Part 4

But the words weren't out of her mouth before a blast of loud music was heard. Himself ran in on the door, and he seen the gosoon sitting up playing tunes.

"Let you be off out of this," says he, "or I'll throw you at the back of the fire, for you are no right thing at all."

With that the little fellow made a powerful great lep out of the cradle, across the floor and away with him out over the fields.

But he left his fiddle behind, and the master of the house threw it down on the burning turf. And that was no true fiddle at all, only a piece of an old bog stick was rotten with age.

XI

THE CUTTING OF THE TREE

There was a wild sort of a lad the name of Francis Pat, and he was a great warrant to be entertaining the people with his airy talk. He was the whole go in every spree and join was held in the countryside; and the neighbours all had a fine welcome when he'd come to make his cailee.

He joined the world when he was about thirty years of age, and he got a fine sensible woman with a nice little handful of money. Herself didn't care to be rambling at all, and she'd sit with her stitching or knitting when he went out after dark.

It chanced one time, not a long from they were married, that Francis Pat went to a raffle was held in the next townland. When the company set out for to go away home, in the black darkness of the night, every person in it was afraid to pass down by the fort.

"What is on you at all?" says Francis Pat. "I think scorn on the lot of you are in dread of the Good People."

"God be with them--and their faces from us, their backs to us, the way they're good friends," says an old man. "I have great experience to know that it's a danger to evenly make fun in speech of the like."

"Away with you by the long hard road," says Francis Pat. "'Tis I will walk my lone past the fort, and I dare the fairies to molest me." The neighbours strove to break his intention, but he was persistent and proud.

When he came to the fort he seen a light, he heard voices speaking and the blows of an axe against wood.

"There is one more daring nor myself abroad this hour," thinks Francis Pat. "I never heard tell of any person having audacity to interfere with the trees of the circle."

Curiosity came on him to know who could it be, and he juked over to the light. He seen no sign of the men, however he peeped, but he heard the words and the blows.

"Where'll we carry the wood?" says a voice.

"To the house on the hill," says another. "We be to bring out the wife of Francis Pat, and the tree may stop there in her stead."

"He'll never know the differ," says the first. "It's a fine thing surely to make an image from a tree that a man couldn't know from herself." With that there was great laughter and cheering, but the lad didn't wait to hear more--he sped away home to the house on the hill.

Not a heth did he let on to the wife about what he was after discovering, but he had a strong oath taken in his own mind that the fairies should not lift her from him.

He bolted the door of the kitchen, and the two went into the room. After awhile there came a cry on the street without, and it dwined away into the byre. The cows began for to stamp and strive to get free of the bails.

"Let you go out and see what ails the creatures," says herself.

"There is nothing on them," says he. "I'll not leave this place till the sun rises for day."

Then there came a powerful blast of wind, and the pigs set up the awfullest lamentation.

"I'm not that lazy but I'll find out what it is," says herself.

"You'll stop where you are," says he. "Didn't you hear the blast going by, and every person knows that pigs see the wind?"

"Whatever they're beholding this minute is a sore distress to the creatures," she answers.

"Aye!" he allows. "The wind is red, and that is the cause of them crying." There came a crash on the door of the kitchen and it blew in; the plates were dashed off the dresser, and the saucepans fell from the nails on the wall.

Francis Pat had to hold herself by the arm to keep her from running to gather the delf. Voices came shouting, and there was a stamping of feet through the house. The woman began for to cry and to roar, but himself kept a hold on her and nothing enticed him away.

At dawn the commotion died out.

"What was it at all?" asks herself.

"Sure what would it be only a wind was fit to batter the horns off the cows!" says Francis Pat.

When they went into the kitchen what did they find only the image lying on the floor. The wood was cut into the living likeness of the woman of the house, and the Good People had thrown it there in the anger of the disappointment was on them.

So my brave Francis Pat told his wife the whole story of the cutting of the tree.

