So the lad was delighted, and ran to the door; but it so happened that his mother was just then coming in with the pail of fresh milk, and in his haste he knocked the pail out of her hand, and all the milk was spilled on the floor.
Then when the mother saw the Leprehaun she grew very angry and beat him. ‘Go away, you little wretch!’ she cried. ‘You have bewitched the mill with your evil eye, and brought ill-luck.’ And she kicked him out of the house.
The lad ran off to find the dock leaf, though he came back very sorrowful in the evening, for he had dug and dug nearly down to the middle of the earth; but no pot of gold was to be seen.
That same night the husband was coming home from his work, and as he passed the old fort he heard voices and laughter, and one said –
‘They are looking for a pot of gold; but they little know that a crock of gold is lying down in the bottom of the old quarry, hid under the stones close by the garden wall. But whoever gets it must go of a dark night at twelve o’clock, and beware of bringing his wife with him.’
So the man hurried home and told his wife he would go that very night, for it was black dark, and she must stay at home and watch for him, and not stir from the house till he came back. Then he went out into the dark night alone.
‘Now,’ thought the wife, when he was gone, ‘if I could only get to the quarry before him I would have the pot of gold all to myself; while if he gets it I shall have nothing.’
And with that she went out and ran like the wind until she reached the quarry, and then she began to creep down very quietly in the black dark. But a great stone was in her path, and she stumbled over it, and fell down and down till she reached the bottom, and there she lay groaning, for her leg was broken by the fall.
Just then her husband came to the edge of the quarry and began to descend. But when he heard the groans he was frightened.
‘Cross of Christ about us!’ he exclaimed; ‘what is that down below? Is it evil, or is it good?’
‘Oh, come down, come down and help me!’ cried the woman. ‘It’s your wife is here, and my leg is broken, and I’ll die if you don’t help me.’
‘And is this my pot of gold?’ exclaimed the poor man. ‘Only my wife with a broken leg lying at the bottom of the quarry.’
And he was at his wits’ end to know what to do, for the night was so dark he could not see a hand before him. So he roused up a neighbour, and between them they dragged up the poor woman and carried her home, and laid her on her bed half dead from fright, and it was many a day before she was able to get about as usual; indeed she limped all her life long, so that the people said the curse of the Leprehaun was on her.
But as to the pot of gold, from that day to this not one of the family, father or son, or any belonging to them, ever set eyes on it. However, the little Leprehaun still sits under the dock leaf of the hedge, and laughs at them as he mends the shoes with his little hammer – tick tack, tick tack – but they are afraid to touch him, for now they know he can take his revenge.
‘The Field of Thistles’ after Thomas Crofton Croker
One fine day at harvest-time, Tom Fitzpatrick was taking a walk down along the hedgerow. All of a sudden, he heard a sort of clacking noise from the other side of the hedge. ‘What’s that?’ Tom wondered, thinking he could steal up quietly and get sight of what was making the noise. As he was tiptoeing along, the noise stopped suddenly. Quick as a flash, Tom looked sharply through the bushes. What should he see in a nook of the hedge but a big brown gallon jug; and by-and-by he noticed a little wee teeny tiny bit of an old man, with a teenshy cocked hat stuck on top of his head, and a deeshy little leather apron covering his front. The little fellow was in the process of standing on top of a wooden stool, and reaching up to the gallon jug, from which he drew a pitcher full of drink. Having quaffed his drink, he then sat down on the stool and began to work at putting a heel-piece on a tiny brogue just fit for his own dainty foot. ‘Well, by the powers,’ said Tom to himself, ‘I never thought I’d live to see a Leprehaun – but here’s one for sure. All I have to do is keep my eyes on him, and I’m made for life. For don’t they all have a crock of gold hidden away? And don’t they say that if you keep your eyes firmly fixed on them, they can’t escape, and by all the laws of the fairy trade they have to take you right to their crock of gold?’
Tom now approached closer towards the little shoemaker, never taking his eyes off him – just like a cat with a mouse. ‘God bless your work, neighbour,’ said Tom suddenly.
The little man raised his head, and ‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ said he.
‘I wonder why you would be working on a holiday?’ said Tom.
‘That’s my business entirely,’ was the reply.
‘Well, at least you’ll tell me what you’ve got in your pitcher there, won’t you?’ said Tom.
‘That I will, with pleasure,’ said the Leprehaun; ‘it’s good beer.’
‘Beer!’ said Tom, greatly surprised; ‘where did you get beer?’
‘Where do you think I got it – I made it,’ said the Leprehaun.
‘Of malt?’ asked Tom.
‘No, of heath,’ said the little fellow.
‘Ah, you’re pulling my leg!’ said Tom, bursting out laughing; ‘you don’t think I’d believe that, do you?’
‘Suit yourself,’ said the little fellow grumpily, ‘but I’m telling you the truth. Did you never hear tell of the Danes?’
‘What about them?’ said Tom.
‘Just that it was the Danes, in the old days long ago, taught us how to make beer out of heath, and the secret’s been in my family ever since.’
