THE
FAIRY CHILD
There
was a sailor that lived up in Grange when he was
at home; and one time, when he was away seven or
eight months, his wife was brought to bed of a
fine boy. She expected her husband home soon, and
she wished to put off the christening of the
child till he'd be on the spot. She and her
husband were not natives of the country, and they
were not as much afraid of leaving the child
unchristened as our people would be.
Well,
the child grew and throve, and the neighbors all
bothered the woman to take him to Father M.'s to
be baptized, and all they said was no use.
"Her husband would be home soon, and then
they'd have a joyful christening."
There
happened to be no one sick up in that
neighborhood for some time, so the priest did not
come to the place, nor hear of the birth, and
none of the people about her could make up their
minds to tell upon her, it is such an ugly thing
to be informing; and then the child was so
healthy, and the father might be on the spot any
moment.
So
the time crept on, and the lad was a year and a
half old, and his mother up to that time never
lost five nights' rest by him; when one evening
that she came in from binding after the reapers,
she heard wonderful whingeing and
lamenting from the little bed where he used to
sleep. She ran over to him and asked him what
ailed him. "Oh, mammy, I'm sick, and I'm
hungry, and I'm cold; don't pull down that
blanket." Well, the poor woman ran and got
some boiled bread and milk as soon as she could,
and asked her other son, that was about seven
years old, when he took sick.
"Oh,
mother," says he, "he was as happy as a
king, playing near the fire about two hours ago,
and I was below in the room, when I heard a great
rush like as if a whole number of fowls were
flying down the chimley. I heard my brother
giving a great cry, and then another sound like
as if the fowls were flying out again; and when I
got into the kitchen there he was, so
miserable-looking that I hardly knew him, and he
pulling his hair, and his clothes, and his poor
face so dirty. Take a look at him, and try do you
know him at all."
So
when she went to feed him she got such a fright
for his poor face was like an old man's, and his
body, and legs, and arms, all thin and hairy. But
still he resembled the child she left in the
morning, and "mammy, mammy" was never
out of his mouth. She heard of people being
fairy-struck, so she supposed it was that that
happened to him, but she never suspected her own
child to be gone, and a fairy child left in its
place.
Well,
it's he that kept the poor woman awake many a
night after, and never let her have a quiet day,
crying for bread and milk, and mashed potatoes,
and stirabout; and it was still "mammy,
mammy, mammy," and the glows and the moans
were never out of his mouth. Well, he had like to
eat the poor woman out of house and home, and the
very flesh off her bones with watching and
sorrow. Still nothing could persuade her that it
wasn't her own child that was in it.
One
neighbor and another neighbor told her their
minds plain enough. "Now, ma'am, you see
what it is to leave a child without being
christened. If you done your duty, fairy, nor
spirit, nor devil, would have no power over your
child. That ounkran (cross creature) in
the bed is no more your child than I am, but a
little imp that the Daoinne Sidhe (fairy
people)--God between us and harm!--left you. By
this and by that, if you don't whip him up and
come along with us to Father M.'s, we'll go, hot
foot ourselves, and tell him all about it.
Christened he must be before the world is a day
older."
So
she went over and soothered him, and said,
"Come, alanna, let me dress you, and we'll
go and be christened." And such roaring and
screeching as came out of his throat would
frighten the Danes. "I haven't the
heart," says she at last; "and sure if
we attempted to take him in the state we'd have
the people of three townlands follying us to the
priest's, and I'm afeard he'd take it very
badly."
The
next day when she came in, in the evening, she
found him quite clean and fresh-looking, and his
hair nicely combed. "Ah, Pat," says she
to her other son, "was it you that done
this?"
Well,
he said nothing till he and his mother were up at
the fire, and the angashore (wretch) of a
child in his bed in the room. "Mother,"
says he then, in a whisper, "the neighbors
are right, and you are wrong. I was out a little
bit, and when I was coming round by the wall at
the back of the room, I heard some sweet voices
as if they were singing inside; and so I went to
the crack in the corner, and what was round the
bed but a whole parcel of nicely-dressed little
women, with green gowns; and they singing, and
dressing the little fellow, and combing his hair,
and he laughing and crowing with them. I watched
for a long time, and then I stole round to the
door, but the moment I pulled the string of the
latch I hears the music changed to his whimpering
and crying, and when I got into the room there
was no sign of anything only himself. He was a
little better looking, but as cantankerous as
ever."
"Ah,"
says the mother, "you are only joining the
ill-natured neighbors; you're not telling a word
of truth."
Next
day Pat had a new story. "Mother," says
he, "I was sitting here while you were out,
and I began to wonder why he was so quiet, so I
went into the room to see if he was asleep. There
he was, sitting up with his old face on him, and
he frightened the life out of me, he spoke so
plain. 'Paudh,' says he, 'go and light your
mother's pipe, and let me have a shough; I'm
tired o' my life lying here.' 'Ah, you thief,'
says I, 'wait till you hear what she'll say to
you when I tell her this.' 'Tell away, you
pick-thanks,' says he; 'she won't believe a word
you say.'"
"And
neither do I believe one word from you,"
said the mother.
At
last a letter came from the father, that was
serving on board the Futhryom, saying he'd
be home after the letter as soon as coaches and
ships could carry him. "Now," says the
poor woman, "we'll have the christening any
way."
So
the next day she went to New Ross to buy sugar
and tay, and beef and pork, to give a grand
let-out to welcome her husband; but bedad the
long-headed neighbors took that opportunity to
gain their ends of the fairy imp. They gathered
round the house, and one stout woman came up to
the bed, promiskis-like, and wrapped him up in
the quilt before he had time to defend himself,
and away down the lane to the Boro she went, and
the whole townland at her heels. He thought to
get away, but she held him pinned as if he was in
a vice; and he kept roaring, and the crowd kept
laughing, and they never crack-cried till they
were at the stepping stones going to Ballybawn
from Grange.
Well,
when he felt himself near the water he roared
like a score of bulls, and kicked like the devil,
but my brave woman wasn't to be daunted. She got
on the first stepping-stone, and the water, as
black as night from the turf-mould, running under
her. He felt as heavy as lead, but she held on to
the second. Well, she thought she'd go down there
with the roaring, and the weight, and the dismal
color of the river, but she got to the
middle-stone, and there down through the quilt he
fell as a heavy stone would through a muslin
handkerchief. Of he went, whirling round and
round, and letting the frightfulest laughs out of
him, and showing his teeth and cracking his
fingers at the people on the banks.
"Oh,
yous think yous are very clever, now," says
he. "You may tell that fool of a woman from
me that all I'm sorry for is that I didn't choke
her, or do worse for her, before her husband
comes home; bad luck to yous all!"
Well,
they all came back joyful enough, though they
were a little frightened. But weren't they
rejoiced to meet the poor woman running to them
with her fine healthy child in her arms, that she
found in a delightful sleep when she got back
from the town. You may be sure the next day
didn't pass over him till he was baptized, and
the next day the father got safe home. Well, I
needn't say how happy they were, but bedad the
woman was a little ashamed of herself next Sunday
at Rathnure Chapel while Father James was
preaching about the wickedness of neglecting to
get young babies baptized as soon as possible
after they're born.
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The
Ochil Fairy Tales: The King of the Fairies by R.
Menzies Fergusson
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