At another time Maureen said:
"The King himself is going to thry you hard the day, so beware!" She had no sooner said the words than Darby was called for, and went up to the King.
"Darby, my sowl," says the King, in a sootherin' way, "have this noggin of punch. A betther never was brewed; it's the last we'll have for many a day. I'm going to set you free, Darby O'Gill, that's what I am."
"Why, King," says Darby, putting on a mournful face, "how have I offended ye?"
"No offence at all," says the King, "only we're depriving you."
"No depravity in life!" says Darby. "I have lashins and lavings to ate and to drink and nothing but fun an' divarsion all day long. Out in the worruld it was nothing but work and throuble and sickness, disappointment and care."
"But Bridget and the childher?" says the King, giving him a sharp look out of half-shut eyes.
"Oh, as for that, King," says Darby, "it's aisier for a widow to get a husband or for orphans to find a father than it is for them to pick up a sovereign a day."
The King looked mighty satisfied and smoked for a while without a word.
"Would you mind goin' out an evenin' now and then, helpin' the boys to mind the cows?" he asked at last.
Darby feared to trust himself outside in their company.
"Well, I'll tell ye how it is," replied my brave Darby. "Some of the neighbours might see me, and spread the report on me that I'm with the fairies and that'd disgrace Bridget and the childher," he says.
The King knocked ashes from his pipe.
"You're a wise man, besides being the hoight of good company," says he, "and it's sorry I am you didn't take my word, for then we would have you always, at laste till the Day of Judgment, when—but that's nayther here nor there! Howsomever, we'll bother you about it no more."
From that day they thrated him as one of their own.
It was nearly five months afther that Maureen plucked Darby by the coat and led him off to a lonely spot.
"I've got the word," she says.
"Have you, faith! What is it?" says Darby, all of a thrimble.
Then she whispered a word so blasphaymous, so irrayligious that Darby blessed himself. When Maureen saw him making the sign, she fell down in a fit, the holy emblem hurt her so, poor child.
Three hours after this me bould Darby was sitting at his own fireside talking to Bridget and the childher. The neighbours were hurrying to him down every road and through every field, carrying armfuls of holly bushes, as he had sent word for them to do. He knew well he'd have fierce and savage visitors before morning.
After they had come with the holly, he had them make a circle of it so thick around the house that a fly couldn't walk through without touching a twig or leaf. But that was not all.
You'll know what a wise girl and what a crafty girl that Maureen was when you hear what the neighbours did next. They made a second ring of holly outside the first, so that the house sat in two great wreaths, one wreath around the other. The outside ring was much the bigger, and left a good space between it and the first, with room for ever so many people to stand there. It was like the inner ring, except for a little gate, left open as though by accident, where the fairies could walk in.
But it wasn't an accident at all, only the wise plan of Maureen's; for nearby this little gap, in the outside wreath, lay a sprig of holly with a bit of twine tied to it. Then the twine ran along up to Darby's house, and in through the window, where its ind lay convaynient to his hand. A little pull on the twine would drag the stray piece of holly into the gap and close tight the outside ring.
It was a trap, you see. When the fairies walked in through the gap the twine was to be pulled, and so they were to be made prisoners between the two rings of holly. They couldn't get into Darby's house because the circle of holly nearest the house was so tight that a fly couldn't get through without touching the blessed tree or its wood. Likewise, when the gap in the outer wreath was closed, they couldn't get out agin. Well, anyway, these things were hardly finished and fixed when the dusky brown of the hills warned the neighbours of twilight, and they scurried like frightened rabbits to their homes.
Only one amongst them all had courage to sit inside Darby's house waiting the dreadful wisitors, and that one was Bob Broderick. What vengeance was in store couldn't be guessed at all, at all, only it was sure to be more turrible than any yet wreaked on mortal man.
Not in Darby's house alone was the terror, for in their anger the Good People might lay waste the whole parish. The roads and fields were empty and silent in the darkness. Not a window glimmered with light for miles around. Many a blaggard who hadn't said a prayer for years was down on his marrow bones among the dacint members of his family, thumping his craw and roaring his Pather and Aves.
In Darby's quiet house, against which the cunning, the power, and the fury of the Good People would first break, you can't think of half the suffering of Bridget and the childher, as they lay huddled together on the settle-bed; nor of the strain on Bob and Darby, who sat smoking their dudeens and whispering anxiously together.
For some rayson or other the Good People were long in coming. Ten o'clock struck, thin eleven, afther that twelve, and not a sound from the outside. The silence, and then no sign of any kind, had them all just about crazy, when suddenly there fell a sharp rap on the door.
"Millia murther," whispered Darby, "we're in for it. They've crossed the two rings of holly and are at the door itself."
The childher begun to cry, and Bridget said her prayers out loud; but no one answered the knock.
"Rap, rap, rap," on the door, then a pause.
"God save all here!" cried a queer voice from the outside.
