlwind\nthat roared among the trees and bushes and tore them from the roots;\nbut still the child, always holding the candle towards them, kept\nfloating calmly round and shielded him.\n\nAt length he arrived at his house; the door lay half-open, for the\nfamily were inside expecting him home, listening with wonder and\naffright to the approaching noises; and he bounded in through the\ndoorway and fell flat on his face. That instant the door--though no\none was near--was shut violently, and the bolts were shot home. They\nhurried anxiously round him to lift him up, but found him in a\ndeath-like swoon. Meantime the uproar outside became greater than\never; round and round the house it tore, a roaring whirlwind with\nshouts and yells of rage, and great trampling, as if there was a whole\ncompany of horsemen. At length, however, the noises seemed to move\naway farther and farther off from the house, and gradually died away\nin the distance. At the same time the storm ceased, and the night\nbecame calm and beautiful.\n\nThe daylight was shining in through the windows when Fergus recovered\nfrom his swoon, and then he told his fearful story; but many days\npassed over before he had quite recovered from the horrors of that\nnight. When the family came forth in the morning there was fearful\nwaste all round and near the house, trees and bushes torn from the\nroots, and the ground all trampled and torn up. After this the revelry\nof the demons was never again heard from the rock; and it was believed\nthat they had left it and betaken themselves to some other haunt.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAN WHO NEVER KNEW FEAR\n\nTRANSLATED FROM THE GAELIC BY DOUGLAS HYDE\n\n\nThere was once a lady, and she had two sons whose names were Louras\n(Lawrence) and Carrol. From the day that Lawrence was born nothing\never made him afraid, but Carrol would never go outside the door from\nthe time the darkness of the night began.\n\nIt was the custom at that time when a person died for people to watch\nthe dead person's grave in turn, one after another; for there used to\nbe destroyers going about stealing the corpses.\n\nWhen the mother of Carrol and Lawrence died, Carrol said to Lawrence--\n\n'You say that nothing ever made you afraid yet, but I'll make a bet\nwith you that you haven't courage to watch your mother's tomb\nto-night.'\n\n'I'll make a bet with you that I have,' said Lawrence.\n\nWhen the darkness of the night was coming, Lawrence put on his sword\nand went to the burying-ground. He sat down on a tombstone near his\nmother's grave till it was far in the night and sleep was coming upon\nhim. Then he saw a big black thing coming to him, and when it came\nnear him he saw that it was a head without a body that was in it. He\ndrew the sword to give it a blow if it should come any nearer, but it\ndidn't come. Lawrence remained looking at it until the light of the\nday was coming, then the head-without-body went, and Lawrence came\nhome.\n\nCarrol asked him, did he see anything in the graveyard.\n\n'I did,' said Lawrence, 'and my mother's body would be gone, but that\nI was guarding it.'\n\n'Was it dead or alive, the person you saw?' said Carrol.\n\n'I don't know was it dead or alive,' said Lawrence; 'there was nothing\nin it but a head without a body.'\n\n'Weren't you afraid?' says Carrol.\n\n'Indeed I wasn't,' said Lawrence; 'don't you know that nothing in the\nworld ever put fear on me.'\n\n'I'll bet again with you that you haven't the courage to watch\nto-night again,' says Carrol.\n\n'I would make that bet with you,' said Lawrence, 'but that there is a\nnight's sleep wanting to me. Go yourself to-night.'\n\n'I wouldn't go to the graveyard to-night if I were to get the riches\nof the world,' says Carrol.\n\n'Unless you go your mother's body will be gone in the morning,' says\nLawrence.\n\n'If only you watch to-night and to-morrow night, I never will ask of\nyou to do a turn of work as long as you will be alive,' said Carrol,\n'but I think there is fear on you.'\n\n'To show you that there's no fear on me,' said Lawrence, 'I will\nwatch.'\n\nHe went to sleep, and when the evening came he rose up, put on his\nsword, and went to the graveyard. He sat on a tombstone near his\nmother's grave. About the middle of the night he heard a great sound\ncoming. A big black thing came as far as the grave and began rooting\nup the clay. Lawrence drew back his sword, and with one blow he made\ntwo halves of the big black thing, and with the second blow he made\ntwo halves of each half, and he saw it no more.\n\nLawrence went home in the morning, and Carrol asked him did he see\nanything.\n\n'I did,' said Lawrence, 'and only that I was there my mother's body\nwould be gone.'\n\n'Is it the head-without-body that came again?' said Carrol.\n\n'It was not, but a big black thing, and it was digging up my mother's\ngrave until I made two halves of it.'\n\nLawrence slept that day, and when the evening came he rose up, put on\nhis sword, and went to the churchyard. He sat down on a tombstone\nuntil it was the middle of the night. Then he saw a thing as white as\nsnow and as hateful as sin; it had a man's head on it, and teeth as\nlong as a flax-carder. Lawrence drew back the sword and was going to\ndeal it a blow, when it said--\n\n'Hold your hand; you have saved your mother's body, and there is not a\nman in Ireland as brave as you. There is great riches waiting for you\nif you go looking for it.'\n\nLawrence went home, and Carrol asked him did he see anything.\n\n'I did,' said Lawrence, 'and but that I was there my mother's body\nwould be gone, but there's no fear of it now.'\n\nIn the morning, the day on the morrow, Lawrence said to Carrol--\n\n'Give me my share of money, and I'll go on a journey, until I have a\nlook round the country.'\n\nCarrol gave him the money, and he went walking. He went on until he\ncame to a large town. He went into the house of a baker to get bread.\nThe baker began talking to him, and asked him how far he was going.\n\n'I am going looking for something that will put fear on me,' said\nLawrence.\n\n'Have you much money?' said the baker.\n\n'I have a half-hundred pounds,' said Lawrence.\n\n'I'll bet another half-hundred with you that there will be fear on you\nif you go to the place that I'll bid you,' says the baker.\n\n'I'll take your bet,' said Lawrence, 'if only the place is not too far\naway from me.'\n\n'It's not a mile from the place where you're standing,' said the\nbaker; 'wait here till the night comes, and then go to the graveyard,\nand as a sign that you were in it, bring me the goblet that is upon\nthe altar of the old church (_cill_) that is in the graveyard.'\n\nWhen the baker made the bet he was certain that he would win, for\nthere was a ghost in the churchyard, and nobody went into it for forty\nyears before that whom he did not kill.\n\nWhen the darkness of the night came, Lawrence put on his sword and\nwent to the burying-ground. He came to the door of the churchyard and\nstruck it with his sword. The door opened, and there came out a great\nblack ram, and two horns on him as long as flails. Lawrence gave him a\nblow, and he went out of sight, leaving him up to the two ankles in\nblood. Lawrence went into the old church, got the goblet, came back to\nthe baker's house, gave him the goblet, and got the bet. Then the\nbaker asked him did he see anything in the churchyard.\n\n'I saw a big black ram with long horns on him,' said Lawrence, 'and I\ngave him a blow which drew as much blood out of him as would swim a\nboat; sure he must be dead by this time.'\n\nIn the morning, the day on the morrow, the baker and a lot of people\nwent to the graveyard and they saw the blood of the black ram at the\ndoor. They went to the priest and told him that the black ram was\nbanished out of the churchyard. The priest did not believe them,\nbecause the churchyard was shut up forty years before that on account\nof the ghost that was in it, and neither priest nor friar could banish\nhim. The priest came with them to the door of the churchyard, and when\nhe saw the blood he took courage and sent for Lawrence, and heard the\nstory from his own mouth. Then he sent for his blessing-materials, and\ndesired the people to come in till he read mass for them. The priest\nwent in, and Lawrence and the people after him, and he read mass\nwithout the big black ram coming as he used to do. The priest was\ngreatly rejoiced, and gave Lawrence another fifty pounds.\n\nOn the morning of the next day Lawrence went on his way. He travelled\nthe whole day without seeing a house. About the hour of midnight he\ncame to a great lonely valley, and he saw a large gathering of people\nlooking at two men hurling. Lawrence stood looking at them, as there\nwas a bright light from the moon. It was the good people that were in\nit, and it was not long until one of them struck a blow on the ball\nand sent it into Lawrence's breast. He put his hand in after the ball\nto draw it out, and what was there in it but the head of a man. When\nLawrence got a hold of it, it began screeching, and at last it asked\nLawrence--\n\n'Are you not afraid?'\n\n'Indeed I am not,' said Lawrence, and no sooner was the word spoken\nthan both head and people disappeared, and he was left in the glen\nalone by himself.\n\nHe journeyed until he came to another town, and when he ate and drank\nenough, he went out on the road, and was walking until he came to a\ngreat house on the side of the road. As the night was closing in, he\nwent in to try if he could get lodging. There was a young man at the\ndoor who said to him--\n\n'How far are you going, or what are you in search of?'\n\n'I do not know how far I am going, but I am in search of something\nthat will put fear on me,' said Lawrence.\n\n'You have not far to go, then,' said the young man; 'if you stop in\nthat big house on the other side of the road there will be fear put on\nyou before morning, and I'll give you twenty pounds into the bargain.'\n\n'I'll stop in it,' said Lawrence.\n\nThe young man went with him, opened the door, and brought him into a\nlarge room in the bottom of the house, and said to him, 'Put down fire\nfor yourself and I'll send you plenty to eat and drink.' He put down a\nfire for himself, and there came a girl to him and brought him\neverything that he wanted.\n\nHe went on very well, until the hour of midnight came, and then he\nheard a great sound over his head, and it was not long until a\nstallion and a bull came in and commenced to fight. Lawrence never put\nto them nor from them, and when they were tired fighting they went\nout. Lawrence went to sleep, and he never awoke until the young man\ncame in in the morning, and he was surprised when he saw Lawrence\nalive. He asked him had he seen anything.\n\n'I saw a stallion and a bull fighting hard for about two hours,' said\nLawrence.\n\n'And weren't you afraid?' said the young man.\n\n'I was not,' says Lawrence.\n\n'If you wait to-night again, I'll give you another twenty pounds,'\nsays the young man.\n\n'I'll wait, and welcome,' says Lawrence.\n\nThe second night, about ten o'clock, Lawrence was going to sleep, when\ntwo black rams came in and began fighting hard. Lawrence neither put\nto them nor from them, and when twelve o'clock struck they went out.\nThe young man came in the morning and asked him did he see anything\nlast night.\n\n'I saw two black rams fighting,' said Lawrence.\n\n'Were you afraid at all?' said the young man.\n\n'I was not,' said Lawrence.\n\n'Wait to-night, and I'll give you another twenty pounds,' says the\nyoung man.\n\n'All right,' says Lawrence.\n\nThe third night he was falling asleep, when there came in a gray old\nman and said to him--\n\n'You are the best hero in Ireland; I died twenty years ago, and all\nthat time I have been in search of a man like you. Come with me now\ntill I show you your riches; I told you when you were watching your\nmother's grave that there was great riches waiting for you.'\n\nHe took Lawrence to a chamber under ground, and showed him a large pot\nfilled with gold, and said to him--\n\n'You will have all that if you give twenty pounds to Mary Kerrigan the\nwidow, and get her forgiveness for me for a wrong I did her. Then buy\nthis house, marry my daughter, and you will be happy and rich as long\nas you live.'\n\nThe next morning the young man came to Lawrence and asked him did he\nsee anything last night.