Part 5

Shan let it be, but his mind was uneasy for Hugh. And not a long after he heard a voice go past in the night, and it singing a beautiful song. He rose and he went to the door.

"Oh Hughie," says he, "is that your spirit travelling the earth?"

"It's myself is walking the world, and I not buried at all," says the voice. "The Good People have me away, and the corpse was an old image cut from bog stick that they left in my bed to deceive you."

"Then it's yourself is using the food from this house, my poor boy?" says Shan.

"Aye, indeed," says the voice, "and sometimes it's little I find. It does be hard on me to refuse the noble refreshment the fairies set out, but if I'd eat of the like I could never escape from their power. Do you tell herself to leave me a mug of sweet milk and a morsel of bread on the sill of the window, to keep me from hungering more."

"You'll have the best in the house left ready against you come," says Shan. "But will you tell me what way am I to contrive a rescue?"

"It's easy enough," says the voice. "But I'm diverting myself with the fairies, and I'll not be coming home for a while. They took me out oversea to America and showed me the wonders are there. Sure maybe it's in France I'll be at the dawning of day!"

"I'd liefer sit by our own fireside than travel the realms of the world with their like," says Shan. "Let you give them the slip and come home."

"I seen the King's daughter of Spain, and a Queen of the East," says the voice. "For let me be telling you there's few like myself with the fairies, the way they are showing me great respect."

Shan gets vexed at the words and he says: "Is it boasting forenenst your own brother you are? Sure we come of a poor stock of people, and I have heard tell there are lords of the fairies."

"It's my singing has them crazed about me," says the voice, "for they have right understanding for music and songs."

"Is there any man or woman of these parts excepting yourself abroad with them now?" asks Shan.

"Not a one at this present. But at dark to-morrow we are going for to lift young Cassidy's wife."

Well Shan kept inquiring of Hughie when would he like to come home. At long last the lad gave out he'd be ready in three weeks from that hour.

"Let you come to the fort," says he, "and meet the whole host of the fairies. We'll give them the slip at the gap." With that the voice went away off the street, singing till the sound dwined out in the distance. But my poor Shan was that put about he couldn't decide what to do. At the dawn of the morning he set off to visit the Priest, and he informed him every word he was after hearing. Well his Reverence couldn't believe there was anything in it only a dream of the night.

"Let your Reverence go to the Cassidy's and keep herself from their hands," says Shan. "For the Good People are determined to lift her away."

"Go home now and attend to your farm," says the Priest. "'Tis the raving of grief is on you for the brother you lost."

Still and all his Reverence set out for Cassidy's that evening to see was anything wrong. Didn't he find the Good People before him and they had herself brought away. "Oh if only I had come in time," says he. "But I might be some hindrance to them yet."

With that he went down to the hollow, and Shan was sitting within in the house. Says the Priest: "Let you not stir from this for the calling of voices that pass. You are after informing me of an intention you have for to rescue your brother on a set and certain night. Now give me your promise to make no attempt of the sort--for it's into the power of the fallen angels you'd go, and you'd not get him rescued at all."

"I be to make an offer anyway," says Shan.

"Very well," says the Priest. "I'll send four strong men of this parish to rope you down in your bed on that ill night."

Didn't they hold my poor Shan from his offer to bring home the brother, and surely it was well done for his own destruction was in it. But the voice came no more to the window and the bread lay uncut on the sill.

XVII

THE EARL'S SON OF THE SEA

When the Good People fell from the Heavens above, didn't some of them sink in the sea, and there they are dwelling this day.

Many and many a story is told of their diversions and how they be wrecking the ships; but the strangest account I ever heard tell was the fisherman's daughter that met the Earl's son of the sea.

She was travelling the sands by her lone, on the west coast of Ireland, and when she came near to the rocks she heard the notes of a harp. Of course she was curious to know who was out playing in that place and no dwelling near; so over she went towards the sound, and what did she come on only a beautiful yellow-haired man.