Now no fairy would say "God save all here," so Darby took heart and opened the door. Who should be standing there but Sheelah Maguire, a spy for the Good People. So angry were Darby and Bob that they snatched her within the threshold, and before she knew it they had her tied hand and foot, wound a cloth around her mouth, and rolled her under the bed. Within the minute a thousand rustling woices sprung from outside. Through the window, in the clear moonlight, Darby marked weeds and grass being trampled by inwisible feet beyond the farthest ring of holly.
Suddenly broke a great cry. The gap in the first ring was found. Signs were plainly seen of uncountable feet rushing through and spreading about the nearer wreath. Afther that a howl of madness from the little men and women. Darby had pulled his twine and the trap was closed, with five thousand of the Good People entirely at his mercy.
Princes, princesses, dukes, dukesses, earls, earlesses, and all the quality of Sleive-na-mon were presoners. Not more than a dozen of the last to come escaped, and they flew back to tell the King.
For an hour they raged. All the bad names ever called to mortal man were given free, but Darby said never a word. "Pickpocket!" "Sheep-stayler!""Murtherin' thafe of a blaggard!" were the softest words trun at him.
By an' by, howsumever, as it begun to grow near to cock-crow, their talk grew a great dale civiller. Then came beggin', pladin', promisin', and enthratin', but the doors of the house still stayed shut an' its windows down.
Purty soon Darby's old rooster, Terry, came down from his perch, yawned, an' flapped his wings a few times. At that the terror and the screechin' of the Good People would have melted the heart of a stone.
All of a sudden a fine clear voice rose from beyant the crowd. The King had come. The other fairies grew still listening.
"Ye murtherin' thafe of the worruld," says the King, grandly, "what are ye doin' wid my people?"
"Keep a civil tongue in yer head, Brian Connors," says Darby, sticking his head out the window, "for I'm as good a man as you, any day," says Darby.
At that minute Terry, the cock, flapped his wings and crowed. In a flash there sprang into full view the crowd of Good People—dukes, earls, princes, quality and commoners, with their ladies—jammed thick together about the house; every one of them with
his head trun back bawling and crying, and tears as big as pigeon-eggs rouling down their cheeks.
A few feet away, on a straw-pile in the barnyard, stood the King, his goold crown tilted on the side of his head, his long green cloak about him and his rod in his hand, but thremblin' all over.
In the middle of the crowd, but towering high above them all, stood Maureen McGibney in her cloak of green an' goold, her purty brown hair fallin' down her chowlders, an' she—the crafty villain—cryin' an' bawlin' an' abusin' Darby with the best of them.
"What'll you have an' let them go?" says the King.
"First an' foremost," says Darby, "take yer spell off that slip of a girl there, an' send her into the house."
In a second Maureen was standing inside the door, her both arms about Bob's neck and her head on his collar-bone.
What they said to aich other, an' what they done in the way of embracin' an' kissin' an' cryin' I won't take time in telling you.
"Next," says Darby, "send back Rosie and the pigs."
"I expected that," says the King. And at those words they saw a black bunch coming through the air, and in a few seconds Rosie and the three pigs walked into the stable.
"Now," says Darby, "promise in the name of Ould Nick" ('tis by him the Good People swear) "never to moil nor meddle agin with anyone or anything from this parish."
The King was fair put out by this. Howsomever, he said at last: "You ongrateful scoundrel, in the name of Ould Nick I promise."
"So far, so good," says Darby; "but the worst is yet to come. Now you must raylase from your spell every sowl you've stole from this parish; and besides, you must send me two hundhred pounds in goold."
Well, the King gave a roar of anger that was heard in the next barony.
"Ye high-handed, hard-hearted robber," he says, "I'll never consent!" says he.
"Plase yeself," says Darby. "I see Father Cassidy comin' down the hedge," he says, "an' he has a prayer for ye all in his book that'll burn ye up like wisps of sthraw if he ever catches ye here," says Darby.
With that the roaring and bawling was pitiful to hear, and in a few minutes a bag with two hundhred goold sovereigns in it was trun at Darby's threshold; and fifty people, young an' some of them ould, flew over an' stood beside the King. Some of them had spent years with the fairies. Their relatives thought them dead and buried. They were the lost ones from that parish.
With that Darby pulled the bit of twine again, Opening the trap, and it wasn't long until every fairy was gone.
The green coat of the last one was hardly out of sight when, sure enough, who should come up but Father Cassidy, his book in his hand. He looked at the fifty people who had been with the fairies standin' there—the poor crathures—thremblin' an' wondherin' an' afeard to go to their homes.
Darby tould him what had happened.
"Ye foolish man," says the priest, "you could have got out every poor presoner that's locked in Sleive-na-mon, let alone those from this parish."
One could have scraped with a knife the surprise off Darby's face.
"Would yer Reverence have me let out the Corkonians, the Connaught men, and the Fardowns, I ask ye?" he says, hotly. "When Mrs. Malowney there goes home and finds that Tim has married the Widow Hogan, ye'll say I let out too many, even of this parish, I'm thinkin'."