\n\n'I did,' said Lawrence, 'and it's certain that there will be a ghost\nalways in it, but nothing in the world would frighten me; I'll buy the\nhouse and the land round it, if you like.'\n\n'I'll ask no price for the house, but I won't part with the land under\na thousand pounds, and I'm sure you haven't that much.'\n\n'I have more than would buy all the land and all the herds you have,'\nsaid Lawrence.\n\nWhen the young man heard that Lawrence was so rich, he invited him to\ncome to dinner. Lawrence went with him, and when the dead man's\ndaughter saw him she fell in love with him.\n\nLawrence went to the house of Mary Kerrigan and gave her twenty\npounds, and got her forgiveness for the dead man. Then he married the\nyoung man's sister and spent a happy life. He died as he lived,\nwithout there being fear on him.\n\n\n\n\nCATS\n\n\n\n\nSEANCHAN THE BARD AND THE KING OF THE CATS\n\nBY LADY WILDE\n\n\nWhen Seanchan, the renowned Bard, was made _Ard-File_ or Chief Poet of\nIreland, Guaire, the king of Connaught, to do him honour, made a great\nfeast for him and the whole Bardic Association. And all the professors\nand learned men went to the king's house, the great ollaves of poetry\nand history and music, and of the arts and sciences; and the learned,\naged females, Grug and Grag and Grangait; and all the chief poets and\npoetesses of Ireland, an amazing number. But Guaire the king\nentertained them all splendidly, so that the ancient pathway to his\npalace is still called 'The Road of the Dishes.'\n\nAnd each day he asked, 'How fares it with my noble guests?' But they\nwere all discontented, and wanted things he could not get for them. So\nhe was very sorrowful, and prayed to God to be delivered from 'the\nlearned men and women, a vexatious class.'\n\nStill the feast went on for three days and three nights. And they\ndrank and made merry. And the whole Bardic Association entertained the\nnobles with the choicest music and professional accomplishments.\n\nBut Seanchan sulked and would neither eat nor drink, for he was\njealous of the nobles of Connaught. And when he saw how much they\nconsumed of the best meats and wine, he declared he would taste no\nfood till they and their servants were all sent away out of the\nhouse.\n\nAnd when Guaire asked him again, 'How fares my noble guest, and this\ngreat and excellent people?' Seanchan answered, 'I have never had\nworse days, nor worse nights, nor worse dinners in my life.' And he\nate nothing for three whole days.\n\nThen the king was sorely grieved that the whole Bardic Association\nshould be feasting and drinking while Seanchan, the chief poet of\nErin, was fasting and weak. So he sent his favourite serving-man, a\nperson of mild manners and cleanliness, to offer special dishes to the\nbard.\n\n'Take them away,' said Seanchan; 'I'll have none of them.'\n\n'And why, O Royal Bard?' asked the servitor.\n\n'Because thou art an uncomely youth,' answered Seanchan. 'Thy\ngrandfather was chip-nailed--I have seen him; I shall eat no food from\nthy hands.'\n\nThen the king called a beautiful maiden to him, his foster-daughter,\nand said, 'Lady, bring thou this wheaten cake and this dish of salmon\nto the illustrious poet, and serve him thyself.' So the maiden went.\n\nBut when Seanchan saw her he asked: 'Who sent thee hither, and why\nhast thou brought me food?'\n\n'My lord the king sent me, O Royal Bard,' she answered, 'because I am\ncomely to look upon, and he bade me serve thee with food myself.'\n\n'Take it away,' said Seanchan, 'thou art an unseemly girl, I know of\nnone more ugly. I have seen thy grandmother; she sat on a wall one day\nand pointed out the way with her hand to some travelling lepers. How\ncould I touch thy food?' So the maiden went away in sorrow.\n\nAnd then Guaire the king was indeed angry, and he exclaimed, 'My\nmalediction on the mouth that uttered that! May the kiss of a leper\nbe on Seanchan's lips before he dies!'\n\nNow there was a young serving-girl there, and she said to Seanchan,\n'There is a hen's egg in the place, my lord, may I bring it to thee, O\nChief Bard?'\n\n'It will suffice,' said Seanchan; 'bring it that I may eat.'\n\nBut when she went to look for it, behold the egg was gone.\n\n'Thou hast eaten it,' said the bard, in wrath.\n\n'Not so, my lord,' she answered; 'but the mice, the nimble race, have\ncarried it away.'\n\n'Then I will satirise them in a poem,' said Seanchan; and forthwith he\nchanted so bitter a satire against them that ten mice fell dead at\nonce in his presence.\n\n''Tis well,' said Seanchan; 'but the cat is the one most to blame, for\nit was her duty to suppress the mice. Therefore I shall satirise the\ntribe of the cats, and their chief lord, Irusan, son of Arusan; for I\nknow where he lives with his wife Spit-fire, and his daughter\nSharp-tooth, with her brothers the Purrer and the Growler. But I shall\nbegin with Irusan himself, for he is king, and answerable for all the\ncats.'\n\nAnd he said: 'Irusan, monster of claws, who strikes at the mouse but\nlets it go; weakest of cats. The otter did well who bit off the tips\nof thy progenitor's ears, so that every cat since is jagged-eared. Let\nthy tail hang down; it is right, for the mouse jeers at thee.'\n\nNow Irusan heard these words in his cave, and he said to his daughter\nSharp-tooth: 'Seanchan has satirised me, but I will be avenged.'\n\n'Nay, father,' she said, 'bring him here alive that we may all take\nour revenge.'\n\n'I shall go then and bring him,' said Irusan; 'so send thy brothers\nafter me.\n\nNow when it was told to Seanchan that the King of the Cats was on his\nway to come and kill him, he was timorous, and besought Guaire and all\nthe nobles to stand by and protect him. And before long a vibrating,\nimpressive, impetuous sound was heard, like a raging tempest of fire\nin full blaze. And when the cat appeared he seemed to them of the size\nof a bullock; and this was his appearance--rapacious, panting,\njagged-eared, snub-nosed, sharp-toothed, nimble, angry, vindictive,\nglare-eyed, terrible, sharp-clawed. Such was his similitude. But he\npassed on amongst them, not minding till he came to Seanchan; and him\nhe seized by the arm and jerked him up on his back, and made off the\nway he came before any one could touch him; for he had no other object\nin view but to get hold of the poet.\n\nNow Seanchan, being in evil plight, had recourse to flattery. 'O\nIrusan,' he exclaimed, 'how truly splendid thou art: such running,\nsuch leaps, such strength, and such agility! But what evil have I\ndone, O Irusan, son of Arusan? spare me, I entreat. I invoke the\nsaints between thee and me, O great King of the Cats.'\n\nBut not a bit did the cat let go his hold for all this fine talk, but\nwent straight on to Clonmacnoise, where there was a forge; and St.\nKieran happened to be there standing at the door.\n\n'What!' exclaimed the saint; 'is that the Chief Bard of Erin on the\nback of a cat? Has Guaire's hospitality ended in this?' And he ran for\na red-hot bar of iron that was in the furnace, and struck the cat on\nthe side with it, so that the iron passed through him, and he fell\ndown lifeless.\n\n'Now my curse on the hand that gave that blow!' said the bard, when he\ngot upon his feet.\n\n'And wherefore?' asked St. Kieran.\n\n'Because,' answered Seanchan, 'I would rather Irusan had killed me,\nand eaten me every bit, that so I might bring disgrace on Guaire for\nthe bad food he gave me; for it was all owing to his wretched dinners\nthat I got into this plight.'\n\nAnd when all the other kings heard of Seanchan's misfortunes, they\nsent to beg he would visit their courts. But he would have neither\nkiss nor welcome from them, and went on his way to the bardic mansion,\nwhere the best of good living was always to be had. And ever after the\nkings were afraid to offend Seanchan.\n\nSo as long as he lived he had the chief place at the feast, and all\nthe nobles there were made to sit below him, and Seanchan was content.\nAnd in time he and Guaire were reconciled; and Seanchan and all the\nollaves, and the whole Bardic Association, were feasted by the king\nfor thirty days in noble style, and had the choicest of viands and\nthe best of French wines to drink, served in goblets of silver. And in\nreturn for his splendid hospitality the Bardic Association decreed\nunanimously a vote of thanks to the king. And they praised him in\npoems as 'Guaire the Generous,' by which name he was ever after known\nin history, for the words of the poet are immortal.\n\n\n\n\nOWNEY AND OWNEY-NA-PEAK\n\nBY GERALD GRIFFEN\n\n\nWhen Ireland had kings of her own--when there was no such thing as a\ncoat made of red cloth in the country--when there was plenty in men's\nhouses, and peace and quietness at men's doors (and that is a long\ntime since)--there lived, in a village not far from the great city of\nLumneach,[7] two young men, cousins: one of them named Owney, a smart,\nkind-hearted, handsome youth, with limb of a delicate form, and a very\ngood understanding. His cousin's name was Owney too, and the\nneighbours christened him Owney-na-peak (Owney of the nose), on\naccount of a long nose he had got--a thing so out of all proportion,\nthat after looking at one side of his face, it was a smart morning's\nwalk to get round the nose and take a view of the other (at least, so\nthe people used to say). He was a stout, able-bodied fellow, as stupid\nas a beaten hound, and he was, moreover, a cruel tyrant to his young\ncousin, with whom he lived in a kind of partnership.\n\n[Footnote 7: The present Limerick.]\n\nBoth of them were of a humble station. They were\nsmiths--white-smiths--and they got a good deal of business to do from\nthe lords of the court, and the knights, and all the grand people of\nthe city. But one day young Owney was in town, he saw a great\nprocession of lords, and ladies, and generals, and great people, among\nwhom was the king's daughter of the court--and surely it is not\npossible for the young rose itself to be so beautiful as she was. His\nheart fainted at her sight, and he went home desperately in love, and\nnot at all disposed to business.\n\nMoney, he was told, was the surest way of getting acquainted with the\nking, and so he began saving until he had put together a few\n_hogs_,[8] but Owney-na-peak, finding where he had hid them, seized on\nthe whole, as he used to do on all young Owney's earnings.\n\n[Footnote 8: A _hog_, 1s. 1d.]\n\nOne evening young Owney's mother found herself about to die, so she\ncalled her son to her bedside and said to him: 'You have been a most\ndutiful good son, and 'tis proper you should be rewarded for it. Take\nthis china cup to the fair,--there is a fairy gift upon it,--use your\nown wit, look about you, and let the highest bidder have it--and so,\nmy white-headed boy,[9] God bless you!'\n\n[Footnote 9: White-haired boy, a curious Irish phrase for the\nfavourite child.]\n\nThe young man drew the little bedcurtain down over his dead mother,\nand in a few days after, with a heavy heart, he took his china cup,\nand set off to the fair of Garryowen.\n\nThe place was merry enough. The field that is called Gallows Green now\nwas covered with tents. There was plenty of wine (poteen not being\nknown in these days, let alone _parliament_), a great many handsome\ngirls, and 'tis unknown all the _keoh_ that was with the boys and\nthemselves. Poor Owney walked all the day through the fair, wishing to\ntry his luck, but ashamed to offer his china cup among all the fine\nthings that were there for sale. Evening was drawing on at last, and\nhe was thinking of going home, when a strange man tapped him on the\nshoulder, and said: 'My good youth, I have been marking you through\nthe fair the whole day, going about with that cup in your hand,\nspeaking to nobody, and looking as if you would be wanting something\nor another.'\n\n'I'm for selling it,' said Owney.\n\n'What is it you're for selling, you say?' said a second man, coming\nup, and looking at the cup.\n\n'Why then,' said the first man, 'and what's that to you, for a prying\nmeddler? what do you want to know what it is he's for selling?'\n\n'Bad manners to you (and where's the use of my wishing you what you\nhave already?), haven't I a right to ask the price of what's in the\nfair?'\n\n'E'then, the knowledge o' the price is all you'll have for it,' says\nthe first. 