When the Leprecaun came through the pine wood on the following day
he met two children at a little distance from the house. He raised
his open right hand above his head (this is both the fairy and the
Gaelic form of salutation), and would have passed on but that a
thought brought him to a halt. Sitting down before the two children
he stared at them for a long time, and they stared back at him. At
last he said to the boy:
“What is your name, a vic vig O?”
“Seumas Beg, sir,” the boy replied.
“It’s a little name,” said the Leprecaun.
“It’s what my mother calls me, sir,” returned the boy.
“What does your father call you,” was the next question.
“Seumas Roghan Maelduin O’Carbhail Mac an Droid.”
“It’s a big name,” said the Leprecaun, and he turned to the little
girl. “What is your name, a cailin vig O?”
“Brigid Beg, sir.”
“And what does your father call you?”
“He never calls me at all, sir.”
“Well, Seumaseen and Breedeen, you are good little children, and
I like you very much. Health be with you until I come to see you
again.”
And then the Leprecaun went back the way he had come. As he went he
made little jumps and cracked his fingers, and sometimes he rubbed
one leg against the other.
“That’s a nice Leprecaun,” said Seumas.
“I like him too,” said Brigid.
“Listen,” said Seumas, “let me be the Leprecaun, and you be the two
children, and I will ask you our names.”
So they did that.
The next day the Leprecaun came again. He sat down beside the
children and, as before, he was silent for a little time.
“Are you not going to ask us our names, sir?” said Seumas.
His sister smoothed out her dress shyly. “My name, sir, is Brigid
Beg,” said she.
“Did you ever play Jackstones?” said the Leprecaun.
“No, sir,” replied Seumas.
“I’ll teach you how to play Jackstones,” said the Leprecaun, and he
picked up some pine cones and taught the children that game.
“Did you ever play Ball in the Decker?”
“No, sir,” said Seumas.
“Did you ever play ‘I can make a nail with my ree-ro-raddy-O, I can
make a nail with my ree-ro-ray’?”
“No, sir,” replied Seumas.
“It’s a nice game,” said the Leprecaun, “and so is Capon-the-back,
and Twenty-four yards on the Billy-goat’s Tail, and Towns, and
Relievo, and Leap-frog. I’ll teach you all these games,” said
the Leprecaun, “and I’ll teach you how to play Knifey, and
Hole-and-taw, and Horneys and Robbers.
“Leap-frog is the best one to start with, so I’ll teach it to you
at once. Let you bend down like this, Breedeen, and you bend down
like that a good distance away, Seumas. Now I jump over Breedeen’s
back, and then I run and jump over Seumaseen’s back like this, and
then I run ahead again and I bend down. Now, Breedeen, you jump
over your brother, and then you jump over me, and run a good bit on
and bend down again. Now, Seumas, it’s your turn; you jump over me
and then over your sister, and then you run on and bend down again
and I jump.”
“This is a fine game, sir,” said Seumas.
“It is, a vic vig,—keep in your head,” said the Leprecaun. “That’s
a good jump, you couldn’t beat that jump, Seumas.”
“I can jump better than Brigid already,” replied Seumas, “and I’ll
jump as well as you do when I get more practice—keep in your head,
sir.”
Almost without noticing it they had passed through the edge of the
wood, and were playing into a rough field which was cumbered with
big, grey rocks. It was the very last field in sight, and behind
it the rough, heather-packed mountain sloped distantly away to
the skyline. There was a raggedy blackberry hedge all round the
field, and there were long, tough, haggard-looking plants growing
in clumps here and there. Near a corner of this field there was
a broad, low tree, and as they played they came near and nearer
to it. The Leprecaun gave a back very close to the tree. Seumas
ran and jumped and slid down a hole at the side of the tree. Then
Brigid ran and jumped and slid down the same hole.
“Dear me!” said Brigid, and she flashed out of sight.
The Leprecaun cracked his fingers and rubbed one leg against the
other, and then he also dived into the hole and disappeared from
view.
When the time at which the children usually went home had passed,
the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath became a little anxious. She had
never known them to be late for dinner before. There was one of
the children whom she hated; it was her own child, but as she
had forgotten which of them was hers, and as she loved one of
them, she was compelled to love both for fear of making a mistake
and chastising the child for whom her heart secretly yearned.
Therefore, she was equally concerned about both of them.
Dinner time passed and supper time arrived, but the children did
not. Again and again the Thin Woman went out through the dark pine
trees and called until she was so hoarse that she could not even
hear herself when she roared. The evening wore on to the night, and
while she waited for the Philosopher to come in she reviewed the
situation. Her husband had not come in, the children had not come
in, the Leprecaun had not returned as arranged.... A light flashed
upon her. The Leprecaun had kidnapped her children! She announced
a vengeance against the Leprecauns which would stagger humanity.
While in the extreme centre of her ecstasy the Philosopher came
through the trees and entered the house.
The Thin Woman flew to him—
“Husband,” said she, “the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora have
kidnapped our children.”
The Philosopher gazed at her for a moment.
“Kidnapping,” said he, “has been for many centuries a favourite
occupation of fairies, gypsies, and the brigands of the East. The
usual procedure is to attach a person and hold it to ransom. If the
ransom is not paid an ear or a finger may be cut from the captive
and despatched to those interested, with the statement that an arm
or a leg will follow in a week unless suitable arrangements are
entered into.”
“Do you understand,” said the Thin Woman passionately, “that it is
your own children who have been kidnapped?”
“I do not,” said the Philosopher. “This course, however, is rarely
followed by the fairy people: they do not ordinarily steal for
ransom, but for love of thieving, or from some other obscure and
possibly functional causes, and the victim is retained in their
forts or duns until by the effluxion of time they forget their
origin and become peaceable citizens of the fairy state. Kidnapping
is not by any means confined to either humanity or the fairy
people.”
“Monster,” said the Thin Woman in a deep voice, “will you listen to
me?”
“I will not,” said the Philosopher. “Many of the insectivora
also practice this custom. Ants, for example, are a respectable
race living in well-ordered communities. They have attained to
a most complex and artificial civilization, and will frequently
adventure far afield on colonising or other expeditions from
whence they return with a rich booty of aphides and other stock,
who thenceforward become the servants and domestic creatures of
the republic. As they neither kill nor eat their captives, this
practice will be termed kidnapping. The same may be said of bees,
a hardy and industrious race living in hexagonal cells which are
very difficult to make. Sometimes, on lacking a queen of their
own, they have been observed to abduct one from a less powerful
neighbour, and use her for their own purposes without shame, mercy,
or remorse.”
“Will you not understand?” screamed the Thin Woman.
“I will not,” said the Philosopher. “Semi-tropical apes have been
rumoured to kidnap children, and are reported to use them very
tenderly indeed, sharing their coconuts, yams, plantains, and other
equatorial provender with the largest generosity, and conveying
their delicate captives from tree to tree (often at great distances
from each other and from the ground) with the most guarded
solicitude and benevolence.”
“I am going to bed,” said the Thin Woman, “your stirabout is on the
hob.”
“Are there lumps in it, my dear?” said the Philosopher.
“I hope there are,” replied the Thin Woman, and she leaped into bed.
That night the Philosopher was afflicted with the most extraordinary
attack of rheumatism he had ever known, nor did he get any ease
until the grey morning wearied his lady into a reluctant slumber.