XII

THE LITTLE SETTLEMENT

There was a strong farmer one time and he was the boastfullest man in all Ireland. He had a tidy, comfortable place, sure enough, but to hear him speaking you'd be thinking his house was built of silver and thatched with the purest gold.

Herself was a very different sort of a person, kindly and simple-hearted; she took no pleasure in making out she had more property and grandeur than another body; and she was neither envious, uncharitable, nor a clash.

The two had but one child, a daughter, and she was their whole delight. Bride was a beautiful white girl with a countenance on her would charm a king from his golden throne to be walking the bogs with herself. The boys were flocking after her by the score, and she had but to raise her hand to draw any one of them to her side. But, being a seemly, well-reared lass, she took her diversion without any consideration of marriage at all--well satisfied her father would be making a fitting settlement for her when the time came.

The youth of the world will always be playing themselves and chatting together, all the while them that have right wit and a good upbringing do leave their settlement in the hands of the parents have the best understanding for the same.

"I'm thinking," says himself one evening, "that it's old and stiff I am growing. It might be a powerful advantage to take a son-in-law into the place, the way I'd get sitting in peace by the hearth, and he out in the fields attending to the management of all."

"Bride is full young to be joining the world," says his wife. "But I will not be putting any hindrance in the way of it, for maybe it's better contented she'd be to have a fine man of her own, foreby to be looking on an old pair like ourselves, and we dozing by the fire of an evening."

"I'll be making a little settlement for her, surely," says himself.

The next day he gave out through the country that Bride was to be married. What with the little handful of money, the fine farm of land and the looks of the girl, the suitors were coming in plenty. There were strong farmers, small farmers, tradesmen and dealers; a cow doctor, a blacksmith, and evenly a man that travelled in tea. Himself was disgusted with all; he put out the farmers and dealers very civil and stiff, but the tea man he stoned down the road for a couple of miles.

The next suitor to come was a beautiful young lad the name of Shan Alec. He was a tasty worker, and he had the best of good money was left him by his da. Now if you were to seek all Ireland ten times through, I'll go bail you wouldn't be finding a more suitable match nor Shan Alec and Bride. The girl and her mother were fair wild with delight, but they got an odious disappointment for didn't himself run the poor boy out of the house.

"I'm surprised at you," says the wife. "Why couldn't you have wit and give that decent lad an honourable reception?"

"Is it to give my daughter to yon country coley?" says he. "And I the warmest man in these parts."

"A better match for her like isn't walking this earth," says the wife.

"Hold your whisht, woman," says he. "I'd sooner let the devil have her than see her join the world with Shan Alec."

"What is on you at all to be speaking such foolishness?" asks herself.

"I'd have you to know," says he, "that I'll have a gentleman for my son-in-law and no common person at all."

"It is the raving of prosperity is on you," says she. "And that is the worst madness out."

"Speak easy," says he, "or maybe I'll correct you with the pot stick."

With that she allowed he be to be gone daft entirely, or he'd never have such an unseemly thought as to raise his hand to a woman.

"Hold your whisht," he answers. "Surely 'tis both hand and foot I'll be giving you unless you quit tongueing."

Not a long afterwards a splendid gentleman came to the house, and he riding on a horse.

"I have heard tell," says he to the farmer, "that you are seeking a suitable settlement for your daughter."

"If your honour wants a wife," says himself. "Let you be stepping in, for it's maybe in this house you'll find her."

With that the gentleman got down off his horse, and it was an honourable reception they made him. Evenly herself was content to remember the scorn put on poor Shan Alec, when she seen the magnificent suitor was come.

The gentleman had a smile on his face when he heard all the boasts of the farmer.

"My good man," says he, "I think scorn on your money and land, for I'd have you to know that I am a King in my own place. But that girl sitting by the hearth has a lovely white countenance on her, and her heart I am seeking for love of the same."

"Oh mother," says Bride in a whisper, "will you send him away?"

"Is it raving you are?" asks herself.