'Here, my lad, is a golden piece for your cup.'\n\n'That cup shall never hold drink or diet in your house, please\nHeaven,' says the second; 'here's two gold pieces for the cup, lad.'\n\n'Why then, see this now--if I was forced to fill it to the rim with\ngold before I could call it mine, you shall never hold that cup\nbetween your fingers. Here, boy, do you mind me, give me that, once\nfor all, and here's ten gold pieces for it, and say no more.'\n\n'Ten gold pieces for a china cup!' said a great lord of the court, who\njust rode up at that minute, 'it must surely be a valuable article.\nHere, boy, here are twenty pieces for it, and give it to my servant.'\n\n'Give it to mine,' cried another lord of the party, 'and here's my\npurse, where you will find ten more. And if any man offers another\nfraction for it to outbid that, I'll spit him on my sword like a\nsnipe.'\n\n'I outbid him,' said a fair young lady in a veil, by his side,\nflinging twenty golden pieces more on the ground.\n\nThere was no voice to outbid the lady, and young Owney, kneeling, gave\nthe cup into her hands.\n\n'Fifty gold pieces for a china cup,' said Owney to himself, as he\nplodded on home, 'that was not worth two! Ah! mother, you knew that\nvanity had an open hand.'\n\nBut as he drew near home he determined to hide his money somewhere,\nknowing, as he well did, that his cousin would not leave him a single\ncross to bless himself with. So he dug a little pit, and buried all\nbut two pieces, which he brought to the house. His cousin, knowing the\nbusiness on which he had gone, laughed heartily when he saw him enter,\nand asked him what luck he had got with his punch-bowl.\n\n'Not so bad, neither,' says Owney. 'Two pieces of gold is not a bad\nprice for an article of old china.'\n\n'Two gold pieces, Owney, honey! Erra, let us see 'em, maybe you\nwould?' He took the cash from Owney's hand, and after opening his eyes\nin great astonishment at the sight of so much money, he put them into\nhis pocket.\n\n'Well, Owney, I'll keep them safe for you, in my pocket within. But\ntell us, maybe you would, how come you to get such a _mort_ o' money\nfor an old cup o' painted chaney, that wasn't worth, maybe, a fi'penny\nbit?'\n\n'To get into the heart o' the fair, then, free and easy, and to look\nabout me, and to cry old china, and the first man that _come_ up, he\nto ask me, what is it I'd be asking for the cup, and I to say out\nbold: \"A hundred pieces of gold,\" and he to laugh hearty, and we to\nhuxter together till he beat me down to two, and there's the whole way\nof it all.'\n\nOwney-na-peak made as if he took no note of this, but next morning\nearly he took an old china saucer himself had in his cupboard, and off\nhe set, without saying a word to anybody, to the fair. You may easily\nimagine that it created no small surprise in the place when they heard\na great big fellow with a china saucer in his hand crying out: 'A raal\n_chaney_ saucer going for a hundred pieces of goold! raal\nchaney--who'll be buying?'\n\n'Erra, what's that you're saying, you great gomeril?' says a man,\ncoming up to him, and looking first at the saucer and then in his\nface. 'Is it thinking anybody would go make a _muthaun_ of himself to\ngive the like for that saucer?' But Owney-na-peak had no answer to\nmake, only to cry out: 'Raal chaney! one hundred pieces of goold!'\n\nA crowd soon collected about him, and finding he would give no account\nof himself, they all fell upon him, beat him within an inch of his\nlife, and after having satisfied themselves upon him, they went their\nway laughing and shouting. Towards sunset he got up, and crawled home\nas well as he could, without cup or money. As soon as Owney saw him,\nhe helped him into the forge, looking very mournful, although, if the\ntruth must be told, it was to revenge himself for former good deeds of\nhis cousin that he set him about this foolish business.\n\n'Come here, Owney, eroo,' said his cousin, after he had fastened the\nforge door and heated two irons in the fire. 'You child of mischief!'\nsaid he, when he had caught him, 'you shall never see the fruits of\nyour roguery again, for I will put out your eyes.' And so saying he\nsnatched one of the red-hot irons from the fire.\n\nIt was all in vain for poor Owney to throw himself on his knees, and\nask mercy, and beg and implore forgiveness; he was weak, and\nOwney-na-peak was strong; he held him fast, and burned out both his\neyes. Then taking him, while he was yet fainting from the pain, upon\nhis back, he carried him off to the bleak hill of Knockpatrick,[10] a\ngreat distance, and there laid him under a tombstone, and went his\nways. In a little time after, Owney came to himself.\n\n[Footnote 10: A hill in the west of the County of Limerick, on the\nsummit of which are the ruins of an old church, with a burying-ground\nstill in use. The situation is exceedingly singular and bleak.]\n\n'O sweet light of day! what is to become of me now?' thought the poor\nlad, as he lay on his back under the tomb. 'Is this to be the fruit of\nthat unhappy present? Must I be dark for ever and ever? and am I never\nmore to look upon that sweet countenance, that even in my blindness is\nnot entirely shut out from me?' He would have said a great deal more\nin this way, and perhaps more pathetic still, but just then he heard a\ngreat mewing, as if all the cats in the world were coming up the hill\ntogether in one faction. He gathered himself up, and drew back under\nthe stone, and remained quite still, expecting what would come next.\nIn a very short time he heard all the cats purring and mewing about\nthe yard, whisking over the tombstones, and playing all sorts of\npranks among the graves. He felt the tails of one or two brush his\nnose; and well for him it was that they did not discover him there,\nas he afterwards found. At last--\n\n'Silence!' said one of the cats, and they were all as mute as so many\nmice in an instant. 'Now, all you cats of this great county, small and\nlarge, gray, red, yellow, black, brown, mottled, and white, attend to\nwhat I'm going to tell you in the name of your king and the master of\nall the cats. The sun is down, and the moon is up, and the night is\nsilent, and no mortal hears us, and I may tell you a secret. You know\nthe king of Munster's daughter?'\n\n'O yes, to be sure, and why wouldn't we? Go on with your story,' said\nall the cats together.\n\n'I have heard of her for one,' said a little dirty-faced black cat,\nspeaking after they had all done, 'for I'm the cat that sits upon the\nhob of Owney and Owney-na-peak, the white-smiths, and I know many's\nthe time young Owney does be talking of her, when he sits by the fire\nalone, rubbing me down and planning how he can get into her father's\ncourt.'\n\n'Whist, you natural!' says the cat that was making the speech, 'what\ndo you think we care for your Owney, or Owney-na-peak?'\n\n'Murther, murther!' thinks Owney to himself, 'did anybody ever hear\nthe aiqual of this?'\n\n'Well, gentlemen,' says the cat again, 'what I have to say is this.\nThe king was last week struck with blindness, and you all know well,\nhow and by what means any blindness may be cured. You know there is no\ndisorder that can ail mortal frame, that may not be removed by praying\na round at the well of Barrygowen[11] yonder, and the king's disorder\nis such, that no other cure whatever can be had for it. Now, beware,\ndon't let the secret pass one o' yer lips, for there's a\ngreat-grandson of Simon Magus, that is coming down to try his skill,\nand he it is that must use the water and marry the princess, who is to\nbe given to any one so fortunate as to heal her father's eyes; and on\nthat day, gentlemen, we are all promised a feast of the fattest mice\nthat ever walked the ground.' This speech was wonderfully applauded by\nall the cats, and presently after, the whole crew scampered off,\njumping, and mewing, and purring, down the hill.\n\n[Footnote 11: The practice of praying rounds, with the view of healing\ndiseases, at Barrygowen well, in the County of Limerick, is still\ncontinued, notwithstanding the exertions of the neighbouring Catholic\npriesthood, which have diminished, but not abolished it.]\n\nOwney, being sensible that they were all gone, came from his\nhiding-place, and knowing the road to Barrygowen well, he set off, and\ngroped his way out, and shortly knew, by the rolling of the waves,[12]\ncoming in from the point of Foynes, that he was near the place. He\ngot to the well, and making a round like a good Christian, rubbed his\neyes with the well-water, and looking up, saw day dawning in the east.\nGiving thanks, he jumped up on his feet, and you may say that\nOwney-na-peak was much astonished on opening the door of the forge to\nfind him there, his eyes as well or better than ever, and his face as\nmerry as a dance.\n\n[Footnote 12: Of the Shannon.]\n\n'Well, cousin,' said Owney, smiling, 'you have done me the greatest\nservice that one man can do another; you put me in the way of getting\ntwo pieces of gold,' said he, showing two he had taken from his\nhiding-place. 'If you could only bear the pain of suffering me just to\nput out your eyes, and lay you in the same place as you laid me, who\nknows what luck you'd have?'\n\n'No, there's no occasion for putting out eyes at all, but could not\nyou lay me, just as I am, to-night, in that place, and let me try my\nown fortune, if it be a thing you tell thruth; and what else could\nput the eyes in your head, after I burning them out with the irons?'\n\n'You'll know all that in time,' says Owney, stopping him in his\nspeech, for just at that minute, casting his eye towards the hob, he\nsaw the cat sitting upon it, and looking very hard at him. So he made\na sign to Owney-na-peak to be silent, or talk of something else; at\nwhich the cat turned away her eyes, and began washing her face, quite\nsimple, with her two paws, looking now and then sideways into Owney's\nface, just like a Christian. By and by, when she had walked out of the\nforge, he shut the door after her, and finished what he was going to\nsay, which made Owney-na-peak still more anxious than before to be\nplaced under the tombstone. Owney agreed to it very readily, and just\nas they were done speaking, cast a glance towards the forge window,\nwhere he saw the imp of a cat, just with her nose and one eye peeping\nin through a broken pane. He said nothing, however, but prepared to\ncarry his cousin to the place; where, towards nightfall, he laid him\nas he had been laid himself, snug under the tombstone, and went his\nway down the hill, resting in Shanagolden that night, to see what\nwould come of it in the morning.\n\nOwney-na-peak had not been more than two or three hours or so lying\ndown, when he heard the very same noises coming up the hill, that had\npuzzled Owney the night before. Seeing the cats enter the churchyard,\nhe began to grow very uneasy, and strove to hide himself as well as he\ncould, which was tolerably well too, all being covered by the\ntombstone excepting part of the nose, which was so long that he could\nnot get it to fit by any means. You may say to yourself, that he was\nnot a little surprised, when he saw the cats all assemble like a\ncongregation going to hear mass, some sitting, some walking about, and\nasking one another after the kittens and the like, and more of them\nstretching themselves upon the tombstones, and waiting the speech of\ntheir commander.\n\nSilence was proclaimed at length, and he spoke: 'Now all you cats of\nthis great county, small and large, gray, red, yellow, black, brown,\nmottled, or white, attend--'\n\n'Stay! stay!' said a little cat with a dirty face, that just then came\nrunning into the yard. 'Be silent, for there are mortal ears listening\nto what you say. I have run hard and fast to say that your words were\noverheard last night. I am the cat that sits upon the hob of Owney and\nOwney-na-peak, and I saw a bottle of the water of Barrygowen hanging\nup over the chimbley this morning in their house.'\n\nIn an instant all the cats began screaming, and mewing, and flying, as\nif they were mad, about the yard, searching every corner, and peeping\nunder every tombstone. Poor Owneyna-peak endeavoured as well as he\ncould to hide himself from them, and began to thump his breast and\ncross himself, but it was all in vain, for one of the cats saw the\nlong nose peeping from under the stone, and in a minute they dragged\nhim, roaring and bawling, into the very middle of the churchyard,\nwhere they flew upon him all together, and made _smithereens_ of him,\nfrom the crown of his head to the soles of his feet.