Fairy Tales of Ireland. P.J. Lynch

at the bottom of the glass, notwithstanding his mad race over the potato field.

      The lady began to speak, and her first words were words of thanks to Jamie.

      The three inmates of the cabin had so much to say to one another, that long after cock-crow, when the fairy music had quite ceased, they were talking round the fire.

      “Jamie,” said the lady, “be pleased to get me paper and pen and ink, that I may write to my father, and tell him what has become of me.”

      She wrote, but weeks passed, and she received no answer. Again and again she wrote, and still no answer.

      At length she said, “You must come with me to Dublin, Jamie, to find my father.”

      “I ha’ no money to hire a cart for you,” he replied, “an’ how can you travel to Dublin on your foot?”

      But she implored him so much that he consented to set out with her, and walk all the way from Fannet to Dublin. It was not as easy as the fairy journey; but at last they rang the bell at the door of the house in Stephen’s Green.

      “Tell my father that his daughter is here,” said she to the servant who opened the door.

      “The gentleman that lives here has no daughter, my girl. He had one, but she died better nor a year ago.”

      “Do you not know me, Sullivan?”

      “No, poor girl, I do not.”

      “Let me see the gentleman. I only ask to see him.”

      “Well, that’s not much to ax; we’ll see what can be done.”

      In a few moments the lady’s father came to the door.

      “Dear Father,” said she, “don’t you know me?”

      “How dare you call me Father?” cried the old gentleman, angrily. “You are an imposter. I have no daughter.”

      “Look in my face, Father, and surely you’ll remember me.”

      “My daughter is dead and buried. She died a long, long time ago.” The old gentleman’s voice changed from anger to sorrow. “You can go,” he concluded.

      “Stop, dear Father, till you look at this ring on my finger. Look at your name and mine engraved on it.”

      “It certainly is my daughter’s ring; but I do not know how you came by it. I fear in no honest way.”

      “Call my mother, she will be sure to know me,” said the poor girl, who, by this time, was crying bitterly.

      “My poor wife is beginning to forget her sorrow. She seldom speaks of her daughter now. Why should I renew her grief by reminding her of her loss?”

      But the young lady persevered, till at last the mother was sent for.

      “Mother,” she began, when the old lady came to the door, “don’t you know your daughter?”

      “I have no daughter; my daughter died and was buried a long, long time ago.”

      “Only look in my face, and surely you’ll know me.”

      The old lady shook her head.

      “You have all forgotten me; but look at this mole on my neck. Surely, Mother, you know me now?”

      “Yes, yes,” said the mother, “my Gracie had a mole on her neck like that; but then I saw her in her coffin, and saw the lid shut down upon her.”

      It became Jamie’s turn to speak, and he gave the history of the fairy journey, of the theft of the young lady, of the figure he had seen laid in its place, of her life with his mother in Fannet, of last Halloween, and of the three drops that had released her from her enchantment.

      She took up the story when he paused, and told how kind the mother and son had been to her.

      The parents could not make enough of Jamie. They treated him with every distinction; and when he expressed his wish to return to Fannet, said they did not know what to do to show their gratitude.

      But an awkward complication arose. The daughter would not let him go without her. “If Jamie goes, I’ll go too,” she said. “He saved me from the fairies, and has worked for me ever since. If it had not been for him, dear Father and Mother, you would never have seen me again. If he goes, I’ll go too.”

      This being her resolution, the old gentleman said that Jamie should become his son-in-law. The mother was brought from Fannet in a coach and four, and there was a splendid wedding.

      They all lived together in the grand Dublin house, and Jamie was heir to untold wealth at his father-in-law’s death.

      

      What Irish man, woman, or child has not heard of our renowned Hibernian Hercules, the great and glorious Fin M’Coul? Not one, from Cape Clear to the Giant’s Causeway, nor from that back again to Cape Clear. And, by the way, speaking of the Giant’s Causeway brings me at once to the beginning of my story.

      Well, it so happened that Fin and his gigantic relatives were all working at the Causeway, in order to make a bridge, or what was still better, a good stout pad-road, across to Scotland; when Fin, who was very fond of his wife Oonagh, took it into his head that he would go home and see how the poor woman got on in his absence. To be sure, Fin was a true Irishman, and so the sorrow thing in life brought him back, only to see that she was snug and comfortable, and, above all things, that she got her rest well at night; for he knew that the poor woman, when he was with her, used to be subject to nightly qualms and configurations, that kept him very anxious, decent man, striving to keep her up to the good spirits and health that she had when they were first married. So, accordingly, he pulled up a fir tree, and, after lopping off the roots and branches, made a walking stick of it, and set out on his way to Oonagh.

      Oonagh, or rather Fin, lived at this time on the very tip-top of Knockmany Hill, which faces a cousin of its own called Cullamore, that rises up, half-hill, half-mountain, on the opposite side – east-east by south, as the sailors say, when they wish to puzzle a landsman.

      Now, the truth is, for it must come out, that honest Fin’s affection for his wife, though cordial enough in itself, was by no manner of means the real cause of his journey home. There was at that time another giant, named Cucullin – some say he was Irish, and some say he was Scotch – but whether Scotch or Irish, sorrow doubt of it but he was a targer. No other giant of the day could stand before him; and such was his strength, that, when well vexed, he could give a stamp that shook the country about him. The fame and name of him went far and near; and nothing in the shape of a man, it was said, had any chance with him in a fight. Whether the story is true or not, I cannot say, but the report went that, by one blow of his fists he flattened a thunderbolt, and kept it in his pocket, in the shape of a pancake, to show to all his enemies, when they were about to fight him.

      Undoubtedly he had given every giant in Ireland a considerable beating, barring Fin M’Coul himself; and he swore, by the solemn contents of Moll Kelly’s Primer, that he would never rest, night or day, winter or summer, till he would serve Fin with the same sauce, if he could catch him. Fin, however, who no doubt was the cock of the walk on his own dunghill, had a strong disinclination to meet a giant who could make a young earthquake, or flatten a thunderbolt when he was angry; so accordingly kept dodging about from place to place, not much to his credit as a Trojan, to be sure, whenever he happened to get the hard word that Cucullin was on the scent of him. This, then, was the marrow of the whole movement, although he