"It's destroyed in a short space you'll be," she calls out, "for the tide is beginning to rise and you'll be dashed dead on the rocks."

"Do you know who I am?" says he.

"I do not," she answers. "But you're surely a stranger to these parts or you wouldn't sit there with the waves beginning to rise."

"Maybe I travelled this bay before you were born," says he.

With that she let a laugh out of her.

"I'm thinking the two of us are about the one age," says she. "So quit your old-fashioned talk and come on out of that till I show you the way up the cliff."

"You're a beautiful girl," says the stranger, "and the wish is on me to please you. Climb up out of reach of the rising sea and I'll play you a tune on the harp."

Well she travelled back over the sand and up by the path to the cliff, never doubting but the stranger was following on. But when she looked down she seen him below on the rock.

"It is drownded you'll be," she calls out.

"Let you not be uneasy," says he.

With that he began for to play on the harp, and the music enchanted the fisherman's child and the tears ran down from her eyes. When she looked again to the rock wasn't the stranger washed from it and a big white wave curled up from the place.

"I'm after finding and losing a beautiful boy," says she, and she went away home lamenting his death.

Not a long after she was travelling the sands, and she heard the music again. There was himself sitting up on the rock as sound as a salmon at play.

"I doubt you're no right thing," says she.

"Maybe not," he allows. "But I'll rise your heart with a tune--if it was crying I had you the last time it's laughing I'll see you this day."

With that he played the cleverest dancing tune on the harp, and he had the fisherman's daughter in the best of humour.

After a while he says, "I'm thinking you have a poor way of living in your home, for it's hard set to earn a bit and a sup that the fishermen are in this place."

"We're miserable, surely," she answers.

"I'll be making you a great advancement," says he. "For I'd have you to know that there's plenty of wealth in my power. Let you quit from your own friends and marry myself. It's a beautiful castle I'll build you, out on a rock in the ocean, and jewels and pearls for your portion to wear."

"A lonesome life," says she, "to be watching the wild birds fly over the waves, and maybe a ship passing by. Moreover you are no right thing, evenly if you have the appearance of a beautiful gentleman. It's a poor man of these parts will join the world with myself."

"Sure I'm an Earl's son of the sea," he allows.

But the grandeur didn't tempt her at all.

"A sea marriage would be no marriage," she answers, and with that she bid him good-day.

"Let your man never travel the sea," he answers, "for I'll destroy the ship from under his feet and leave him dead on a wave."

He lepped down into the water and away with him from out of her sight.

The fisherman's daughter never heard him out harping again, nor seen a sight of his face. And after a while she forgot the queer lad entirely. Didn't she marry a farmer inland, and it was a comfortable life they enjoyed.

But a notion took himself that he'd prosper more in the States, for he was greedy for gold. He took passage for the two on a great big ship, and away with them from Ireland.

Not a long were they at sea before a sudden furl blast met the ship, and a wave twenty times as high as a house stood up over the deck and broke down. Every person was killed dead and smashed into the wood of the ship only the fisherman's daughter. She felt the vessel sink down from under her and she looked up and seen a beautiful castle rise up on a rock on the sea.

The Earl's son came past on a wave and he lifted her up by the hair of her head for to land her out on the rock.

The fisherman's daughter lived in that place for fourteen years and she lamenting the lonesome hours of each day. She seen the wild gulls flying and whales and every sort sailing the waves. She took no delight in the jewels nor the dresses were stored in that house, and the Earl's son of the sea allowed she grew ugly and old.

It happened one day he was travelling in other parts that herself seen a ship coming down, and she waved a white flag out the window.

A man came out from the ship in a small little boat, and who was it only her own brother Michael.

"Oh sister dear," says he, "is it sitting on a rock you are for fourteen weary years? Sure we heard tell of the loss of the vessel was bringing you out to the States."

"It's a fine castle is here," says she. "But it's lonesome I am for my home."