\n\nThe next morning very early, young Owney came to the churchyard, to\nsee what had become of his cousin. He called over and over again upon\nhis name, but there was no answer given. At last, entering the place\nof tombs, he found his limbs scattered over the earth.\n\n'So that is the way with you, is it?' said he, clasping his hands, and\nlooking down on the bloody fragments; 'why then, though you were no\ngreat things in the way of kindness to me when your bones were\ntogether, that isn't the reason why I'd be glad to see them torn\nasunder this morning early.' So gathering up all the pieces that he\ncould find, he put them into a bag he had with him, and away with him\nto the well of Barrygowen, where he lost no time in making a round,\nand throwing them in, all in a heap. In an instant, he saw\nOwney-na-peak as well as ever, scrambling out of the well, and helping\nhim to get up, he asked him how he felt himself.\n\n'Oh! is it how I'd feel myself you'd want to know?' said the other;\n'easy and I'll tell you. Take that for a specimen!' giving him at the\nsame time a blow on the head, which you may say wasn't long in laying\nOwney sprawling on the ground. Then without giving him a minute's time\nto recover, he thrust him into the very bag from which he had been\njust shaken himself, resolving within himself to drown him in the\nShannon at once, and put an end to him for ever.\n\nGrowing weary by the way, he stopped at a shebeen house _over-right_\nRobertstown Castle, to refresh himself with a _morning_, before he'd\ngo any farther. Poor Owney did not know what to do when he came to\nhimself, if it might be rightly called coming to himself, and the\ngreat bag tied up about him. His wicked cousin shot him down behind\nthe door in the kitchen, and telling him he'd have his life surely if\nhe stirred, he walked in to take something that's good in the little\nparlour.\n\nOwney could not for the life of him avoid cutting a hole in the bag,\nto have a peep about the kitchen, and see whether he had no means of\nescape. He could see only one person, a simple-looking man, who was\ncounting his beads in the chimney-corner, and now and then striking\nhis breast, and looking up as if he was praying greatly.\n\n'Lord,' says he, 'only give me death, death, and a favourable\njudgment! I haven't anybody now to look after, nor anybody to look\nafter me. What's a few tinpennies to save a man from want? Only a\nquiet grave is all I ask.'\n\n'Murther, murther!' says Owney to himself, 'here's a man wants death\nand can't have it, and here am I going to have it, and, in troth, I\ndon't want it at all, see.' So, after thinking a little what he had\nbest do, he began to sing out very merrily, but lowering his voice,\nfor fear he should be heard in the next room:\n\n    'To him that tied me here,\n      Be thanks and praises given!\n    I'll bless him night and day,\n      For packing me to heaven.\n    Of all the roads you'll name,\n      He surely will not lag,\n    Who takes his way to heaven\n      By travelling in a bag!'\n\n'To heaven, _ershishin_?'[13] said the man in the chimney-corner,\nopening his mouth and his eyes; 'why then, you'd be doing a Christian\nturn, if you'd take a neighbour with you, that's tired of this bad and\nvillainous world.'\n\n[Footnote 13: Does he say?]\n\n'You're a fool, you're a fool!' said Owney.\n\n'I know I am, at least so the neighbours always tell me--but what\nhurt? Maybe I have a Christian soul as well as another; and fool or no\nfool, in a bag or out of a bag, I'd be glad and happy to go the same\nroad it is you are talking of.'\n\nAfter seeming to make a great favour of it, in order to allure him the\nmore to the bargain, Owney agreed to put him into the bag instead of\nhimself; and cautioning him against saying a word, he was just going\nto tie him, when he was touched with a little remorse for going to\nhave the innocent man's life taken: and seeing a slip of a pig that\nwas killed the day before, in a corner, hanging up, the thought struck\nhim that it would do just as well to put it in the bag in their\nplace. No sooner said than done, to the great surprise of the natural,\nhe popped the pig into the bag and tied it up.\n\n'Now,' says he, 'my good friend, go home, say nothing, but bless the\nname in heaven for saving your life; and you were as near losing it\nthis morning as ever man was that didn't know.'\n\nThey left the house together. Presently out comes Owney-na-peak, very\nhearty; and being so, he was not able to perceive the difference in\nthe contents of the bag, but hoisting it upon his back, he sallied out\nof the house. Before he had gone far, he came to the rock of Foynes,\nfrom the top of which he flung his burden into the salt waters.\n\nAway he went home, and knocked at the door of the forge, which was\nopened to him by Owney. You may fancy him to yourself crossing and\nblessing himself over and over again, when he saw, as he thought, the\nghost standing before him. But Owney looked very merry, and told him\nnot to be afraid. 'You did many is the good turn in your life,' says\nhe, 'but the equal of this never.' So he up and told him that he found\nthe finest place in the world at the bottom of the waters, and plenty\nof money. 'See these four pieces for a specimen,' showing him some he\nhad taken from his own hiding hole: 'what do you think of that for a\nstory?'\n\n'Why then that it's a droll one, no less; sorrow bit av I wouldn't\nhave a mind to try my luck in the same way; how did you come home here\nbefore me that took the straight road, and didn't stop for so much as\nmy _gusthah_[14] since I left Knockpatrick?'\n\n[Footnote 14: Literally--_walk in_.]\n\n'Oh, there's a short cut under the waters,' said Owney. 'Mind and only\nbe civil while you're in Thiernaoge,[15] and you'll make a sight o'\nmoney.'\n\n[Footnote 15: The abode of the fairies.]\n\nWell became Owney, he thrust his cousin into the bag, tied it about\nhim, and putting it into a car that was returning after leaving a load\nof oats at a corn-store in the city, it was not long before he was at\nFoynes again. Here he dismounted, and going to the rock, he was, I am\nafraid, half inclined to start his burden into the wide water, when he\nsaw a small skiff making towards the point. He hailed her, and learned\nthat she was about to board a great vessel from foreign parts, that\nwas sailing out of the river. So he went with his bag on board, and\nmaking his bargain with the captain of the ship, he left Owney-na-peak\nalong with the crew, and never was troubled with him after, from that\nday to this.\n\nAs he was passing by Barrygowen well, he filled a bottle with the\nwater; and going home, he bought a fine suit of clothes with the rest\nof the money he had buried, and away he set off in the morning to the\ncity of Lumneach. He walked through the town, admiring everything he\nsaw, until he came before the palace of the king. Over the gates of\nthis he saw a number of spikes, with a head of a man stuck upon each,\ngrinning in the sunshine.\n\nNot at all daunted, he knocked very boldly at the gate, which was\nopened by one of the guards of the palace. 'Well! who are you,\nfriend?'\n\n'I am a great doctor that's come from foreign parts to cure the king's\neyesight. Lead me to his presence this minute.'\n\n'Fair and softly,' said the soldier. 'Do you see all those heads that\nare stuck up there? Yours is very likely to be keeping company by\nthem, if you are so foolish as to come inside these walls. They are\nthe heads of all the doctors in the land who came before you; and\nthat's what makes the town so fine and healthy this time past, praised\nbe Heaven for the same!'\n\n'Don't be talking, you great gomeril,' says Owney; 'only bring me to\nthe king at once.'\n\nHe was brought before the king. After being warned of his fate if he\nshould fail to do all that he undertook, the place was made clear of\nall but a few guards, and Owney was informed once more, that if he\nshould restore the king's eyes, he should wed with the princess, and\nhave the crown after her father's death. This put him in great\nspirits, and after making a round upon his bare knees about the\nbottle, he took a little of the water, and rubbed it into the king's\neyes. In a minute he jumped up from his throne and looked about him as\nwell as ever. He ordered Owney to be dressed out like a king's son,\nand sent word to his daughter that she should receive him that instant\nfor her husband.\n\nYou may say to yourself that the princess, glad as she was of her\nfather's recovery, did not like this message. Small blame to her,\nwhen it is considered that she never set her eyes upon the man\nhimself. However, her mind was changed wonderfully when he was brought\nbefore her, covered with gold and diamonds, and all sorts of grand\nthings. Wishing, however, to know whether he had as good a wit as he\nhad a person, she told him that he should give her, on the next\nmorning, an answer to two questions, otherwise she would not hold him\nworthy of her hand. Owney bowed, and she put the questions as follows:\n\n'What is that which is the sweetest thing in the world?'\n\n'What are the three most beautiful objects in the creation?'\n\nThese were puzzling questions; but Owney having a small share of\nbrains of his own, was not long in forming an opinion upon the matter.\nHe was very impatient for the morning; but it came just as slow and\nregular as if he were not in the world. In a short time he was\nsummoned to the courtyard, where all the nobles of the land assembled,\nwith flags waving, and trumpets sounding, and all manner of glorious\ndoings going on. The princess was placed on a throne of gold near her\nfather, and there was a beautiful carpet spread for Owney to stand\nupon while he answered her questions. After the trumpets were\nsilenced, she put the first, with a clear sweet voice, and he replied:\n\n'It's salt!' says he, very stout, out.\n\nThere was a great applause at the answer; and the princess owned,\nsmiling, that he had judged right.\n\n'But now,' said she, 'for the second. What are the three most\nbeautiful things in the creation?'\n\n'Why,' answered the young man, 'here they are. A ship in full sail--a\nfield of wheat in ear--and----'\n\nWhat the third most beautiful thing was, all the people didn't hear;\nbut there was a great blushing and laughing among the ladies, and the\nprincess smiled and nodded at him, quite pleased with his wit. Indeed,\nmany said that the judges of the land themselves could not have\nanswered better, had they been in Owney's place; nor could there be\nanywhere found a more likely or well-spoken young man. He was brought\nfirst to the king, who took him in his arms, and presented him to the\nprincess. She could not help acknowledging to herself that his\nunderstanding was quite worthy of his handsome person. Orders being\nimmediately given for the marriage to proceed, they were made one with\nall speed; and it is said, that before another year came round, the\nfair princess was one of the most beautiful objects in the creation.\n\n\n\n\nKINGS AND WARRIORS\n\n\n\n\nTHE KNIGHTING OF CUCULAIN[16]\n\nBY STANDISH O'GRADY\n\n\nOne night in the month of the fires of Bel, Cathvah, the Druid and\nstar-gazer, was observing the heavens through his astrological\ninstruments. Beside him was Cuculain, just then completing his\nsixteenth year. Since the exile of Fergus MacRoy, Cuculain had\nattached himself most to the Ard-Druid, and delighted to be along with\nhim in his studies and observations. Suddenly the old man put aside\nhis instruments and meditated a long time in silence.\n\n[Footnote 16: Cuculain was the great hero of legendary Ireland.]\n\n'Setanta,' said he at length, 'art thou yet sixteen years of age?'\n\n'No, father,' replied the boy.\n\n'It will then be difficult to persuade the king to knight thee and\nenrol thee among his knights,' said Cathvah. 