Darby O’Gill and the Good People
Although only one living man of his own free will ever went among them there, still, any well-learned person in Ireland can tell you that the abode of the Good People is in the hollow heart of the great mountain Sleive-na-mon. That same one man was Darby O’Gill, a cousin of my own mother.
Right and left, generation after generation, the fairies had stolen pigs, young childher, old women, young men, cows, churnings of butter from other people, but had never bothered any of our kith or kin until, for some mysterious rayson, they soured on Darby, and took the eldest of his three foine pigs.
The next week a second pig went the same way. The third week not a thing had Darby left for the Balinrobe fair. You may aisly think how sore and sorry the poor man was, an’ how Bridget his wife an’ the childher carried on. The rent was due, and all left was to sell his cow Rosie to pay it. Rosie was the apple of his eye; he admired and rayspected the pigs, but he loved Rosie.
Worst luck of all was yet to come. On the morning when Darby went for the cow to bring her into market, bad scrans to the hoof was there; but in her place only a wisp of dirty straw to mock him. Millia murther! What a howlin’ and screechin’ and cursin’ did Darby bring back to the house!
Now Darby was a bould man, and a desperate man in his anger, as you soon will see. He shoved his feet into a pair of brogues, clapped his hat on his head, and gripped his stick in his hand.
“Fairy or no fairy, ghost or goblin, livin’ or dead, who took Rosie’ll rue this day,” he says.
With those wild words he bolted in the direction of Sleive-na-mon.
All day long he climbed like an ant over the hill, looking for a hole or cave through which he could get at the prison of Rosie. At times he struck the rocks with his blackthorn, cryin’ out challenge.
“Come out, you that took her,” he called. “If ye have the courage of a mouse, ye murtherin’ thieves, come out!”
No one made answer—at laste, not just then. But at night, as he turned, hungry and footsore, toward home, who should he meet up with on the crossroads but the ould fairy doctor, Sheela Maguire. Well known she was as a spy for the Good People. She spoke up:
“Oh, then, you’re the foolish, blundherin’-headed man to be saying what you’ve said, and doing what you’ve done this day, Darby O’Gill,” says she.
“What do I care!” says he fiercely. “I’d fight the divil tonight for my beautiful cow.”
“Then go into Mrs. Hagan’s meadow beyant,” says Sheela, “and wait till the moon is up. By-an’-by ye’ll see a herd of cows come down from the mountain, and yer own’ll be among them.”
“What’ll I do then?” asked Darby, his voice thrembling with excitement.
“Sorra a hair I care what ye do! But there’ll be lads there, and hundreds you won’t see, that’ll stand no ill words, Darby O’Gill.”
“One question more, ma’am,” says Darby, as Sheelah was moving away. “How late in the night will they stay without?”
Sheelah caught him