"I see no more nor a rock and it green with the weed of the sea," says Michael. "It's on your eyes that there's more in it, for I see nothing at all."

With that she told him the whole story. And he was in dread for to bring her away lest the Earl's son might destroy them.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," says he. "It's back to Ireland I'll sail, and I'll get an image made the down likeness of yourself. When we set that up on the rock himself will believe you are in it, and we may get away."

So he rowed his wee boat to the ship and home he sailed to Ireland. He got the finest image made, and it the dead spit of herself. With that in his keeping he travelled the sea till he came to the rock and his sister still sat there lamenting. But she had a red flag hung out and that was the sign they'd agreed for him not to come near. So he be to wait until she put up a white one, and then he knew that the Earl's son was not near.

He got her safe to the boat, and they left the old image stuck up on the rock.

"There's two little fellows like sea-monkeys he's left to watch when he's gone," says herself. "But they didn't see me slip out and they'll never think but the statue is me. I haven't the least fear of them bringing him word there is anything wrong, but if he returns we are lost for he won't be that easy deceived."

They made great sailing to Ireland, and the ship was coming in on the harbour the way they were sure they'd come safe. What did they see only the Earl's son and he riding on a big white wave to catch up to them. The image was with him, and he threw it after the ship the way a hole was cleft in her side and she sank. But the fisherman's daughter, her brother, and the sailors got on shore in a boat before he came at them again.

They seen him from the shore, and he flittering something with his two hands. What was it only the sea-monkeys, and he threw the bits of them up on the shore. He came in himself, but they pelted him from it with stones for his power was lost on the land.

But not a one of that family to this present day may venture into the waves, for the Earl's son watches out to destroy them for vengeance and spite.

XVIII

THE GIRL AND THE FAIRIES

There was a beautiful young girl living in these parts, and she was greatly admired by every person that seen her.

It happened when she was about nineteen years of age that she fainted one day on the street before the house, where she was washing the spuds for dinner. The mother and sister went out for to carry her in, and they laid her down on the bed--the poor girl never rose from it more. Maybe a week she was lingering dying, not a word ever came from her lips and she used no food at all.

Not a long after the burying her mother heard a rapping on the window, close upon midnight. She rose and she says, "Oh Bridget dear, is it you?"

"It is indeed, mamma," says a voice. "Let you give me a drink of sweet milk and a small taste of bread."

"I've heard tell of the dead were uneasy, but never of one needing food," says the mother.

"The fairies have me away," answers Bridget. "'Tis myself is living this day, and you are after giving decent burial to an old thing they left in my place."

With that the poor mother brought milk and bread to the window and handed it out.

"Will you ever contrive to get home, my poor Bridget?" says she.

"Aye surely," answers the girl, "if the men of this place are worthy their keep. Let you make inquiries among them until you find two strong daring boys are willing to attempt my rescue."

She went away off the street, and the mother went back to her bed.

The next evening there were some of the neighbours came in, and herself gave out all she was after hearing. There were two clever lads in it and they promised for to bring the girl snug and safe to her home.

Not a long after Bridget came back to the window to speak with the mother, so when she heard of the offer was made she says: "The Good People are going away over the moor on Wednesday night and I must journey with them. It is mounted on horses we'll be, and tell the two lads I told them to stand by the gap and watch for the squad going through. I'll be upon the third grey horse to go by, and let the two lads take a hold of me, one at each side. Now if they're not full sure they'll have courage and daring to hold their hold, let them not come near me at all. For if I pass on with the fairies they'll kill me dead for vengeance that night."

The mother promised she'd give the lads great warning to keep their hold and do all as Bridget was saying.

Well on the Wednesday night the venturesome lads went down to the gap of the fort field, and there they stood waiting one at each side of the pass. Not a long were they in it before the Good People began to go through. One grey horse went down beside another and a third came behind with Bridget sitting upon his back.

The two lads caught a hold of her, but didn't the horse let a stag lep and they lost their grip on the girl. She gave the lonesomest cry as she was carried from them, and the fairies began for to cheer and to laugh.