'Yet this must be done\nto-morrow, for it has been revealed to me that he whom Concobar\nMacNessa shall present with arms to-morrow, will be renowned to the\nmost distant ages, and to the ends of the earth. Thou shalt be\npresented with arms to-morrow, and after that thou mayest retire for a\nseason among thy comrades, nor go out among the warriors until thy\nstrength is mature.'\n\nThe next day Cathvah procured the king's consent to the knighting of\nCuculain. Now on the same morning, one of his grooms came to Concobar\nMacNessa and said: 'O chief of the Red Branch, thou knowest how no\nhorse has eaten barley, or ever occupied the stall where stood the\ndivine steed which, with another of mortal breed, in the days of\nKimbay MacFiontann, was accustomed to bear forth to the battle the\ngreat war-queen, Macha Monga-Rue; but ever since that stall has been\nempty, and no mortal steed hath profaned the stall in which the\ndeathless Lia Macha was wont to stand. Yet, O Concobar, as I passed\ninto the great stables on the east side of the courtyard, wherein are\nthe steeds of thy own ambus, and in which is that spot since held\nsacred, I saw in the empty stall a mare, gray almost to whiteness, and\nof a size and beauty such as I have never seen, who turned to look\nupon me as I entered the stable, having very gentle eyes, but such as\nterrified me, so that I let fall the vessel in which I was bearing\ncurds for the steed of Konaul Clareena; and she approached me, and\nlaid her head upon my shoulder, making a strange noise.'\n\nNow as the groom was thus speaking, Cowshra Mend Macha, a younger son\nof Concobar, came before the king, and said: 'Thou knowest, O my\nfather, that house in which is preserved the chariot of Kimbay\nMacFiontann, wherein he and she, whose name I bear, the great queen\nthat protects our nation, rode forth to the wars in the ancient days,\nand how it has been preserved ever since, and that it is under my care\nto keep bright and clean. Now this day at sunrise I approached the\nhouse, as is my custom, and approaching, I heard dire voices,\nclamorous and terrible, that came from within, and noises like the\nnoise of battle, and shouts as of warriors in the agony of the\nconflict, that raise their voices with short intense cries as they ply\ntheir weapons, avoiding or inflicting death. Then I went back\nterrified, but there met me Minrowar, son of Gerkin, for he came but\nlast night from Moharne, in the east, and he went to look at his own\nsteeds; but together we opened the gate of the chariot-house, and the\nbronze of the chariot burned like glowing fire, and the voices cried\nout in acclaim, when we stood in the doorway, and the light streamed\ninto the dark chamber. Doubtless, a great warrior will appear amongst\nthe Red Branch, for men say that not for a hundred years have these\nvoices been heard, and I know not for whom Macha sends these portents,\nif it be not for the son of Sualtam, though he is not yet of an age to\nbear arms.'\n\nThus was Concobar prepared for the knighting of Cuculain.\n\nThen in the presence of his court, and his warriors, and the youths\nwho were the comrades and companions of Cuculain, Concobar presented\nthe young hero with his weapons of war, after he had taken the vows of\nthe Red Branch, and having also bound himself by certain gaesa.[17]\nBut Cuculain looked narrowly upon the weapons, and he struck the\nspears together and clashed the sword upon the shield, and he brake\nthe spears in pieces, and the sword, and made chasms in the shield.\n\n[Footnote 17: Curious vows taken by the ancient warriors. Hardly\nanything definite is known of them.--ED.]\n\n'These are not good weapons, O my King,' said the boy.\n\nThen the king presented him with others that were larger and stronger,\nand these too the boy brake into little pieces.\n\n'These are still worse, O son of Nessa,' said the boy, 'and it is not\nseemly, O chief of the Red Branch, that on the day that I am to\nreceive my arms I should be made a laughing-stock before the Clanna\nRury, being yet but a boy.'\n\nBut Concobar MacNessa exulted exceedingly when he beheld the amazing\nstrength and the waywardness of the boy, and beneath delicate brows\nhis eyes glittered like gleaming swords as he glanced rapidly round on\nthe crowd of martial men that surrounded him; but amongst them all he\nseemed himself a bright torch of valour and war, more pure and clear\nthan polished steel. But he beckoned to one of his knights, who\nhastened away and returned, bringing Concobar's own shield and spears\nand the sword out of the Tayta Brac, where they were kept, an\nequipment in reserve. And Cuculain shook them and bent them, and\nclashed them together, but they held firm.\n\n'These are good arms, O son of Nessa,' said Cuculain.\n\nThen there were led forward a pair of noble steeds and a war-car, and\nthe king conferred them on Cuculain. Then Cuculain sprang into the\nchariot, and standing with legs apart, he stamped from side to side,\nand shook and shook, and jolted the car until the axle brake and the\ncar itself was broken in pieces.\n\n'This is not a good chariot, O my King,' said the boy.\n\nThen there were led forward three chariots, and all these he brake in\nsuccession.\n\n'These are not good chariots, O chief of the Red Branch,' said\nCuculain. 'No brave warrior would enter the battle or fight from such\nrotten foothold.'\n\nThen the king called to his son Cowshra Mead Macha and bade him take\nLaeg, and harness to the war-chariot, of which he had the care, the\nwondrous gray steed, and that one which had been given him by Kelkar,\nthe son of Uther, and to give Laeg a charioteering equipment, to be\ncharioteers of Cuculain. For now it was apparent to all the nobles and\nto the king that a lion of war had appeared amongst them, and that it\nwas for him Macha had sent these omens.\n\nThen Cuculain's heart leaped in his breast when he heard the thunder\nof the great war-car and the mad whinnying of the horses that smelt\nthe battle afar. Soon he beheld them with his eyes, and the charioteer\nwith the golden fillet of his office, erect in the car, struggling to\nsubdue their fury. A gray, long-maned steed, whale-bellied,\nbroad-chested, behind one yoke; a black, ugly-maned steed behind the\nother.\n\nLike a hawk swooping along the face of a cliff when the wind is high,\nor like the rush of the March wind over the plain, or like the\nfleetness of the stag roused from his lair by the hounds and covering\nhis first field, was the rush of those steeds when they had broken\nthrough the restraint of the charioteer, as though they galloped over\nfiery flags, so that the earth shook and trembled with the velocity of\ntheir motion, and all the time the great car brayed and shrieked as\nthe wheels of solid and glittering bronze went round, for there were\ndemons that had their abode in that car.\n\nThe charioteer restrained the steeds before the assembly, but\nnay-the-less a deep pur, like the pur of a tiger, proceeded from the\naxle. Then the whole assembly lifted up their voices and shouted for\nCuculain, and he himself, Cuculain the son of Sualtam, sprang into his\nchariot, all armed, with a cry as of a warrior springing into his\nchariot in the battle, and he stood erect and brandished his spears,\nand the war-sprites of the Gaeil shouted along with them, to the\nBocanahs and Bananahs and the Genitii Glindi, the wild people of the\nglens, and the demons of the air, roared around him, when first the\ngreat warrior of the Gaeil, his battle-arms in his hands, stood\nequipped for war in his chariot before all the warriors of his tribe,\nthe kings of the Clanna Rury, and the people of Emain Macha.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE\n\nBY SAMUEL LOVER\n\n\nYou see, there was a waiver lived, wanst upon a time, in Duleek here,\nhard by the gate, and a very honest, industherous man he was, by all\naccounts. He had a wife, and av coorse they had childhre, and small\nblame to them, and plenty of them, so that the poor little waiver was\nobleeged to work his fingers to the bone a'most to get them the bit\nand the sup; but he didn't begridge that, for he was an industherous\ncraythur, as I said before, and it was up airly and down late with\nhim, and the loom never standin' still. Well, it was one mornin' that\nhis wife called to him, and he sitting very busy throwin' the shuttle;\nand says she, 'Come here,' says she, 'jewel, and ate your brekquest,\nnow that it's ready.' But he never minded her, but wint an workin'. So\nin a minit or two more, says she, callin' out to him agin, 'Arrah,\nlave off slavin' yourself, my darlin', and ate your bit o' brekquest\nwhile it is hot.'\n\n'Lave me alone,' says he, and he dhruv the shuttle fasther nor before.\n\nWell, in a little time more, she goes over to him where he sot, and\nsays she, coaxin' him like, 'Thady, dear,' says she, 'the stirabout\nwill be stone cowld if you don't give over that weary work and come\nand ate it at wanst.'\n\n'I'm busy with a patthern here that is brakin' my heart,' says the\nwaiver; 'and antil I complate it and masther it intirely I won't\nquit.'\n\n'Oh, think o' the iligant stirabout, that 'ill be spylte intirely.'\n\n'To the divil with the stirabout,' says he.\n\n'God forgive you,' says she, 'for cursin' your good brekquest.'\n\n'Ay, and you too,' says he.\n\n'Throth, you're as cross as two sticks this blessed morning, Thady,'\nsays the poor wife; 'and it's a heavy handful I have of you when you\nare cruked in your temper; but stay there if you like, and let your\nstirabout grow cowld, and not a one o' me 'ill ax you agin;' and with\nthat off she wint, and the waiver, sure enough, was mighty crabbed,\nand the more the wife spoke to him the worse he got, which, you know,\nis only nath'ral. Well, he left the loom at last, and wint over to the\nstirabout, and what would you think but whin he looked at it, it was\nas black as a crow; for, you see, it was in the hoighth o' summer, and\nthe flies lit upon it to that degree that the stirabout was fairly\ncovered with them.\n\n'Why, thin, bad luck to your impidence,' says the waiver; 'would no\nplace sarve you but that? and is it spyling my brekquest yiz are, you\ndirty bastes?' And with that, bein' altogether cruked-tempered at the\ntime, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o'\nstirabout, and killed no less than three score and tin flies at the\none blow. It was three score and tin exactly, for he counted the\ncarcasses one by one, and laid them out on a clane plate, for to view\nthem.\n\nWell, he felt a powerful sperit risin' in him, when he seen the\nslaughther he done, at one blow; and with that he got as consaited as\nthe very dickens, and not a sthroke more work he'd do that day, but\nout he wint, and was fractious and impident to every one he met, and\nwas squarin' up into their faces and sayin', 'Look at that fist!\nthat's the fist that killed three score and tin at one blow--Whoo!'\n\nWith that all the neighbours thought he was crack'd, and faith, the\npoor wife herself thought the same when he kem home in the evenin',\nafther spendin' every rap he had in dhrink, and swaggerin' about the\nplace, and lookin' at his hand every minit.\n\n'Indeed, an' your hand is very dirty, sure enough, Thady jewel,' says\nthe poor wife; and thrue for her, for he rowled into a ditch comin'\nhome. 'You had betther wash it, darlin'.'\n\n'How dar' you say dirty to the greatest hand in Ireland?' says he,\ngoing to bate her.\n\n'Well, it's nat dirty,' says she.\n\n'It is throwin' away my time I have been all my life,' says he;\n'livin' with you at all, and stuck at a loom, nothin' but a poor\nwaiver, when it is Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which\nis two of the siven champions o' Christendom.'\n\n'Well, suppose they christened him twice as much,' says the wife;\n'sure, what's that to uz?'\n\n'Don't put in your prate,' says he; 'you ignorant sthrap,' says he.\n'You're vulgar, woman--you're vulgar--mighty vulgar; but I'll have\nnothin' more to say to any dirty snakin' thrade again--divil a more\nwaivin' I'll do.'\n\n'Oh, Thady dear, and what'll the children do then?'\n\n'Let them go play marvels,' says he.\n\n'That would be but poor feedin' for them, Thady.'\n\n'They shan't want for feedin',' says he; 'for it's a rich man I'll be\nsoon, and a great man too.'\n\n'Usha, but I'm glad to hear it, darlin',--though I dunna how it's to\nbe, but I think you had betther go to bed, Thady.'\n\n'Don't talk to me of any bed but the bed o' glory, woman,' says he,\nlookin' mortial grand.