“I came near forgetting my errant,” he says. “There’s a little ould man—dwarves they call the likes of thim—who has been lost from some thravelling show or carawan, or was stole by ould Peggy Collins this morning from some place—I don’t rightly know which. Sind the childher looking for him and use him kind. I’m going up the road spreading the news. Ignorant people might misthrate him,” says his riverence, moving off.
“You’ll find no ignorant person up this road,” called Tom, in a broken woice, “but Felix O’Shaughnessy, and he’s not so bad, only he don’t belave in ghosts,” cried Mulligan.
Even as the ballad-maker turned to go in the door the sun, shooting one red, angry look at the world, dhropped below the western mountains. The King jumped from the bed.
“The charms have come back to me. I feel in my four bones the power, for ’tis sunset. I’m a greater man now than any king on his trone,” says he. “Do you sind word to Barney and Judy Casey that if they don’t bring little Patsy and my green velvet cloak and the silver-topped noggin and stand ferninst me on this floor within half an hour, I’ll have the both of thim presners in Sleive-na-mon before midnight, to walk on all-fours the rest of their lives. As for you, my rayspected people,” he says, “a pleasanter afthernoon I seldom spint, and be ready to get your reward.”
With thim words he vanished. Their surprise at his disappearance was no sooner over than the Mulligans began hunting vessels in which to put the goold the fairy was going to give them.
Ann Mulligan was dragging in from outside an empty tub when shamefaced Judy Casey passed in, carrying little Patsy Mulligan. Behind her slunk Barney, her husband, houlding the green cloak and the silver-topped noggin.
“I had him for one day, Ann Mulligan,” says Judy, handing little Patsy to his mother, “and though it breaks my poor, withered heart to give him up, he’s yours by right, and here he is.”
Whilst she was speaking those words the ruler of the fairies sprung over the threshold and laid a white bundle on the table. The household crowded up close around.
Without a word the fairy dhrew the cover from the white bundle, an’ there, like a sweet, pink rose, lay sleepin’ on its white pillow the purtiest baby you ever set your two livin’ eyes on.
Judy gave a great gasp, for it was the identical child the fairies stole from her down in the County Mayo.
“You don’t desarve much from me,” says the King, “but because Ann Mulligan—fine woman—asked it, I’ll do you a favour. You may take back the baby or I’ll give you a hundhred pounds. Take your choice, Barney Casey.”
Barney stood a long time with bowed head, looking at the child and thinking hard. You can surely see what a saryous question he had. One’s own child is worth more than a hundred pounds, but other people’s childhren are plenty and full of failings. Mulligan’s family peered up into his face, and his wife Judy sarched him with hungry eyes. At last he said, very slow:
“My mind has changed,” says he. “Though people always tould me that childher were a throuble, a worry and a care, yesterday I’d give the County Clare for that little one. After this day’s work I know that sayin’s thrue, so I’ll take the hundhred pounds,” he says.
“Divil a fear of you takin’ the hundhred pounds!” snapped his wife, Judy, grabbing up the child. An’ thin the two women, turning on him, fell to abusin’ and ballyraggin’ the Man without Childher, till sorra bit of courage was left in his heart.
“I promised you yer choice, and they’ll lave you no choice,” says the King, looking vexed. “Well, here’s the hundhred pounds, and let Judy keep the child.”
Whin the fairy turned to the ballad-maker the hearts of all the Mulligans stopped still.
“Now, my grand fellow, me one-legged jaynious,” he says, “you’re goin’ to be disappinted. You think I’ll give you riches, but I won’t.” At that Tom’s jaw dhropped to his chist, and the littlest Mulligans began to cry.
“I’ll not make you rich bekase you’re a born ballad-maker, and a weaver of fine tales, and a jaynious—if you make a jaynious rich you take all the songs out of him and you spile him. A man’s heart-sthrings must be often stretched almost to the breaking to get good music from him. I’ll not spile you, Tom Mulligan.
“Besides,” he says, “as you are a natural-born ballad-maker, you’d kill yourself the first year thryin’ to spind all your money at wanst. But I’ll do betther for you than to make you rich. Ann Mulligan, do you clear the table an’ put my silver-topped noggin on the edge of it,” says he.
When Ann Mulligan did as she was bid the King put the green cloak on his chowlders and, raising his hand, pointed to the silver-covered noggin. Everyone grew still and frightened.
“Noggin, noggin, where’s your manners?” he says, very solemn.
At the last word the silver lid flew open, and out of the cup hopped two little men dhressed all in black, dhragging something afther them that began to grow and grow amazing. So quickly did they work, and so swiftly did this thing they brought twirl and change and turn into different articles that the people hadn’t time to mark what form it was at first, only they saw grow before their astonished eyes tay-cups and dishes and great bowls, an’ things like that.
In a minute the table was laid with a white cloth like the quality have, and chiny dishes and knives and forks.
“Noggin, noggin, where’s your manners?” says the King again. The little men dhragged from the noggin other things that grew into a roast of mutton and biled turnips, and white bread an’ butther, and petaties, and pots of tay.
“Noggin, noggin, where’s your manners?” says the King, for the
