It so happened that the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora were not
thankful to the Philosopher for having sent Meehawl MacMurrachu
to their field. In stealing Meehawl’s property they were quite
within their rights because their bird had undoubtedly been slain
by his cat. Not alone, therefore, was their righteous vengeance
nullified, but the crock of gold which had taken their community
many thousands of years to amass was stolen. A Leprecaun without
a pot of gold is like a rose without perfume, a bird without a
wing, or an inside without an outside. They considered that the
Philosopher had treated them badly, that his action was mischievous
and unneighbourly, and that until they were adequately compensated
for their loss both of treasure and dignity, no conditions other
than those of enmity could exist between their people and the
little house in the pine wood. Furthermore, for them the situation
was cruelly complicated. They were unable to organise a direct,
personal hostility against their new enemy, because the Thin Woman
of Inis Magrath would certainly protect her husband. She belonged
to the Shee of Croghan Conghaile, who had relatives in every fairy
fort in Ireland, and were also strongly represented in the forts
and duns of their immediate neighbours. They could, of course,
have called an extraordinary meeting of the Sheogs, Leprecauns,
and Cluricauns, and presented their case with a claim for damages
against the Shee of Croghan Conghaile, but that Clann would
assuredly repudiate any liability on the ground that no member of
their fraternity was responsible for the outrage, as it was the
Philosopher, and not the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath, who had done
the deed. Notwithstanding this they were unwilling to let the
matter rest, and the fact that justice was out of reach only added
fury to their anger.
One of their number was sent to interview the Thin Woman of Inis
Magrath, and the others concentrated nightly about the dwelling
of Meehawl MacMurrachu in an endeavour to recapture the treasure
which they were quite satisfied was hopeless. They found that
Meehawl, who understood the customs of the Earth Folk very well,
had buried the crock of gold beneath a thorn bush, thereby placing
it under the protection of every fairy in the world—the Leprecauns
themselves included, and until it was removed from this place by
human hands they were bound to respect its hiding-place, and even
guarantee its safety with their blood.
They afflicted Meehawl with an extraordinary attack of rheumatism
and his wife with an equally virulent sciatica, but they got no
lasting pleasure from their groans.
The Leprecaun, who had been detailed to visit the Thin Woman of
Inis Magrath, duly arrived at the cottage in the pine wood and made
his complaint. The little man wept as he told the story, and the
two children wept out of sympathy for him. The Thin Woman said she
was desperately grieved by the whole unpleasant transaction, and
that all her sympathies were with Gort na Cloca Mora, but that she
must disassociate herself from any responsibility in the matter as
it was her husband who was the culpable person, and that she had no
control over his mental processes, which, she concluded, was one of
the seven curious things in the world.
As her husband was away in a distant part of the wood nothing
further could be done at that time, so the Leprecaun returned again
to his fellows without any good news, but he promised to come back
early on the following day. When the Philosopher come home late
that night the Thin Woman was waiting up for him.
“Woman,” said the Philosopher, “you ought to be in bed.”
“Ought I indeed?” said the Thin Woman. “I’d have you know that I’ll
go to bed when I like and get up when I like without asking your or
any one else’s permission.”
“That is not true,” said the Philosopher. “You get sleepy whether
you like it or not, and you awaken again without your permission
being asked. Like many other customs such as singing, dancing,
music, and acting, sleep has crept into popular favour as part of a
religious ceremonial. Nowhere can one go to sleep more easily than
in a church.”
“Do you know,” said the Thin Woman, “that a Leprecaun came here
to-day?”
“I do not,” said the Philosopher, “and notwithstanding the
innumerable centuries which have elapsed since that first sleeper
(probably with extreme difficulty) sank into his religious trance,
we can to-day sleep through a religious ceremony with an ease which
would have been a source of wealth and fame to that prehistoric
worshipper and his acolytes.”
“Are you going to listen to what I am telling you about the
Leprecaun?” said the Thin Woman.
“I am not,” said the Philosopher. “It has been suggested that we go
to sleep at night because it is then too dark to do anything else;
but owls, who are a venerably sagacious folk, do not sleep in the
night time. Bats, also, are a very clear-minded race; they sleep in
the broadest day, and they do it in a charming manner. They clutch
the branch of a tree with their toes and hang head downwards—a
position which I consider singularly happy, for the rush of blood
to the head consequent on this inverted position should engender a
drowsiness and a certain imbecility of mind which must either sleep
or explode.”
[Illustration: “Will you never be done talking?” shouted the Thin
Woman passionately]
“Will you never be done talking?” shouted the Thin Woman
passionately.
“I will not,” said the Philosopher. “In certain ways sleep is
useful. It is an excellent way of listening to an opera or seeing
pictures on a bioscope. As a medium for day-dreams I know of
nothing that can equal it. As an accomplishment it is graceful, but
as a means of spending a night it is intolerably ridiculous. If you
were going to say anything, my love, please say it now, but you
should always remember to think before you speak. A woman should
be seen seldom but never heard. Quietness is the beginning of
virtue. To be silent is to be beautiful. Stars do not make a noise.
Children should always be in bed. These are serious truths, which
cannot be controverted; therefore, silence is fitting as regards
them.”
“Your stirabout is on the hob,” said the Thin Woman. “You can get
it for yourself. I would not move the breadth of my nail if you
were dying of hunger. I hope there’s lumps in it. A Leprecaun
from Gort na Cloca Mora was here to-day. They’ll give it to you
for robbing their pot of gold. You old thief, you! you lobeared,
crock-kneed fat-eye!”
The Thin Woman whizzed suddenly from where she stood and leaped
into bed. From beneath the blanket she turned a vivid, furious
eye on her husband. She was trying to give him rheumatism and
toothache and lockjaw all at once. If she had been satisfied to
concentrate her attention on one only of these torments she might
have succeeded in afflicting her husband according to her wish, but
she was not able to do that.
“Finality is death. Perfection is finality. Nothing is perfect.
There are lumps in it,” said the Philosopher.