\n\n'Oh! God send we'll all be in glory yet,' says the wife, crassin'\nherself; 'but go to sleep, Thady, for this present.'\n\n'I'll sleep with the brave yit,' says he.\n\n'Indeed, an' a brave sleep will do you a power o' good, my\ndarlin','says she.\n\n'And it's I that will be the knight!' says he.\n\n'All night, if you plaze, Thady,' says she.\n\n'None o' your coaxin','says he. 'I'm detarmined on it, and I'll set\noff immediantly, and be a knight arriant.'\n\n'A what?' says she.\n\n'A knight arriant, woman.'\n\n'Lord, be good to me, what's that?' says she.\n\n'A knight arriant is a rale gintleman,' says he; 'going round the\nworld for sport, with a swoord by his side, takin' whatever he plazes\nfor himself; and that's a knight arriant,' says he.\n\nWell, sure enough he wint about among his neighbours the next day,\nand he got an owld kittle from one, and a saucepan from another; and\nhe took them to the tailor, and he sewed him up a shuit o' tin clothes\nlike any knight arriant and he borrowed a pot lid, and _that_ he was\nvery partic'lar about, bekase it was his shield and he wint to a frind\no' his, a painther and glazier, and made him paint an his shield in\nbig letthers--\n\n'I'M THE MAN OF ALL MIN,\nTHAT KILL'D THREE SCORE AND TIN\nAT A BLOW.'\n\n'When the people sees _that_,' says the waiver to himself, 'the sorra\none will dar' for to come near me.'\n\nAnd with that he towld the wife to scour out the small iron pot for\nhim, 'For,' says he, 'it will make an iligant helmet'; and when it was\ndone, he put it an his head, and his wife said, 'Oh, murther, Thady\njewel, is it puttin' a great heavy iron pot an your head you are, by\nway iv a hat?'\n\n'Sartinly,' says he; 'for a knight arraint should always have _a\nwoight an his brain_.'\n\n'But, Thady dear,' says the wife, 'there's a hole in it, and it can't\nkeep out the weather.'\n\n'It will be the cooler,' says he, puttin' it an him; 'besides, if I\ndon't like it, it is aisy to stop it with a wisp o' sthraw, or the\nlike o' that.'\n\n'The three legs of it looks mighty quare, stickin' up,' says she.\n\n'Every helmet has a spike stickin' out o' the top of it,' says the\nwaiver; 'and if mine has three, it's only the grandher it is.'\n\n'Well,' says the wife, getting bitther at last, 'all I can say is, it\nisn't the first sheep's head was dhress'd in it.'\n\n'_Your sarvint, ma'am_,' says he; and off he set.\n\nWell, he was in want of a horse, and so he wint to a field hard by,\nwhere the miller's horse was grazin', that used to carry the ground\ncorn round the counthry.\n\n'This is the idintical horse for me,' says the waiver; 'he is used to\ncarryin' flour and male, and what am I but the _flower_ o' shovelry in\na coat o' _mail_; so that the horse won't be put out iv his way in the\nlaste.'\n\nBut as he was ridin' him out o'the field, who should see him but the\nmiller.\n\n'Is it stalin' my horse you are, honest man?' says the miller.\n\n'No,' says the waiver; 'I'm only goin' to _ax_ercise him,' says he,\n'in the cool o' the evenin'; it will be good for his health.'\n\n'Thank you kindly,' says the miller; 'but lave him where he is, and\nyou'll obleege me.'\n\n'I can't afford it,' says the waiver, runnin' the horse at the ditch.\n\n'Bad luck to your impidence,' says the miller; 'you've as much tin\nabout you as a thravellin' tinker, but you've more brass. Come back\nhere, you vagabone,' says he.\n\nBut he was too late; away galloped the waiver, and took the road to\nDublin, for he thought the best thing he could do was to go to the\nKing o' Dublin (for Dublin was a grate place thin, and had a king iv\nits own), and he thought, maybe, the King o' Dublin would give him\nwork. Well, he was four days goin' to Dublin, for the baste was not\nthe best and the roads worse, not all as one as now; but there was no\nturnpikes then, glory be to God! When he got to Dublin, he wint\nsthrait to the palace, and whin he got into the coortyard he let his\nhorse go and graze about the place, for the grass was growin' out\nbetune the stones; everything was flourishin' thin in Dublin, you see.\nWell, the king was lookin' out of his dhrawin'-room windy, for\ndivarshin, whin the waiver kem in; but the waiver pretended not to see\nhim, and he wint over to a stone sate, undher the windy--for, you see,\nthere was stone sates all round about the place for the accommodation\no' the people--for the king was a dacent, obleeging man; well, as I\nsaid, the waiver wint over and lay down an one o' the sates, just\nundher the king's windy, and purtended to go asleep; but he took care\nto turn out the front of his shield that had the letthers an it; well,\nmy dear, with that, the king calls out to one of the lords of his\ncoort that was standin' behind him, howldin' up the skirt of his coat,\naccordin' to rayson, and says he: 'Look here,' says he, 'what do you\nthink of a vagabone like that comin' undher my very nose to go sleep?\nIt is thrue I'm a good king,' says he, 'and I 'commodate the people by\nhavin' sates for them to sit down and enjoy the raycreation and\ncontimplation of seein' me here, lookin' out a' my dhrawin'-room\nwindy, for divarshin; but that is no rayson they are to _make a hotel_\no' the place, and come and sleep here. Who is it at all?' says the\nking.\n\n'Not a one o' me knows, plaze your majesty.'\n\n'I think he must be a furriner,' says the king; 'bekase his dhress is\noutlandish.'\n\n'And doesn't know manners, more betoken,' says the lord.\n\n'I'll go down and _circumspect_ him myself,' says the king; 'folly\nme,' says he to the lord, wavin' his hand at the same time in the most\ndignacious manner.\n\nDown he wint accordingly, followed by the lord; and whin he wint over\nto where the waiver was lying, sure the first thing he seen was his\nshield with the big letthers an it, and with that, says he to the\nlord, 'Bedad,' says he, 'this is the very man I want.'\n\n'For what, plaze your majesty?' says the lord.\n\n'To kill that vagabone dragghin, to be sure,' says the king.\n\n'Sure, do you think he could kill him,' says the lord, 'when all the\nstoutest knights in the land wasn't aiquil to it, but never kem back,\nand was ate up alive by the cruel desaiver.'\n\n'Sure, don't you see there,' says the king, pointin' at the shield,\n'that he killed three score and tin at one blow? and the man that done\n_that_, I think, is a match for anything.'\n\nSo, with that, he wint over to the waiver and shuck him by the\nshouldher for to wake him, and the waiver rubbed his eyes as if just\nwakened, and the king says to him, 'God save you,' said he.\n\n'God save you kindly,' says the waiver, _purtendin'_ he was quite\nonknowst who he was spakin' to.\n\n'Do you know who I am,' says the king, 'that you make so free, good\nman?'\n\n'No, indeed,' says the waiver; 'you have the advantage o' me.'\n\n'To be sure I have,' says the king, _moighty high_; 'sure, ain't I the\nKing o' Dublin?' says he.\n\nThe waiver dhropped down an his two knees forninst the king, and says\nhe, 'I beg God's pardon and yours for the liberty I tuk; plaze your\nholiness, I hope you'll excuse it.'\n\n'No offince,' says the king; 'get up, good man. And what brings you\nhere?' says he.\n\n'I'm in want o' work, plaze your riverence,' says the waiver.\n\n'Well, suppose I give you work?' says the king.\n\n'I'll be proud to sarve you, my lord,' says the waiver.\n\n'Very well,' says the king. 'You killed three score and tin at one\nblow, I understan',' says the king.\n\n'Yis,' says the waiver; 'that was the last thrifle o' work I done, and\nI'm afeard my hand 'll go out o' practice if I don't get some job to\ndo at wanst.'\n\n'You shall have a job immediantly,' says the king. 'It is not three\nscore and tin or any fine thing like that; it is only a blaguard\ndhraggin that is disturbin' the counthry and ruinatin' my tinanthry\nwid aitin' their powlthry, and I'm lost for want of eggs,' says the\nking.\n\n'Throth, thin, plaze your worship,' says the waiver, 'you look as\nyollow as if you swallowed twelve yolks this minit.'\n\n'Well, I want this dhraggin to be killed,' says the king. 'It will be\nno throuble in life to you; and I am only sorry that it isn't betther\nworth your while, for he isn't worth fearin' at all; only I must tell\nyou, that he lives in the County Galway, in the middle of a bog, and\nhe has an advantage in that.'\n\n'Oh, I don't value it in the laste,' says the waiver; 'for the last\nthree score and tin I killed was in a _soft place_.'\n\n'When will you undhertake the job, then?' says the king.\n\n'Let me at him at wanst,' says the waiver.\n\n'That's what I like,' says the king; 'you're the very man for my\nmoney,' says he.\n\n'Talkin' of money,' says the waiver; 'by the same token, I'll want a\nthrifle o' change from you for my thravellin' charges.'\n\n'As much as you plaze,' says the king; and with the word, he brought\nhim into his closet, where there was an owld stockin' in an oak chest,\nburstin' wid goolden guineas.\n\n'Take as many as you plaze,' says the king; and sure enough, my dear,\nthe little waiver stuffed his tin clothes as full as they could howld\nwith them.\n\n'Now, I'm ready for the road,' says the waiver.\n\n'Very well,' says the king; 'but you must have a fresh horse,' says\nhe.\n\n'With all my heart,' says the waiver, who thought he might as well\nexchange the miller's owld garron for a betther.\n\nAnd maybe it's wondherin' you are that the waiver would think of goin'\nto fight the dhraggin afther what he heerd about him, when he was\npurtendin' to be asleep, but he had no sitch notion; all he intended\nwas,--to fob the goold, and ride back again to Duleek with his gains\nand a good horse. But, you see, cute as the waiver was, the king was\ncuter still; for these high quolity, you see, is great desaivers; and\nso the horse the waiver was put an was larned on purpose; and sure,\nthe minit he was mounted, away powdhered the horse, and the divil a\ntoe he'd go but right down to Galway. Well, for four days he was goin'\nevermore, until at last the waiver seen a crowd o' people runnin' as\nif owld Nick was at their heels, and they shoutin' a thousand murdhers\nand cryin', 'The dhraggin, the dhraggin!' and he couldn't stop the\nhorse nor make him turn back, but away he pelted right forninst the\nterrible baste that was comin' up to him, and there was the most\n_nefaarious_ smell o' sulphur, savin' your presence, enough to knock\nyou down; and, faith the waiver seen he had no time to lose, and so he\nthrew himself off the horse and made to a three that was growin' nigh\nhand, and away he clambered up into it as nimble as a cat; and not a\nminit had he to spare, for the dhraggin kem up in a powerful rage, and\nhe devoured the horse body and bones, in less than no time; and then\nhe began to sniffle and scent about for the waiver, and at last he\nclapt his eye an him, where he was, up in the three, and says he, 'In\nthroth, you might as well come down out o' that,' says he; 'for I'll\nhave you as sure as eggs is mate.'\n\n'Divil a fut I'll go down,' says the waiver.\n\n'Sorra care, I care,' says the dhraggin; 'for you're as good as ready\nmoney in my pocket this minit, for I'll lie undher this three,' says\nhe, 'and sooner or later you must fall to my share'; and sure enough\nhe sot down, and began to pick his teeth with his tail, afther the\nheavy brekquest he made that mornin' (for he ate a whole village, let\nalone the horse), and he got dhrowsy at last, and fell asleep; but\nbefore he wint to sleep, he wound himself all round about the three,\nall as one as a lady windin' ribbon round her finger, so that the\nwaiver could not escape.\n\nWell, as soon as the waiver knew he was dead asleep, by the snorin' of\nhim--and every snore he let out of him was like a clap o'\nthunder--that minit the waiver began to creep down the three, as\ncautious as a fox; and he was very nigh hand the bottom, when, bad\ncess to it, a thievin' branch he was dipindin' an bruk, and down he\nfell right a-top o' the dhraggin; but if he did, good luck was an his\nside, for where should he fall but with his two legs right acrass the\ndhraggin's neck, and, my jew'l, he laid howlt o' the baste's ears, and\nthere he kept his grip, for the dhraggin wakened and endayvoured for\nto bite him; but, you see, by rayson the waiver was behind his ears,\nhe could not come at him, and, with that, he endayvoured for to shake\nhim off; but the divil a stir could he stir the waiver; and though he\nshuk all the scales an his body, he could not turn the scale agin the\nwaiver.