"I'd go through fire and water for my poor Shan Alec!" says Bride.

"Will you hold your whisht," says her mother. "That is no right talk for a well-reared girl."

The farmer and the gentleman made their agreement and opened the bottle of whiskey. There was to be a nice little feast for to celebrate the settlement, and the cloth was set in the parlour on account of the grandeur of the suitor and he not used to a kitchen at all.

When the supper was served didn't the servant girl call the mistress out to the kitchen.

"Oh mam," says she. "I couldn't get word with you in private before. Let you hunt that lad from the place."

"And why, might I ask?" says herself.

"Sure how would he be a right gentleman and he having a foot on him like a horse?" says the girl.

With that the mistress began to lament and to groan.

"What'll I do! What'll I do, and I scared useless with dread?"

"I'll go in and impeach him," says the servant girl.

In she went to the parlour.

"Quit off out of this," says she. "We'll have no horse feet in this place."

The master got up to run her from the room.

"Look under the table at your lovely gentleman's foot!" says she.

The farmer done as she bid, but he was that set in his own conceit he just answers:

"What harm is in a reel foot? It's no ornament surely, but that's all there is to it."

"Many's the reel foot I've laid eyes on," she says. "But yon is the hoof of a horse."

"It's truth you are speaking," says the gentleman. "I am the devil and no person less."

"Quit off from here," says the servant. "A decent girl, like us two, need never be fearing your like. I'd hit you a skelp with the pot stick as soon as I'd stand on a worm."

"You can't put me out," says the devil. "For the man of the house has me promised his daughter."

"There is no person living," says Bride, "might have power on the soul of another. If my sins don't deliver me into your hand the word of my da is no use."

"Then I'll be taking himself," says the devil, making ready to go.

"You may wait till he's dead," cries the woman of the house. "He made you no offer of his bones and his flesh."

"The tongues of three women would argue the devil to death," says he, and away with him in a grey puff of smoke. The man and woman of the house began for to pray. But says Bride to the servant:

"Let you slip off to Shan Alec and bid him come up--for it's maybe an honourable reception is waiting him here."

XIII

THE TILLAGE IN THE FORT

There was a man in these parts, and he thought it hard to see a square inch of ground go to loss. He had a small wee farm on the top of a windy hill, and there was a fort on the sweetest of the fields. He couldn't pass by but he'd think of how much potatoes might be grown within in the circle. Well with the dint of consideration didn't he finally decide for to plant it.

He never let on to his wife, but away out with the loy, and he made great work before the fall of night. When he came in he carried a lengthy thorn root in his hand.

"What are you holding?" asks herself.

"An old thorn I hoked out of the ground," says he. "I brought it in for the fire."

"Is it making gaps in the quick hedges you are?" she asks.

"Not at all," says he. "I have the circle beyond rooted up for to set potatoes in it."

"Is it the fort!" says she.

When she heard what he was after doing she began for to roar and to cry.

"It is destroyed we are in this ill hour," she lamented. "The Good People will be following us surely with the black wrath of vengeance and spite. Never before did I hear of a man setting spuds in a fort."

"Quit raving," says he.

"Many and many's the time I have seen them, they riding down by the hill; their fiddles and fifes I have heard, their shouts and their laughs. But I had no cause for a dread till it come on me now," she replies.

With that herself took the thorn from the fire, where he was after casting it down; she left it out on the door of the house.

"Let their branch stop beyond on the street," says she, "the way they will not be entering here and they seeking for to bring it away."

In the black darkness of midnight there came the awfullest cry on the street, on past the house and into the byre. Then a great lamentation came from the cows and the ass.

"The creatures are a killing this night," says herself.

The man rose out of his bed and he kindled a light. He had the heart to go out to the beasts to see what ailed them at all. There was no loss on the cows nor the ass, and the cry and the shouting were gone.

He went back to the house, but not a long was he in before the very same trouble rose in the byre. Out with him again to make sure what was wrong, and he found not a single heth astray.

