Leprechauns speak out!

Sunday, July 31, 2005

The Pooka


No fairy is more feared in Ireland than the pooka. This may be because it is always out and about after nightfall, creating harm and mischief, and because it can assume a variety of terrifying forms.

The guise in which it most often appears, however, is that of a sleek, dark horse with sulphurous yellow eyes and a long wild mane. In this form, it roams large areas of countryside at night, tearing down fences and gates, scattering livestock in terror, trampling crops and generally doing damage around remote farms.

In remote areas of County Down, the pooka becomes a small, deformed goblin who demands a share of the crop at the end of the harvest: for this reason several strands, known as the 'pooka's share', are left behind by the reapers. In parts of County Laois, the pooka becomes a huge, hairy bogeyman who terrifies those abroad at night; in Waterford and Wexford, it appears as an eagle with a massive wingspan; and in Roscommon, as a black goat with curling horns.

The mere sight of it may prevent hens laying their eggs or cows giving milk, and it is the curse of all late night travellers as it is known to swoop them up on to its back and then throw them into muddy ditches or bogholes. The pooka has the power of human speech, and it has been known to stop in front of certain houses and call out the names of those it wants to take upon its midnight dashes. If that person refuses, the pooka will vandalise their property because it is a very vindictive fairy.

The origins of the pooka are to some extent speculative. The name may come from the Scandinavian pook or puke, meaning 'nature spirit'. Such beings were very capricious and had to be continually placated or they would create havoc in the countryside, destroying crops and causing illness among livestock. Alternatively, the horse cults prevalent throughout the early Celtic world may have provided the underlying motif for the nightmare steed.

Friday, July 29, 2005

Stories from the Story teller

The Story-Teller at Fault
At the time when the Tuatha De Dannan held the sovereignty of Ireland, there reigned in Leinster a king, who was remarkably fond of hearing stories. Like the other princes and chieftains of the island, he had a favourite story-teller, who held a large estate from his Majesty, on condition of telling him a new story every night of his life, before he went to sleep. Many indeed were the stories he knew, so that he had already reached a good old age without failing even for a single night in his task; and such was the skill he displayed that whatever cares of state or other annoyances might prey upon the monarch's mind, his story-teller was sure to send him to sleep.


One morning the story-teller arose early, and as his custom was, strolled out into his garden turning over in his mind incidents which he might weave into a story for the king at night. But this morning he found himself quite at fault; after pacing his whole demesne, he returned to his house without being able to think of anything new or strange. He found no difficulty in "there was once a king who had three sons" or "one day the king of all Ireland," but further than that he could not get. At length he went in to breakfast, and found his wife much perplexed at his delay.
"Why don't you come to breakfast, my dear?" said she.
"I have no mind to eat anything," replied the story-teller; "long as I have been in the service of the king of Leinster, I never sat down to breakfast without having a new story ready for the evening, but this morning my mind is quite shut up, and I don't know what to do. I might as well lie down and die at once. I'll be disgraced for ever this evening, when the king calls for his story-teller."

Just at this moment the lady looked out of the window.
"Do you see that black thing at the end of the field?" said she.
"I do," replied her husband.
They drew nigh, and saw a miserable looking old man lying on the ground with a wooden leg placed beside him.
"Who are you, my good man?" asked the story-teller.
"Oh, then, 'tis little matter who I am. I'm a poor, old, lame, decrepit, miserable creature, sitting down here to rest awhile."
"An' what are you doing with that box and dice I see in your hand?"
"I am waiting here to see if any one will play a game with me," replied the beggar man.
"Play with you! Why what has a poor old man like you to play for?"
"I have one hundred pieces of gold in this leathern purse," replied the old man.
"You may as well play with him," said the story-teller's wife; "and perhaps you'll have something to tell the king in the evening."

A smooth stone was placed between them, and upon it they cast their throws.
It was but a little while and the story-teller lost every penny of his money.
"Much good may it do you, friend," said he. "What better hap could I look for, fool that I am!"
"Will you play again?" asked the old man.
"Don't be talking, man: you have all my money."
"Haven't you chariot and horses and hounds?"
"Well, what of them!"
"I'll stake all the money I have against thine."
"Nonsense, man! Do you think for all the money in Ireland, I'd run the risk of seeing my lady tramp home on foot?"
"Maybe you'd win," said the bocough.
"Maybe I wouldn't," said the story-teller.
"Play with him, husband," said his wife. "I don't mind walking, if you do, love."
"I never refused you before," said the story-teller, "and I won't do so now."
Down he sat again, and in one throw lost houses, hounds, and chariot.
"Will you play again?" asked the beggar.
"Are you making game of me, man; what else have I to stake?"
"I'll stake all my winnings against your wife," said the old man.