\n\n'By the hokey, this is too bad intirely,' says the dhraggin; 'but if\nyou won't let go,' says he, 'by the powers o' wildfire, I'll give you\na ride that 'ill astonish your siven small sinses, my boy'; and, with\nthat, away he flew like mad; and where do you think he did\nfly?--bedad, he flew sthraight for Dublin, divil a less. But the\nwaiver bein' an his neck was a great disthress to him, and he would\nrather have had him an _inside passenger_; but, anyway, he flew and he\nflew till he kem _slap_ up agin the palace o' the king; for, bein'\nblind with the rage, he never seen it, and he knocked his brains\nout--that is, the small thrifle he had--and down he fell spacheless.\nAn' you see, good luck would have it, that the King o' Dublin was\nlookin' out iv' his dhrawin'-room windy, for divarshin, that day also,\nand whin he seen the waiver ridin' an the fiery dhraggin (for he was\nblazin' like a tar-barrel), he called out to his coortyers to come and\nsee the show. 'By the powdhers o' war, here comes the knight arriant,'\nsays the king, 'ridin' the dhraggin that's all afire, and if he gets\n_into the palace_, yiz must be ready wid the _fire ingines_,' says he,\n'for to _put him out_.' But when they seen the dhraggin fall outside,\nthey all run downstairs and scampered into the palace-yard for to\ncircumspect the _curosity_; and by the time they got down, the waiver\nhad got off o' the dhraggin's neck, and runnin' up to the king, says\nhe, 'Plaze your holiness,' says he, 'I did not think myself worthy of\nkillin' this facetious baste, so I brought him to yourself for to do\nhim the honour of decripitation by your own royal five fingers. But I\ntamed him first, before I allowed him the liberty for to _dar'_ to\nappear in your royal prisince, and you'll oblige me if you'll just\nmake your mark with your own hand upon the onruly baste's neck.' And\nwith that the king, sure enough, dhrew out his swoord and took the\nhead aff the _dirty_ brute as _clane_ as a new pin. Well, there was\ngreat rejoicin' in the coort that the dhraggin was killed; and says\nthe king to the little waiver, says he, 'You are a knight arriant as\nit is, and so it would be of no use for to knight you over agin; but I\nwill make you a lord,' says he.\n\n'O Lord!' says the waiver, thunder-struck like at his own good luck.\n\n'I will,' says the king; 'and as you are the first man I ever heer'd\ntell of that rode a dhraggin, you shall be called Lord _Mount_\nDhraggin,' says he.\n\n'And where's my estates, plaze your holiness?' says the waiver, who\nalways had a sharp look-out afther the main chance.\n\n'Oh, I didn't forget that,' says the king; 'it is my royal pleasure to\nprovide well for you, and for that rayson I make you a present of all\nthe dhraggins in the world, and give you power over them from this\nout,' says he.\n\n'Is that all?' says the waiver.\n\n'All!' says the king. 'Why, you ongrateful little vagabone, was the\nlike ever given to any man before?'\n\n'I b'lieve not, indeed,' says the waiver; 'many thanks to your\nmajesty.'\n\n'But that is not all I'll do for you,' says the king; 'I'll give you\nmy daughther too in marriage,' says he. Now, you see, that was nothin'\nmore than what he promised the waiver in his first promise; for, by\nall accounts, the king's daughther was the greatest dhraggin ever was\nseen, and had the divil's own tongue, and a beard a yard long, which\nshe _purtended_ was put an her by way of a penance by Father Mulcahy,\nher confissor; but it was well known it was in the family for ages,\nand no wondher it was so long, by rayson of that same.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX\n\n\n\n\nCLASSIFICATION OF IRISH FAIRIES\n\n\nIrish Fairies divide themselves into two great classes: the sociable\nand the solitary. The first are in the main kindly, and the second\nfull of all uncharitableness.\n\n\nTHE SOCIABLE FAIRIES\n\nThese creatures, who go about in troops, and quarrel, and make love,\nmuch as men and women do, are divided into land fairies or Sheoques\n(Ir. _Sidheog_, 'a little fairy,') and water fairies or Merrows (Ir.\n_Moruadh_, 'a sea maid'; the masculine is unknown). At the same time I\nam inclined to think that the term Sheoque may be applied to both\nupon occasion, for I have heard of a whole village turning out to hear\ntwo red-capped water fairies, who were very 'little fairies' indeed,\nplay upon the bagpipes.\n\n1. _The Sheoques._--The Sheoques proper, however, are the spirits that\nhaunt the sacred thorn bushes and the green raths. All over Ireland\nare little fields circled by ditches, and supposed to be ancient\nfortifications and sheep-folds. These are the raths, or forts, or\n'royalties,' as they are variously called. Here, marrying and giving\nin marriage, live the land fairies. Many a mortal they are said to\nhave enticed down into their dim world. Many more have listened to\ntheir fairy music, till all human cares and joys drifted from their\nhearts and they became great peasant seers or 'Fairy Doctors,' or\ngreat peasant musicians or poets like Carolan, who gathered his tunes\nwhile sleeping on a fairy rath; or else they died in a year and a day,\nto live ever after among the fairies. These Sheoques are on the whole\ngood; but one most malicious habit have they--a habit worthy of a\nwitch. They steal children and leave a withered fairy, a thousand or\nmaybe two thousand years old, instead. Three or four years ago a man\nwrote to one of the Irish papers, telling of a case in his own\nvillage, and how the parish priest made the fairies deliver the stolen\nchild up again. At times full-grown men and women have been taken.\nNear the village of Coloney, Sligo, I have been told, lives an old\nwoman who was taken in her youth. When she came home at the end of\nseven years she had no toes, for she had danced them off. Now and then\none hears of some real injury being done a person by the land fairies,\nbut then it is nearly always deserved. They are said to have killed\ntwo people in the last six months in the County Down district where I\nam now staying. But then these persons had torn up thorn bushes\nbelonging to the Sheoques.\n\n2. _The Merrows._--These water fairies are said to be common. I asked\na peasant woman once whether the fishermen of her village had ever\nseen one. 'Indeed, they don't like to see them at all,' she answered,\n'for they always bring bad weather.' Sometimes the Merrows come out of\nthe sea in the shape of little hornless cows. When in their own shape,\nthey have fishes' tails and wear a red cap called in Irish _cohuleen\ndriuth_ (p. 79). The men among them have, according to Croker, green\nteeth, green hair, pigs' eyes, and red noses; but their women are\nbeautiful, and sometimes prefer handsome fishermen to their\ngreen-haired lovers. Near Bantry, in the last century, lived a woman\ncovered with scales like a fish, who was descended, as the story goes,\nfrom such a marriage. I have myself never heard tell of this grotesque\nappearance of the male Merrows, and think it probably a merely local\nMunster tradition.\n\n\nTHE SOLITARY FAIRIES\n\nThese are nearly all gloomy and terrible in some way. There are,\nhowever, some among them who have light hearts and brave attire.\n\n1. _The Lepricaun_ (Ir. _Leith bhrogan_, _i.e._ the one shoe\nmaker).--This creature is seen sitting under a hedge mending a shoe,\nand one who catches him can make him deliver up his crocks of gold,\nfor he is a miser of great wealth; but if you take your eyes off him\nthe creature vanishes like smoke. He is said to be the child of an\nevil spirit and a debased fairy, and wears, according to McAnally, a\nred coat with seven buttons in each row, and a cocked-hat, on the\npoint of which he sometimes spins like a top. In Donegal he goes clad\nin a great frieze coat.\n\n2. _The Cluricaun_ (Ir. _Clobhair-cean_ in O'Kearney).--Some writers\nconsider this to be another name for the Lepricaun, given him when he\nhas laid aside his shoe-making at night and goes on the spree. The\nCluricauns' occupations are robbing wine-cellars and riding sheep and\nshepherds' dogs for a livelong night, until the morning finds them\npanting and mud-covered.\n\n3. _The Gonconer or Ganconagh_ (Ir. _Gean-canogh_, _i.e._\nlove-talker).--This is a creature of the Lepricaun type, but, unlike\nhim, is a great idler. He appears in lonely valleys, always with a\npipe in his mouth, and spends his time in making love to shepherdesses\nand milkmaids.\n\n4. _The Far Darrig_ (Ir. _Fear Dearg_, _i.e._ red man).--This is the\npractical joker of the other world. The wild Sligo story I give of 'A\nFairy Enchantment' was probably his work. Of these solitary and mainly\nevil fairies there is no more lubberly wretch than this same Far\nDarrig. Like the next phantom, he presides over evil dreams.\n\n5. _The Pooka_ (Ir. _Puca_, a word derived by some from _poc_, a\nhe-goat).--The Pooka seems of the family of the nightmare. He has most\nlikely never appeared in human form, the one or two recorded instances\nbeing probably mistakes, he being mixed up with the Far Darrig. His\nshape is usually that of a horse, a bull, a goat, eagle, or ass. His\ndelight is to get a rider, whom he rushes with through ditches and\nrivers and over mountains, and shakes off in the gray of the morning.\nEspecially does he love to plague a drunkard: a drunkard's sleep is\nhis kingdom. At times he takes more unexpected forms than those of\nbeast or bird. The one that haunts the Dun of Coch-na-Phuca in\nKilkenny takes the form of a fleece of wool, and at night rolls out\ninto the surrounding fields, making a buzzing noise that so terrifies\nthe cattle that unbroken colts will run to the nearest man and lay\ntheir heads upon his shoulder for protection.\n\n6. _The Dullahan._--This is a most gruesome thing. He has no head, or\ncarries it under his arm. Often he is seen driving a black coach\ncalled coach-a-bower (Ir. _Coite-bodhar_), drawn by headless horses.\nIt rumbles to your door, and if you open it a basin of blood is thrown\nin your face. It is an omen of death to the houses where it pauses.\nSuch a coach not very long ago went through Sligo in the gray of the\nmorning, as was told me by a sailor who believed he saw it. In one\nvillage I know its rumbling is said to be heard many times in the\nyear.\n\n7. _The Leanhaun Shee_ (Ir. _Leanhaun sidhe_, _i.e._ fairy\nmistress).--This spirit seeks the love of men. If they refuse, she is\ntheir slave; if they consent, they are hers, and can only escape by\nfinding one to take their place. Her lovers waste away, for she lives\non their life. Most of the Gaelic poets, down to quite recent times,\nhave had a Leanhaun Shee, for she gives inspiration to her slaves and\nis indeed the Gaelic muse--this malignant fairy. Her lovers, the\nGaelic poets, died young. She grew restless, and carried them away to\nother worlds, for death does not destroy her power.\n\n8. _The Far Gorta_ (man of hunger).--This is an emaciated fairy that\ngoes through the land in famine time, begging and bringing good luck\nto the giver.\n\n9. _The Banshee_ (Ir. _Bean-sidhe_, _i.e._ fairy woman).--This fairy,\nlike the Fear Gorta, differs from the general run of solitary fairies\nby its generally good disposition. She is perhaps not really one of\nthem at all, but a sociable fairy grown solitary through much sorrow.\nThe name corresponds to the less common Far Shee (Ir. _Fear Sidhe_), a\nman fairy. She wails, as most people know, over the death of a member\nof some old Irish family. Sometimes she is an enemy of the house and\nscreams with triumph, but more often a friend. When more than one\nBanshee comes to cry, the man or woman who is dying must have been\nvery holy or very brave. Occasionally she is most undoubtedly one of\nthe sociable fairies. Cleena, once an Irish princess and then a\nMunster goddess, and now a Sheoque, is thus mentioned by the greatest\nof Irish antiquarians.