There was a man in these parts, and he thought it hard to see a square
inch of ground go to loss. He had a small wee farm on the top of a
windy hill, and there was a fort on the sweetest of the fields. He
couldn't pass by but he'd think of how much potatoes might be grown
within in the circle. Well with the dint of consideration didn't he
finally decide for to plant it.
He never let on to his wife, but away out with the loy, and he made
great work before the fall of night. When he came in he carried a
lengthy thorn root in his hand.
"What are you holding?" asks herself.
"An old thorn I hoked out of the ground," says he. "I brought it in
for the fire."
"Is it making gaps in the quick hedges you are?" she asks.
"Not at all," says he. "I have the circle beyond rooted up for to
set potatoes in it."
"Is it the fort!" says she.
When she heard what he was after doing she began for to roar and
to cry.
"It is destroyed we are in this ill hour," she lamented. "The Good
People will be following us surely with the black wrath of vengeance
and spite. Never before did I hear of a man setting spuds in a fort."
"Quit raving," says he.
"Many and many's the time I have seen them, they riding down by the
hill; their fiddles and fifes I have heard, their shouts and their
laughs. But I had no cause for a dread till it come on me now,"
she replies.
With that herself took the thorn from the fire, where he was after
casting it down; she left it out on the door of the house.
"Let their branch stop beyond on the street," says she, "the way they
will not be entering here and they seeking for to bring it away."
In the black darkness of midnight there came the awfullest cry on the
street, on past the house and into the byre. Then a great lamentation
came from the cows and the ass.
"The creatures are a killing this night," says herself.
The man rose out of his bed and he kindled a light. He had the heart
to go out to the beasts to see what ailed them at all. There was no
loss on the cows nor the ass, and the cry and the shouting were gone.
He went back to the house, but not a long was he in before the very
same trouble rose in the byre. Out with him again to make sure what
was wrong, and he found not a single heth astray.
He was back in his bed when a third cry passed on the wind. The ass
let a roar was more nor horrid lonesome, and the cows were stamping
and roaring with dread. All the while there was nothing in it when
the master went out.
There was no sound more until hard on the break of day. A laugh
that was hateful to hear passed the house, and a hand struck hard on
the window.
Himself rose early, and he opened the door. What did he see only
the ass lying dead on the street, and the two cows were destroyed in
the byre.
"'Twas the fairies, surely," says he. "And they brought this
destruction upon me for hoking a hole in their farm."
"It's a powerful great price they're after charging you for the hire
of a small piece of ground," says herself, coming out. "But the thorn
stick is gone off the street where I threw it last night, and if that
had remained in the house they'd have murdered ourselves."