put it
to the side the other day; and whether it was that or the porter I don't
know, but there's some of them gone out of it.

'_Garblus_--how did you hear of that? That is the herb for things that
have to do with the fairies. And when you drink it for anything of that
sort, if it doesn't cure you, it will kill you then and there. There was
a fine young man I used to know, and he got his death on the head of a
pig that came at himself and another man at the gate of Ramore, and that
never left them, but was with them all the time, till they came to a
stream of water. And when he got home, he took to his bed with a
headache. And at last he was brought a drink of the _Garblus_, and no
sooner did he drink it than he was dead. I remember him well.

'There is something in flax, for no priest would anoint you without a
bit of tow. And if a woman that was carrying was to put a basket of
green flax on her back, the child would go from her; and if a mare that
was in foal had a load of flax on her, the foal would go the same way.'

And a neighbour of hers confirms this, and says: 'There's something in
green flax, I know; for my mother often told me about one night she was
spinning flax before she was married, and she was up late. And a man of
the fairies came in--she had no right to be sitting up so late: they
don't like that--and he told her it was time to go to bed; for he wanted
to kill her, and he couldn't touch her while she was handling the flax.
And every time he'd tell her to go to bed, she'd give him some answer,
and she'd go on pulling a thread of the flax, or mending a broken one;
for she was wise, and she knew that at the crowing of the cock he'd have
to go. So at last the cock crowed, and she was safe, for the cock is
blessed.'

* * * * *

Old Bridget Ruane will not do any more cures by charms or by simples, or
'bring children home to the world' any more. For she died last winter;
and we may be sure that among the green herbs that cover her grave,
there are some that are 'good for every bone in the body,' and that are
'very good for a sore heart.'

1900.

THE WANDERING TRIBE

When poor Paul Ruttledge made his great effort to escape from the
doorsteps of law and order--from the world, the flesh, and the
newspaper--and fell among tinkers, I looked with more interest than
before at the little camps that one sees every now and then by the
roadside for a few days or weeks.