"We'll follow the Good People on," says one of the boys, "and maybe we'll vanquish them yet."

So the two travelled after the riders, away towards the moor. The river flows convenient to that place, and a fine bridge spans it across. It was there that the awfullest cry rose out of the throng of the fairies, and when the boys came on to the bridge they seen it all red with my poor Bridget's blood. The horsemen were after dashing her down on the stones to her death.

XIX

GOOD-NIGHT, MY BRAVE MICHAEL

There was a big gathering of neighbours sitting round a fire, telling stories of an evening, and some person says:

"There's the strongest bolt and lock in all Ireland on the door there beyond, and it couldn't be broken at all."

With that the Good People were listening outside began for to laugh. Didn't they whip the lock off the door and away with them through the fields.

Says the man of the house: "I'm thinking there's danger abroad; let the lot of you stop here till dawn."

But there was a big, venturesome man in it and he allowed he'd go home no spite of the fairies.

He started off by his lone, and he had a wet sort of field to pass through with a great shaking scraw to one side. It was an awful and dangerous place to any person not used to the like, but he knew his way by the pass.

He was travelling at a good speed when all on a sudden he heard the tramping of a score of horses behind him. Then they came up round himself, but he seen no person at all nor a sign of a horse or an ass.

"The fairies are in it," says he.

With that one of them took a hold of him by the collar and turned him round on the path.

"Good-night, my brave Michael," says the horsemen.

Then another of them took him by the shoulder and faced him away round again.

"Good-night, my brave Michael," says he. Well the whole score of fairies kept turning him round until he seen the stars dropping down from the sky and his ears were deafened with a sound like the sea. And every one that took him by the shoulder would say: "Good-night, my brave Michael, good-night!"

The poor fellow didn't know what in under the shining Heaven was he to do. He seen they were setting him astray, but he couldn't continue for to keep on the path, and he was in odious dread they'd furl him into the shaking scraw where he'd sink from the sight of man.

A sudden thought struck his mind of a saying he heard from his ma. He whipped the coat off his back and he put it on with the wrong side turned out. And then he found he was standing alone in the field, on the edge of the scraw, and no person near him at all. So he went away home without any mishap, but indeed he was trembling with dread.

XX

THE LAD AND THE OLD LASSIE'S SONG

There was a young lad living in these parts, not long since at all, and his name was Francis John.

It chanced of a May morning that water was scarce for the tea, the way his mother put a bucket in his hand and hunted him off to the spring.

Now an old lassie lived by her lone in a little wee house was built right close to the path. The door stood open that morning, and my brave Francis John looked in when he went on his way to the well. He seen the old girl sitting on a small creepy stool by the fire, with a row of clay images baking in front of the turf. Wasn't she singing a song--and a queer cracked voice was her own--every word of it came good and plain to the ears of the lad.

Ye that I bake before the fire, Bring me the milk from my neighbour's byre; Gather the butter from off the churn And set it forenenst me before you burn.

Francis John didn't ask to disturb her diversions at all, so he went on his way and filled up his can at the spring. But all the road home the old lassie's song tormented his mind, and as he came in at the door he began for to sing:

Ye that she bakes before the fire, Bring me the milk from the neighbour's byre; Gather the butter from off the churn And set it forenenst me before you burn.

With the power of the words coming from him didn't the boots on his feet fill up with sweet milk, and it running out on the lace holes.

"Man, but that's an enchanted song," says he. And what did he do only step into four pounds of butter that fell on the threshold before him, for he never remarked it at all!

XXI

THE BASKET OF EGGS

There was a woman one time, and she on her way to the market, counting the price of her basket of eggs.

"If eggs are up," says she, "I'll be gaining a handful of silver, and evenly if prices be down I'll not do too badly at all for I have a weighty supply."

With that she remarked a little wee boy sitting down by the hedge, he stitching away at a brogue.