He was back in his bed when a third cry passed on the wind. The ass let a roar was more nor horrid lonesome, and the cows were stamping and roaring with dread. All the while there was nothing in it when the master went out.

There was no sound more until hard on the break of day. A laugh that was hateful to hear passed the house, and a hand struck hard on the window.

Himself rose early, and he opened the door. What did he see only the ass lying dead on the street, and the two cows were destroyed in the byre.

"'Twas the fairies, surely," says he. "And they brought this destruction upon me for hoking a hole in their farm."

"It's a powerful great price they're after charging you for the hire of a small piece of ground," says herself, coming out. "But the thorn stick is gone off the street where I threw it last night, and if that had remained in the house they'd have murdered ourselves."

XIV

THE NEW DECK OF CARDS

Of all the contrivances of the art and learning of man there is none more curious nor cards. They have a connection with beings are not right things at all, and it is well known that an Evil Angel can house himself for a while in a new deck of cards.

There was a young lad called Terry the Luck, and he a great warrant for gaining all games of skill and of chance. He was that strongly renowned the roulette men would warn him away from their boards in a fair, and the thimble trick man fled clean from the street when he come; the gosoons were in dread to toss pence with himself for the coin fell head or tail as he called.

Now it happened one night that Terry the Luck was on his way home from the sports, and he carried a new deck of cards in his hand. He was in the best of humour for he was after winning a powerful bet on a race. Part of the gain was snug in his pocket, and the remainder had paid for the drink of his friends and himself.

The road to his home was lonely, for he lived in a backward townland. The river passed within sight of his door, and it spanned by a bridge was four arches long.

When Terry the Luck set his foot on the bridge didn't he wheel away round and start in the wrong direction.

"That's a strange thing," says he. "Sure my legs were right steady till now."

With that he went at it again, but he couldn't succeed for to cross. He went back about twenty yards and took a run at it--that was no use either. Well any person that seen his antics that night would have died of the laughter. Back he'd go and race up to the bridge for all he was worth, but whenever his foot came upon it he'd turn like a leaf on the wind and away to where he started from. What was more nor horrid vexatious for the poor fellow was to see the light shining in his own kitchen window beyond, and he not fit to get home.

"'Tis enchanted I am," says he.

At long last he thought of the new deck of cards, and he laid them down by the roadside before he made another attempt to go home. He passed the bridge without the least hindrance, but when he went into the house he began to consider it was all a foolishness only.

"What use is there in laying out money for cards, and throwing them there to be rotting with damp?" says he.

Back he went across the river to fetch the new deck of cards. But if he was to strive till he died of exhaustion he couldn't get over the bridge and they in his hand.

"I'll lay them in under a stone until dawn," says he. "Maybe whatever is in them will quit before then."

So he settled his cards in a safe hiding hole, and away with him to his bed.

He rose with the early dawn for to bring out the deck. But there wasn't a heth to be found where he stowed it away--and the earth by the stone was all burnt into ash.

XV

THE LIFTING OF A CHILD

There was a woman, a short while since, and she lived on a snug little farm convenient to the lough. She went to the byre for to milk, of a May morning, and no person stopped in the house only a young child in the cradle.

Not a long was herself without, maybe the half of an hour, and when she came in there was no appearance of any disorder or strife in the kitchen. But the poor wee child lay cold and dead in the cradle. The mother began for to roar and lament, and her heart was feeble with dread.

There came a knock on the door, and a neighbouring man lifted the latch and walked in. He never let on to observe the woeful countenance of herself, but he says, in a hearty voice:

"Will you tell me how is the child?"

"He is after dying on us," she answers. "And he right well this hour past."

The man went over to the cradle, and he lepped three foot off the floor when he seen the wee corpse lying there.

"It's the strangest thing at all," she laments. "And what'll I be saying to himself when he lands in from his work."

"Let you be telling him," says the man, "that the little fellow is in my house this day."