\n\nO'Donovan, writing in 1849 to a friend, who quotes his words in the\n_Dublin University Magazine_, says: 'When my grandfather died in\nLeinster in 1798, Cleena came all the way from Ton Cleena to lament\nhim; but she has not been heard ever since lamenting any of our race,\nthough I believe she still weeps in the mountains of Drumaleaque in\nher own country, where so many of the race of Eoghan More are dying of\nstarvation.' The Banshee on the other hand who cries with triumph is\noften believed to be no fairy but a ghost of one wronged by an\nancestor of the dying. Some say wrongly that she never goes beyond the\nseas, but dwells always in her own country. Upon the other hand, a\ndistinguished writer on anthropology assures me that he has heard her\non 1st December 1867, in Pital, near Libertad, Central America, as he\nrode through a deep forest. She was dressed in pale yellow, and raised\na cry like the cry of a bat. She came to announce the death of his\nfather. This is her cry, written down by him with the help of a\nFrenchman and a violin.\n\n[Illustration: music no caption ]\n\nHe saw and heard her again on 5th February 1871, at 16 Devonshire\nStreet, Queen's Square, London. She came this time to announce the\ndeath of his eldest child; and in 1884 he again saw and heard her at\n28 East Street, Queen's Square, the death of his mother being the\ncause.\n\nThe Banshee is called _badh_ or _bowa_ in East Munster, and is named\n_Bachuntha_ by Banim in one of his novels.\n\n_Other Fairies and Spirits._--Besides the foregoing, we have other\nsolitary fairies, of which too little definite is known to give them\neach a separate mention. They are the House Spirits, of whom 'Teigue\nof the Lee' is probably an instance; the Water Sherie, a kind of\nwill-o'-the-wisp; the Sowlth, a formless luminous creature; the Pastha\n(_Piast-bestia_), the lake dragon, a guardian of hidden treasure; and\nthe Bo men fairies, who live in the marshes of County Down and destroy\nthe unwary. They may be driven away by a blow from a particular kind\nof sea-weed. I suspect them of being Scotch fairies imported by Scotch\nsettlers. Then there is the great tribe of ghosts called Thivishes in\nsome parts.\n\nThese are all the fairies and spirits I have come across in Irish\nfolklore. There are probably many others undiscovered.\n\nW. B. YEATS.\n\nCO. DOWN, _June 1891_.\n\n\n\n\nAUTHORITIES ON IRISH FOLKLORE\n\n\nCroker's _Legends of the South of Ireland_; Lady Wilde's _Ancient\nLegends of Ireland_, and _Ancient Charms_; Sir William Wilde's _Irish\nPopular Superstitions_; McAnally's _Irish Wonders_; _Irish Folklore_,\nby Lageniensis (Father O'Hanlan); Curtins's _Myths and Folklore of\nIreland_; Douglas Hyde's _Beside the Fire_ and his _Leabhar\nSgeulaigheachta_; Patrick Kennedy's _Legendary Fictions of the Irish\nPeasantry_, his _Banks of the Boro_, his _Evenings on the Duffrey_,\nand his _Legends of Mount Leinster_; the chap-books, _Royal Fairy\nTales_, and _Tales of the Fairies_. There is also much folklore in\nCarleton's _Traits and Stories_; in Lover's _Legends and Stories of\nthe Irish Peasantry_; in Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall's _Ireland_; in Lady\nChatterton's _Rambles in the South of Ireland_; in Gerald Griffen's\n_Tales of a Jury Room_ in particular, and in his other books in\ngeneral. It would repay the trouble if some Irish magazine would\nselect from his works the stray legends and scraps of fairy belief.\nThere is much in the _Collegians_. There is also folklore in the\nchap-book _Hibernian Tales_, and a Banshee story or two will be found\nin Miss Lefanu's _Memoirs of my Grandmother_, and in Barrington's\n_Recollections_. There are also stories in Donovan's introduction to\nthe _Four Masters_. The best articles are those in the _Dublin and\nLondon Magazine_ (\"The Fairy Greyhound\" is from this collection) for\n1827 and 1829, about a dozen in all, and David Fitzgerald's various\ncontributions to the _Review Celtique_ in our own day, and Miss\nM'Clintock's articles in the _Dublin University Magazine_ for 1878.\nThere are good articles also in the _Dublin University Magazine_ for\n1839, and much Irish folklore is within the pages of the _Folklore\nJournal_ and the _Folklore Record_, and in the proceedings of the\n_Kilkenny Archaeological Society_. The _Penny Journal_, the _Newry\nMagazine_, _Duffy's Sixpenny Magazine_, and the _Hibernian Magazine_,\nare also worth a search by any Irish writer on the look-out for\nsubjects for song or ballad. My own articles in the _Scots Observer_\nand _National Observer_ give many gatherings from the little-reaped\nConnaught fields. I repeat this list of authorities from my _Fairy and\nFolk Tales of the Irish Peasantry_,--a compilation from some of the\nsources mentioned,--bringing it down to date and making one or two\ncorrections. The reader who would know Irish tradition should read\nthese books above all others--Lady Wilde's _Ancient Legends_, Douglas\nHyde's _Beside the Fire_, and a book not mentioned in the foregoing\nlist, for it deals with the bardic rather than the folk literature,\nStandish O'Grady's _History of Ireland, Heroic Period_--perhaps the\nmost imaginative book written on any Irish subject in recent decades.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n_THE CHILDREN'S LIBRARY._\n\n\nTHE BROWN OWL.\n\nA CHINA CUP, AND OTHER STORIES.\n\nSTORIES FROM FAIRYLAND.\n\nTHE LITTLE PRINCESS.\n\nTHE STORY OF A PUPPET.\n\nTALES FROM THE MABINOGION.\n\nIRISH FAIRY TALES.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_(Others in the Press.)_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nA SELECTED LIST OF JUVENILE BOOKS\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s._\n\nCHILDREN'S STORIES IN ENGLISH LITERATURE, from Shakespeare to\nTennyson. By H. C. WRIGHT.\n\n     \"A genial book.\"--_Speaker._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, 5s._\n\nBOYS' OWN STORIES. By ASCOTT R. HOPE. 3rd Edition. Eight\nIllustrations.\n\n     \"The stories are well told.\"--_Pall Mall Gazette._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, 5s._\n\nROYAL YOUTHS: A Book of Prince-hoods. By ASCOTT R. HOPE. Illustrated.\n\n     \"Well told and full of interest.\"--_National Observer._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Large crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, 5s._\n\nROBINSON CRUSOE. Newly Edited after the original Editions. 19\nfull-page Illustrations.\n\n     \"Gives an account of Defoe which is very much to the\n     point.\"--_Spectator._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Imperial 16mo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 3s. 6d._\n\nDICK'S HOLIDAYS, and What He Did with Them. Illustrated. Cheaper\nEdition.\n\n     \"A volume for which every budding botanist who gets it has\n     good reason to be thankful.\"--_Pall Mall Gazette._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Small 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, 3s. 6d._\n\nWHEN MOTHER WAS LITTLE. By S. P. YORKE. 13 full-page Illustrations.\n\n     \"In all respects an agreeable and well-written\n     story.\"--_Spectator._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_8vo, cloth, gilt edges, 6s._\n\nTWO LITTLE CONFEDERATES. By THOMAS NELSON PAGE. Illustrated.\n\n     \"A delightful book.\"--_Saturday Review._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Medium 4to, paper boards, 3s. 6d._\n\nDADDY JAKE, the Runaway, and Other Stories. By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS\n(\"Uncle Remus\"). Illustrated.\n\n     \"A fresh and delightful addition to those quaint and\n     laughable tales which have made the author of 'Uncle Remus'\n     loved and fancied wherever the English tongue is\n     spoken.\"--_Observer._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s._\n\nSIX GIRLS: A Home Story. By FANNIE B. IRVING. Illustrated.\n\n     \"Its interest is well sustained from first to\n     last.\"--_Scotsman._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Square Imperial 16mo, cloth, 5s._\n\nIN THE TIME OF ROSES: A Tale of Two Summers. By FLORENCE SCANNELL. 32\nIllustrations.\n\n     \"A very successful book.\"--_Academy._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, 3s. 6d._\n\nALEXIS AND HIS FLOWERS. By BEATRIX CRESSWELL. Illustrated.\n\n     \"The book is a very pleasant one--a nosegay of everlasting\n     blooms of fancy.\"--_Academy._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Square 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d._\n\nTHE PRINCE OF THE HUNDRED SOUPS. By VERNON LEE. Illustrated.\n\n     \"I devoured it from cover to cover with a new\n     zest.\"--_Truth._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Imperial 16mo, cloth, 3s. 6d._\n\nTHE BIRD'S NEST, and Other Sermons for Children of all ages. By Rev.\nS. COX, D.D. 3rd Edition.\n\n     \"Real honest preaching made fascinating and instructive by\n     an exquisite literary style.\"--_Methodist Times._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Small crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d._\n\nEVERY-DAY MIRACLES. By BEDFORD POLLARD. Illustrated.\n\n     \"A work worthy of the highest praise.\"--_Graphic._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Imperial 16mo, cloth gilt, gilt edges, 3s. 6d._\n\nFAIRY TALES FROM BRENTANO. Told in English by KATE F. KROEKER. 3rd\nEdition.\n\n     \"Welcome in the nursery. The translation has been very\n     cleverly accomplished.\"--_Academy._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Illustrated paper boards, 5s.; cloth, gilt edges, 6s._\n\nNEW FAIRY TALES FROM BRENTANO. By KATE F. KROEKER. 8 coloured\nIllustrations.\n\n     \"I read the book with edification and delight.\"--_Truth._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Medium 4to, paper boards, 3s. 6d._\n\nTHE BROWNIES: Their Book. By PALMER COX. 4th Edition. Illustrated.\n\n     \"The Brownies are such prime favourites.\"--_Guardian._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Medium 4to, cloth, 6s._\n\nANOTHER BROWNIE BOOK. By PALMER COX. Illustrated.\n\n     \"The illustrations are perhaps even more mirthful than the\n     letterpress, but both are admirable.\"--_Morning Post._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_4to, bevelled boards, 3s. 6d._\n\nMARJORIE AND HER PAPA: How they wrote a Story and made Pictures for\nit. A Book for Children.\n\n     \"Altogether a book to be desired by and for\n     children.\"--_Spectator._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE \"LIVES WORTH LIVING\" SERIES OF POPULAR BIOGRAPHIES\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Illustrated, crown 8vo, cloth, price 3s. 6d. each._\n\n1. LEADERS OF MEN. By H. A. PAGE.\n\n     \"Vigorously and well executed.\"--_Literary Churchman._\n\n2. WISE WORDS AND LOVING DEEDS. By E. CONDER GRAY.\n\n     \"The book is altogether a bracing one.\"--_Hand and Heart._\n\n3. MASTER MISSIONARIES. By A. H. JAPP.\n\n     \"The sketches are ably written.\"--_Glasgow Herald._\n\n4. LABOUR AND VICTORY. By A. H. JAPP.\n\n     \"Charming sketches.\"--_Glasgow Mail._\n\n5. HEROIC ADVENTURE: Exploration and Discovery.\n\n     \"The book is one we can thoroughly recommend.\"--_Christian._\n\n6. GREAT MINDS IN ART. By WILLIAM TIREBUCK.\n\n     \"Told with accuracy and freshness.\"--_Globe._\n\n7. GOOD MEN AND TRUE. By ALEX. H. JAPP.\n\n     \"Valuable and interesting records.\"--_Freeman._\n\n8. THE LIVES OF ROBERT AND MARY MOFFAT. By their Son, JOHN SMITH\nMOFFAT.\n\n     \"Eminently deserving of a permanent record. Mr. Moffat's\n     work is calculated to increase the veneration with which the\n     memory of the veteran missionary is regarded by\n     multitudes.\"--_Athenaeum._\n\n9. FAMOUS MUSICAL COMPOSERS. By LYDIA J. MORRIS.\n\n     \"Makes a capital gift-book.\"--_Scotsman._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n_\"The best of all children's Magazines.\"_\n                                 SPECTATOR.\n\n_St. Nicholas\n      For Young Folks._\n\nCONDUCTED BY\n\nMARY MAPES DODGE\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPrice 1s. monthly.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSUITABLE FOR\nCHILDREN OF BOTH SEXES,\n  CHILDREN OF ALL AGES, AND\n    CHILDREN OF ALL SIZES.\n\nEach Part contains 80 pp. of interesting matter, illustrated by about\n50 high-class Engravings.\n\n_The Half-yearly Volumes, price 8s. each, are handsomely bound in red\ncloth, gilt._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN,\n\nPATERNOSTER SQUARE, E.C.","title":"Irish Fairy Tales","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":35437}