"If I had a hold of yon lad," says she, "I'd make him discover a treasure--for the like of him knows where gold does be hid."

She juked up behind him, like a cat would be after a bird, and she caught a strong grip of his neck.

Well he let an odious screech out of him, for he was horrid surprised.

"I have you, my gosoon," says she.

"Oh surely you have, mam," he answers. "The strength of your thumb is destroying my thrapple this day."

"Will you show me a treasure?" says she.

"I'd have you to know," he replies, "that the pot of gold I could convey you in sight of is guarded by the appearance of a very strange frog."

"What do I care for the creeping beasts of the world," says she. "Worse nor a frog wouldn't scare me at all."

"You're a terrible fine woman, mistress dear," says the leprachaun. "I've travelled a power of the earth and I never came in with your equal."

"Go on with your old-fashioned chat," she replies, but she was middling well pleased all the same.

"I'm a small little fellow," says he, "and I couldn't keep up with yourself. But it's light in the body I am, the way I'd be never a burden at all and I sitting up on the handle of the basket."

"Up with you," she answers, "for I'll soon put you down to walk by my side if you are not speaking the truth."

But she didn't find the least burden more on the basket when himself was on the handle.

He was a great warrant to flatter, and he had her in humour that day all the while he was watching out for a chance to escape, but she kept a hold of his ear.

What did he do only put his two wee hands down into the basket and he began for to bail out the eggs. She fetched him a terrible clout, but the harder she beat him the faster he threw out the eggs.

"Oh mam! oh mam!" says he, "what for are you skelping my head?"

"To make you quit breaking my eggs, you unmannerly coley," says she.

"Sure it's doing you favour I am," he replies. "I'd have you to know when I spill an egg on the ground a well-grown spring chicken leps out."

"Quit raving," says she.

"If you doubt my word," he makes answer, "let you turn and look back at the chickens are flocking along."

With that she turned her head, and the leprachaun slipped from her grasp. He made one spring from the basket into the hedge, and he vanished away from the place.

"The wee lad has fooled me entirely," says she, "and my beautiful eggs are destroyed--but I am the finest woman he's seen, and that is a good thing to know!"

XXII

THE BROKEN BRANCH

There was a man in the olden time, and he owned a snug little farm.

What did he do, of a winter's day, only break a great branch off a lone bush for to burn in the fire. A thorn went into his hand and it pierced it through.

"That was a sore jag," says he.

But there was a little grey woman sitting in under the lone bush, and she let a terrible laugh.

There were two of the neighbours seen what occurred, and they passing down through the field. One of them ran away home, but the other, a venturesome lad, came across.

"What are you after doing, my poor fellow?" says he.

"I am after destroying my hand with a thorn," says the man.

The neighbour allowed there was worse in it nor that.

"Did you hear the grey woman laugh?" he inquires.

"There is no woman here," says the other.

"I seen her a while past, and I coming down to your side. She was sitting in under the bush, but now she is gone. When you drove the thorn through your hand she let a lamentable laugh that was worse nor a cry."

The man didn't believe it at all. But the jag in his hand festered up and he died for breaking the branch of the thorn.

XXIII

DIGGING FOR GOLD

In the ancient times a poor decent labouring man dreamt three nights of finding a kist was hid in the fort near his home.

So away there he went for to dig, and not long was he working at all when he came on the beautiful gold.

"In troth I am rich from this out," he calls at the height of his voice.

With that the whole treasure fell down through the earth: he should not have spoken at all. Then there came a powerful great cat, and it was the guard of the kist. Now the man had the wit to take hold of the appearance before him, and let it strive never so hard it could not contrive to escape. "I'll hold you," says he, "till you tell me where is the gold!"

"Dig at the far side," says a voice. But whether it came from the cat was past the man's wit for to know.

Well he went over and began for to dig at the far side, and he came on a big copper pot. But no gold was in it at all.

XXIV

STORY OF A CHURN

There was a woman renowned for making the best of good butter.