"'Tis queer advice you are speaking to be bidding me utter the like of yon lie, forenenst the innocent corpse," says herself.

"Not a lie in the world, mam," he answers. "Sure I am just after leaving your child by my own kitchen fire, and he wrapped up in a shawl."

With that she took a hold of the pot stick for to run him from the place--she was odious vexed to think he'd make mock of her sore lamentations.

"Ar'n't you the ungrateful besom," says he, "to go destroying a decent neighbour with a pot stick, and he after saving your son from the power of the Good People?"

"Let you tell a straight story, or quit off from here," she answers. "For I am heart scalded listening to your old nonsense and lies."

"'Tis striving I was not to give you your death of a scare," says he. "But the strangest thing is after coming to pass in this house. Let you sit down and have good courage, the way I'll be telling you a rejoiceful news."

With that herself brought him over a chair, dusting it clean on her apron, then she pulled up the creepy and sat down to attend to his words.

"Did you hear any noise of disturbance," says he, "wherever you were?"

"I did not," she answers. "And not a far was I from this place at all. I went to the byre for to milk; and no noise was in it only the cow breathing and the splash of the milk in the can."

"That's more nor horrid strange," says he. "For I was passing down by the lough and I heard a powerful commotion up here. There was laughter and cheering, the tramp of men's boots on the street, and horses galloping by. Thinks I to myself, 'The fairies are out contriving some old villainy this morning of May.' What did I do only walk up among them, and I seen no person at all. When I came to the house the poor wee child was a handing out on the window, but I could not behold the fairies were at the lifting.

"Well I'd have you to know I'm a brave and venturesome man, with a heart as strong as an eagle! What did I do only make my way in among the whole throng of Good People, and I standing on their feet, and pushing them off to the wall to make space for myself. I took a hold of the child for to pull him from the invisible hands were lifting him out, and, as sure as I'm sitting here, I brought him safe from the lot.

"There went a whole roar of annoyance from the fairies, and they mounted up on their horses and away. But I brought the little fellow to my own house for fear they'd return for him to this place."

The poor mother was wild with delight to hear tell the son was alive.

"Let's be going to fetch him," says she. "And he'll never be left in the house by his lone from this out."

The two went down to the neighbour's house, and sure enough the child was in it asleep by the fire.

The man had to carry him home, for herself was exhausted with fright.

"Maybe the Good People are gone up to remove what they left in the cradle," says she.

But when they went into the kitchen wasn't the old corpse in it yet.

"We be to bury yon article," says herself. But the man allowed there was no need to be treating the like the same as a right thing.

"Throw it in on the back of the fire," says he.

Herself was in dread to lay her hand on the likeness of the child. So the man lifted it out of the cradle and threw it down on the fire. And it blazed away up the chimney for a second's time and departed in a puff of smoke.

XVI

THE VOICE AT THE DOOR

There was one time a poor widow woman he name of Cathleen the Hollow, for her house was down in a dip of the ground. She had two fine beautiful sons, Shan the Hollow and Hughie Cathleen. Shan was a dancer could step on a plate and not put a break in the delf; and Hughie could sing every ballad and song was ever heard tell of at all.

They were wild daring lads, too, the way there was great talk of them in the countryside. And the lamentations of the youth of the world were more nor a fright when news came round to the neighbours that Hughie was dead.

He lay down of a Friday night, and he in the best of health, on the Saturday morning the brother went to rouse him, and found him perished dead.

Well there was a most elegant wake, not a one in those parts but paid respect to the corpse. And there wasn't the least suspicion but that Hughie come by his death of some natural cause.

It was maybe a fortnight after the burying that the sleep quit Shan the Hollow entirely. If evenly he began for to doze in his bed he'd be roused up again by a rap on the door--but when he stepped out there was no person visible there.

"Oh mother," says he, "I'm thinking poor Hughie is walking the world."

"He is not," says she. "For he was a decent lad would find peace in the grave. But there is some person making free with this house, for not a day goes by but I miss some article of food."