"But," says the priest, "ye might have got two hundred pounds for aich of us."
"If aich had two hundhred pounds, what comfort would I have in being rich?" axed Darby agin. "To enjoy well being rich there should be plenty of poor," says Darby.
"God forgive ye, ye selfish man!" says Father Cassidy.
"There's another rayson besides," says Darby. "I never got betther nor friendlier thratement than I had from the Good People. An' the divil a hair of their heads I'd hurt more than need be," he says.
Some way or other the King heard of this saying, an' was so mightily pleased that the next night a jug of the finest poteen was left at Darby's door.
After that, indade, many's the winter night, when the snow lay so heavy that no neighbour was stirrin', and when Bridget and the childher were in bed, Darby sat by the fire, a noggin of hot punch in his hand, argying an' getting news of the whole worruld. A little man with a goold crown on his head, a green cloak on his back, and one foot trun over the other, sat ferninst him by the hearth.
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Darby O'Gill and the Leprechaun
THE news that Darby O'Gill had spint six months with the Good People spread fast and far and wide.
At fair or hurlin' or market he would be backed be a crowd agin some convaynient wall and there for hours men, women, and childher, with jaws dhroppin' and eyes bulgin'd, stand ferninst him listening to half-frightened questions or to bould, mystarious answers.
Alway, though, one bit of wise adwise inded his discoorse: "Nayther make nor moil nor meddle with the fairies," Darby'd say. "If you're going along the lonely boreen at night and you hear, from some fairy fort, a sound of fiddles, or of piping, or of sweet woices singing, or of little feet patthering in the dance, don't turn your head, but say your prayers an' hould on your way. The pleasures the Good People'll share with you have a sore sorrow hid in them, an' the gifts they'll offer are only made to break hearts with."
Things went this a-way till one day in the over among the cows, Maurteen Cavanaugh, the schoolmasther—a cross-faced, argifying ould man he was—conthradicted Darby pint blank. "Stay a bit," says Maurteen, catching Darby by the coat-collar. "You forget about the little fairy cobbler, the Leprechaun," he says. "You can't deny that to catch the Leprechaun is great luck entirely. If one only fix the glance of his eye on the cobbler, that look makes the fairy a presner—one can do anything with him as long as a human look covers the little lad—and he'll give the favours of three wishes to buy his freedom," says Maurteen.
At that Darby, smiling high and knowledgeable, made answer over the heads of the crowd.
"God help your sinse, honest man!" he says. "Around the favours of thim same three wishes is a bog of thricks an' cajolories and conditions that'll defayt the wisest.
"First of all, if the look be taken from the little cobbler for as much as the wink of an eye, he's gone forever," he says. "Man alive, even when he does grant the favours of the three wishes, you're not safe, for, if you tell anyone you've seen the Leprechaun, the favours melt like snow, or if you make a fourth wish that day—whiff! they turn to smoke. Take my adwice—nayther make nor moil nor meddle with the fairies."
"Thrue for ye," spoke up long Pether McCarthy, siding in with Darby. "Didn't Barney McBride, on his way to early mass one May morning, catch the fairy cobbler sewing an' workin' away under a hedge. 'Have a pinch of snuff, Barney agra,' says the Leprechaun, handing up the little snuff-box. But, mind ye, when my poor Barney bint to take a thumb an' finger full, what did the little villain do but fling the box, snuff and all, into Barney's face. An' thin, whilst the poor lad was winkin' and blinkin', the Leprechaun gave one leap and was lost in the reeds.
"Thin, again, there was Peggy O'Rourke, who captured him fair an' square in a hawthorn-bush. In spite of his wiles she wrung from him the favours of the three wishes. Knowing, of course, that if she towld of what had happened to her the spell was broken and the wishes wouldn't come thrue, she hurried home, aching and longing to in some way find from her husband Andy what wishes she'd make.
"Throwing open her own door, she said, 'What would ye wish for most in the world, Andy dear? Tell me an' your wish'll come thrue,' says she. A peddler was crying his wares out in the lane. 'Lanterns, tin lanterns!' cried the peddler. 'I wish I had one of thim lanterns,' says Andy, careless, and bendin' over to get a coal for his pipe, when, lo and behold, there was the lantern in his hand.
"Well, so vexed was Peggy that one of her fine wishes, should be wasted on a palthry tin lantern, that she lost all patience with him. 'Why thin, bad scran to you!' says she—not mindin' her own words—'I wish the lantern was fastened to the ind of your n
ose!'
"The word wasn't well out of her mouth till the lantern was hung swinging from the ind of Andy's nose in a way that the wit of man couldn't loosen. It took the third and last of Peggy's wishes to relayse Andy."
"Look at that, now!" cried a dozen woices from the admiring crowd. "Darby said so from the first."
Well, after a time people used to come from miles around to see Darby and sit undher the sthraw-stack beside the stable to adwise with our hayro about their most important business—what was the best time for the settin' of hins, or what was good to cure colic in childher, an' things like that.
Darby O'Gill and the Good People Page 2