‘Well, well,’ said Tom. ‘Will you give me a taste of your beer?’
‘Look here, young man,’ said the Leprehaun. ‘You’d be better employed looking after your father’s cattle than bothering decent folk with your prattle and questions. Look over there, will you? While you’ve been idling your time with me, your cattle have broken into that cornfield, and they’ve got the crops all trampled about.’
Tom was so surprised by this news that he was on the point of turning round. Then, in the nick of time, he remembered: never take your eyes off a Leprehaun. So he made a grab at the little fellow, and caught him up in his hand – but in his hurry he knocked over the pitcher, and spilt all the beer, so that he could not now get a taste of it. Tom then swore he would kill the little fellow if he did not show him where his money was hidden – and he looked so fierce and wicked that the little man was quite terrified of him. ‘Come along with me across a couple of fields,’ said he to Tom, ‘and I’ll show you my crock of gold.’
So off they went, Tom keeping a tight hold of the Leprehaun, and never taking his eyes off him even though they had hedges and ditches and bogs to cross, and at last they came to a great field all full of thistles, and the Leprehaun pointed to a big thistle, and said, ‘See that thistle? Dig down under that, and you’ll get the crock of golden coins.’
In his hurry to get to the crock of gold, Tom had completely forgotten to bring a spade with him, so he made up his mind to run back home and fetch one; and in order to be sure he came back to the right thistle, he took off one of his red socks, and tied it tight round the thistle.
Then he turned to the Leprehaun and said, ‘Swear you’ll not take that sock from that thistle.’ And the Leprehaun swore right away not to touch it.
‘I suppose,’ said the Leprehaun then, very politely, ‘you have no further use for me?’
‘No,’ says Tom; ‘you may go away now, if you wish, and good luck to you wherever you go.’
‘Well, goodbye to you, Tom Fitzpatrick,’ said the Leprehaun; ‘and good luck to you too, and I must say!’
So Tom ran home for dear life, and got a good spade, and then ran back to the thistle-field with it; but when he got there, lo and behold! every single thistle in that huge field had a red sock tied around it, each one the very model of Tom’s own! And there was no way that Tom could dig up that whole huge field, for there were mo
re than forty good Irish acres in it.
So Tom went home again with his spade on his shoulder, a little cooler than when he ran out to claim the crock of gold and make his fortune. And he never saw a Leprehaun again.
PART FIVE: WITCHES
‘The Horned Women’ by Lady Wilde
A rich woman sat up late one night carding and preparing wool, while all the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at the door, and a voice called – ‘Open! open!’
‘Who is there?’ said the woman of the house.
‘I am the Witch of the one Horn,’ was answered.
The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbours had called and required assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in her hand a pair of wool carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead, as if growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to card the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said aloud: ‘Where are the women? they delay too long.’
Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before, ‘Open! open!’
The mistress felt herself constrained to rise and open to the call, and immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her forehead, and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool.
‘Give me place,’ she said, ‘I am the Witch of the two Horns,’ and she began to spin as quick as lightning.
And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard, and the witches entered, until at last twelve women sat round the fire – the first with one horn, the last with twelve horns.
And they carded the thread, and turned their spinning wheels, and wound and wove.
All singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak to the mistress of the house. Strange to hear, and frightful to look upon, were these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels; and the mistress felt near to death, and she tried to rise that she might call for help, but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry, for the spell of the witches was upon her.
Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said – ‘Rise, woman, and make us a cake.’ Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water from the well that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she could find none.
And they said to her, ‘Take a sieve and bring water in it.’
And she took the sieve and went to the well; but the water poured from it, and she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the well and wept.
Then a voice came by her and said, ‘Take yellow clay and moss, and bind them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold.’
This she did, and the sieve held water for the cake; and the voice said again –
‘Return, and when you come to the north angle of the house, cry aloud three times and say, “The mountain of the Fenian women and the sky over it is all on fire”.’
And she did so.
When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and shrieks, and fled away to Slievenamon, where was their chief abode. But the Spirit of the Well bade the mistress of the house to enter and prepare her home against the enchantments of witches if they returned again.
And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she had washed her child’s feet (the feet-water) outside the door on the threshold; secondly, she took the cake which the witches had made in her absence of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family, and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth of each sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the cloth they had woven and placed it half in and half out of the chest with the padlock; and lastly, she secured the door with a great crossbeam fastened in the jambs, so that they could not enter, and having done these things she waited.
Not long were the witches in coming back, and they raged and called for vengeance.
‘Open, open!’ they screamed, ‘open, feet-water!’
‘I cannot,’ said the feet-water, ‘I am scattered on the ground, and my path is down to the Lough.’
‘Open, open, wood and trees and beam!’ they cried to the door.
‘I cannot,’ said the door, ‘for the beam is fixed in the jambs and I have no power to move.’
‘Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!’ they cried again.
‘I cannot,’ said the cake, ‘for I am broken and bruised, and my blood is on the lips of the sleeping children.’
Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled back to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on the Spirit of the Well, who had wished their ruin; but the woman and the house were left in peace, and a mantle dropped by one of the witches in her flight was kept hung up by the mistress as a sign of the night’s awful contest; and this mantle was in possession of the same family from generation to generation for five hundred years after.
‘Bewitched Butter’ by Letitia McClintock
Not far from Rathmullan in Donegal lived, last spring, a family called Hanlon; and in a farmhouse, some fields distant, people named Dogherty. Both families had good cows, but the Hanlons were fortunate in possessing a Kerry cow that gave more milk and yellower butter than the others.
Grace Dogherty, a young girl, who was more admired than loved in the neighbourhood, took much interest in the Kerry cow, and appeared one night at Mrs Hanlon’s door with the modest request –
‘Will you let me milk your Moiley cow?’ [In Connaught called a ‘mweeal’ cow – ie, a cow without horns. Irish maol, literally, blunt.]
‘An’ why wad you wish to milk wee Moiley, Grace, dear?’ inquired Mrs Hanlon.
‘Oh, just becase you’re sae throng at the present time.’
‘Thank you kindly, Grace, but I’m no too throng to do my ain work. I’ll no trouble you to milk.’
The girl turned away with a discontented air; but the next evening, and the next, found her at the cow-house door with the same request.
At length Mrs Hanlon, not knowing well how to persist in her refusal, yielded, and permitted Grace to milk the Kerry cow.
She soon had reason to regret her want of firmness. Moiley gave no milk to her owner.
When this melancholy state of things lasted for three days, the Hanlons applied to a certain Mark McCarrion, who lived near Binion.
‘That cow has been milked by someone with an evil eye,’ said he. ‘Will she give you a wee drop, do you think? The full of a pint measure wad do.’
‘Oh, ay, Mark, dear; I’ll get that much milk frae her, anyway.’
‘Weel, Mrs Hanlon, lock the door, an’ get nine new pins that was never used in clothes, an’ put them into a saucepan wi’ the pint o’ milk. Set them on the fire, an’ let them come to the boil.’
The nine pins soon began to simmer in Moiley’s milk.
Rapid steps were heard approaching the door, agitated knocks followed, and Grace Dogherty’s high-toned voice was raised in eager entreaty.
‘Let me in, Mrs Hanlon!’ she cried. ‘Tak off that cruel pot! Tak out them pins, for they’re pricking holes in my heart, an’ I’ll never offer to touch milk of yours again.’
PART SIX: GIANTS
‘The Giant’s Stairs’ by Thomas Crofton Croker
On the road between Passage and Cork there is an old mansion called Ronayne’s Court. It may be easily known from the stack of chimneys and the gable-ends, which are to be seen, look at it which way you will. Here it was that Maurice Ronayne and his wife Margaret Gould kept house, as may be learned to this day from the great old chimney-piece, on which is carved their arms. They were a mighty worthy couple, and had but one son, who was called Philip, after no less a person than the King of Spain.
Immediately on his smelling the cold air of this world the child sneezed, which was naturally taken to be a good sign of his having a clear head; and the subsequent rapidity of his learning was truly amazing, for on the very first day a primer was put into his hands, he tore out the A, B, C page and destroyed it, as a thi
ng quite beneath his notice. No wonder, then, that both father and mother were proud of their heir, who gave such indisputable proofs of genius, or, as they called it in that part of the world, ‘genus’.
One morning, however, Master Phil, who was then just seven years old, was missing, and no one could tell what had become of him: servants were sent in all directions to seek him, on horseback and on foot, but they returned without any tidings of the boy, whose disappearance altogether was most unaccountable. A large reward was offered, but it produced them no intelligence, and years rolled away without Mr and Mrs Ronayne having obtained any satisfactory account of the fate of their lost child.
There lived at this time, near Carrigaline, one Robin Kelly, a blacksmith by trade. He was what is termed a handy man, and his abilities were held in much estimation by the lads and the lasses of the neighbourhood; for independent of shoeing horses, which he did to great perfection, and making plough-irons, he interpreted dreams for the young women, sung ‘Arthur O’Bradley’ at their weddings, and was so good-natured a fellow at a christening, that he was gossip to half the country round.
Now it happened that Robin had a dream himself, and young Philip Ronayne appeared to him in it, at the dead hour of the night. Robin thought he saw the boy mounted upon a beautiful white horse, and that he told him how he was made a page to the giant Mahon MacMahon, who had carried him off, and who held his court in the hard heart of the rock. ‘The seven years – my time of service – are clean out, Robin,’ said he, ‘and if you release me this night I will be the making of you forever after.’
‘And how will I know,’ said Robin – cunning enough, even in his sleep – ‘but this is all a dream?’
‘Take that,’ said the boy, ‘for a token’ – and at the word the white horse struck out with one of his hind legs, and gave poor Robin such a kick in the forehead that, thinking he was a dead man, he roared as loud as he could after his brains, and woke up, calling a thousand murders. He found himself in bed, but he had the mark of the blow, the regular print of a horseshoe, upon his forehead as red as blood; and Robin Kelly, who never before found himself puzzled at the dream of any other person, did not know what to think of his own.
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