ng more about fairies, but Mrs
James--"

"Whether you b'lave in them or not," said Paddy, "there they are. An'
maybe they're poppin' out of the wood behint us now, an' listenin' to
us talkin'; though I'm doubtful if there's any in these parts, though
down in Connaught they were as thick as blackberries in the ould days.
O musha! musha! The ould days, the ould days! when will I be seein'
thim again? Now, you may b'lave me or b'lave me not, but me own ould
father--God rest his sowl! was comin' over Croagh Patrick one night
before Christmas with a bottle of whisky in one hand of him, and a
goose, plucked an' claned an' all, in the other, which same he'd won in
a lottery, when, hearin' a tchune no louder than the buzzin' of a bee,
over a furze-bush he peeps, and there, round a big white stone, the
Good People were dancing in a ring hand in hand, an' kickin' their
heels, an' the eyes of them glowin' like the eyes of moths; and a chap
on the stone, no bigger than the joint of your thumb, playin' to thim
on a bagpipes. Wid that he let wan yell an' drops the goose an' makes
for home, over hedge an' ditch, boundin' like a buck kangaroo, an' the
face on him as white as flour when he burst in through the door, where
we was all sittin' round the fire burnin' chestnuts to see who'd be
married the first.

"`An' what in the name of the saints is the mather wid yiz?' says me
mother.

"`I've sane the Good People,' says he, `up on the field beyant,' says
he; `and they've got the goose,' says he, `but, begorra, I've saved the
bottle,' he says. `Dhraw the cork and give me a taste of it, for me
heart's in me throat, and me tongue's like a brick-kil.'

"An' whin we come to prize the cork out of the bottle, there was
nothin' in it; an' whin we went next marnin' to look for the goose, it
was gone. But there was the stone, sure enough, and the marks on it of
the little brogues of the chap that'd played the bagpipes and who'd be
doubtin' there were fairies after that?"

The children said nothing for a while, and then Dick said:

"Tell us about Cluricaunes, and how they make the boots."

"Whin I'm tellin' you about Cluricaunes," said Mr Button, "it's the
truth I'm tellin' you, an' out of me own knowlidge, for I've spoke to a
man that's held wan in his hand; he was me own mother's brother, Con
Cogan--rest his sowl! Con was six fut two, wid a long, white face; he'd
had his head bashed in, years before I was barn, in some ruction or
other