Part 15 (1/2)

”Faix an' troth, it's no my turn,” replied he, as before. ”There's Pat Diver in the tree, why wouldn't he come down and tak' his turn?”

Pat came down to take the spade, but just then the c.o.c.ks in the little farmyards and cabins round the abbey began to crow, and the men looked at one another.

”We must go,” said they, ”and well is it for you, Pat Diver, that the c.o.c.ks crowed, for if they had not, you'd just ha' been bundled into that grave with the corpse.”

Two months pa.s.sed, and Pat had wandered far and wide over the county Donegal, when he chanced to arrive at Raphoe during a fair.

Among the crowd that filled the Diamond he came suddenly on the big man.

”How are you, Pat Diver?” said he, bending down to look into the tinker's face.

”You've the advantage of me, sir, for I havna' the pleasure of knowing you,” faltered Pat.

”Do you not know me, Pat?” Whisper--”When you go back to Innishowen, you'll have a story to tell!”

THE POOKA.

The Pooka, _recte_ Puca, seems essentially an animal spirit. Some derive his name from _poc_, a he-goat; and speculative persons consider him the forefather of Shakespere's ”Puck.” On solitary mountains and among old ruins he lives, ”grown monstrous with much solitude,” and is of the race of the nightmare. ”In the MS. story, called 'Mac-na-Michomhairle,' of uncertain authors.h.i.+p,” writes me Mr.

Douglas Hyde, ”we read that 'out of a certain hill in Leinster, there used to emerge as far as his middle, a plump, sleek, terrible steed, and speak in human voice to each person about November-day, and he was accustomed to give intelligent and proper answers to such as consulted him concerning all that would befall them until the November of next year. And the people used to leave gifts and presents at the hill until the coming of Patrick and the holy clergy.' This tradition appears to be a cognate one with that of the Puca.” Yes! unless it were merely an _augh-ishka [each-uisge]_, or Waterhorse. For these, we are told, were common once, and used to come out of the water to gallop on the sands and in the fields, and people would often go between them and the marge and bridle them, and they would make the finest of horses if only you could keep them away from sight of the water; but if once they saw a glimpse of the water, they would plunge in with their rider, and tear him to pieces at the bottom. It being a November spirit, however, tells in favour of the Pooka, for November-day is sacred to the Pooka. It is hard to realise that wild, staring phantom grown sleek and civil.

He has many shapes--is now a horse, now an a.s.s, now a bull, now a goat, now an eagle. Like all spirits, he is only half in the world of form.

THE PIPER AND THE PUCA.

DOUGLAS HYDE.

Translated literally from the Irish of the _Leabhar Sgeulaigheachta_.

In the old times, there was a half fool living in Dunmore, in the county Galway, and although he was excessively fond of music, he was unable to learn more than one tune, and that was the ”Black Rogue.” He used to get a good deal of money from the gentlemen, for they used to get sport out of him. One night the piper was coming home from a house where there had been a dance, and he half drunk. When he came to a little bridge that was up by his mother's house, he squeezed the pipes on, and began playing the ”Black Rogue” (an rogaire dubh). The Puca came behind him, and flung him up on his own back. There were long horns on the Puca, and the piper got a good grip of them, and then he said----

”Destruction on you, you nasty beast, let me home. I have a ten-penny piece in my pocket for my mother, and she wants snuff.”

”Never mind your mother,” said the Puca, ”but keep your hold. If you fall, you will break your neck and your pipes.” Then the Puca said to him, ”Play up for me the 'Shan Van Vocht' (an t-seann-bhean bhocht).”

”I don't know it,” said the piper.

”Never mind whether you do or you don't,” said the Puca. ”Play up, and I'll make you know.”

The piper put wind in his bag, and he played such music as made himself wonder.

”Upon my word, you're a fine music-master,” says the piper then; ”but tell me where you're for bringing me.”

”There's a great feast in the house of the Banshee, on the top of Croagh Patric to-night,” says the Puca, ”and I'm for bringing you there to play music, and, take my word, you'll get the price of your trouble.”