The story-teller turned away in silence, but his wife stopped him.
"Accept his offer," said she. "This is the third time, and who knows what luck you may have? You'll surely win now."
They played again, and the story-teller lost. No sooner had he done so, than to his sorrow and surprise, his wife went and sat down near the ugly old beggar.
"Is that the way you're leaving me?" said the story-teller.
"Sure I was won," said she. "You would not cheat the poor man, would you?"
"Have you any more to stake?" asked the old man.
"You know very well I have not," replied the story-teller.
"I'll stake the whole now, wife and all, against your own self," said the old man.
Again they played, and again the story-teller lost.
"Well! here I am, and what do you want with me?"
"I'll soon let you know," said the old man, and he took from his pocket a long cord and a wand.
"Now," said he to the story-teller, "what kind of animal would you rather be, a deer, a fox, or a hare? You have your choice now, but you may not have it later."

To make a long story short, the story-teller made his choice of a hare; the old man threw the cord round him, struck him with the wand, and lo! a long-eared, frisking hare was skipping and jumping on the green.
But it wasn't for long; who but his wife called the hounds, and set them on him. The hare fled, the dogs followed. Round the field ran a high wall, so that run as he might, he couldn't get out, and mightily diverted were beggar and lady to see him twist and double.
In vain did he take refuge with his wife, she kicked him back again to the hounds, until at length the beggar stopped the hounds, and with a stroke of the wand, panting and breathless, the story-teller stood before them again.
"And how did you like the sport?" said the beggar.
"It might be sport to others," replied the story-teller looking at his wife, "for my part I could well put up with the loss of it."
"Would it be asking too much," he went on to the beggar, "to know who you are at all, or where you come from, or why you take a pleasure in plaguing a poor old man like me?"
"Oh!" replied the stranger, "I'm an odd kind of good-for-little fellow, one day poor, another day rich, but if you wish to know more about me or my habits, come with me and perhaps I may show you more than you would make out if you went alone."
"I'm not my own master to go or stay," said the story-teller, with a sigh.
The stranger put one hand into his wallet and drew out of it before their eyes a well-looking middle-aged man, to whom he spoke as follows:
"By all you heard and saw since I put you into my wallet, take charge of this lady and of the carriage and horses, and have them ready for me whenever I want them."
Scarcely had he said these words when all vanished, and the story- teller found himself at the Foxes' Ford, near the castle of Red Hugh O'Donnell. He could see all but none could see him.
O'Donnell was in his hall, and heaviness of flesh and weariness of spirit were upon him.
"Go out," said he to his doorkeeper, "and see who or what may be coming."

The doorkeeper went, and what he saw was a lank, grey beggarman; half his sword bared behind his haunch, his two shoes full of cold road-a-wayish water sousing about him, the tips of his two ears out through his old hat, his two shoulders out through his scant tattered cloak, and in his hand a green wand of holly.
"Save you, O'Donnell," said the lank grey beggarman.
"And you likewise," said O'Donnell. "Whence come you, and what is your craft?"
"I come from the outmost stream of earth, From the glens where the white swans glide, A night in Islay, a night in Man, A night on the cold hillside."
"It's the great traveller you are," said O'Donnell.
"Maybe you've learnt something on the road."
"I am a juggler," said the lank grey beggarman, "and for five pieces of silver you shall see a trick of mine."
"You shall have them," said O'Donnell; and the lank grey beggarman took three small straws and placed them in his hand.
"The middle one," said he, "I'll blow away; the other two I'll leave."
"Thou canst not do it," said one and all.
But the lank grey beggarman put a finger on either outside straw and, whiff, away he blew the middle one.
"'Tis a good trick," said O'Donnell; and he paid him his five pieces of silver.
"For half the money," said one of the chief's lads, "I'll do the same trick."
"Take him at his word, O'Donnell."
The lad put the three straws on his hand, and a finger on either outside straw and he blew; and what happened but that the fist was blown away with the straw.
"Thou art sore, and thou wilt be sorer," said O'Donnell.
"Six more pieces, O'Donnell, and I'll do another trick for thee," said the lank grey beggarman.
"Six shalt thou have."
"Seest thou my two ears! One I'll move but not t'other."
"'Tis easy to see them, they're big enough, but thou canst never move one ear and not the two together."

The lank grey beggarman put his hand to his ear, and he gave it a pull.
O'Donnell laughed and paid him the six pieces.
"Call that a trick," said the fistless lad, "any one can do that," and so saying, he put up his hand, pulled his ear, and what happened was that he pulled away ear and head.
"Sore thou art; and sorer thou'lt be," said O'Donnell.
"Well, O'Donnell," said the lank grey beggarman, "strange are the tricks I've shown thee, but I'll show thee a stranger one yet for the same money."
"Thou hast my word for it," said O'Donnell.
With that the lank grey beggarman took a bag from under his armpit, and from out the bag a ball of silk, and he unwound the ball and he flung it slantwise up into the clear blue heavens, and it became a ladder; then he took a hare and placed it upon the thread, and up it ran; again he took out a red-eared hound, and it swiftly ran up after the hare.
"Now," said the lank grey beggarman; "has any one a mind to run after the dog and on the course?"
"I will," said a lad of O'Donnell's.
"Up with you then," said the juggler; "but I warn you if you let my hare be killed I'll cut off your head when you come down."
The lad ran up the thread and all three soon disappeared. After looking up for a long time, the lank grey beggarman said: "I'm afraid the hound is eating the hare, and that our friend has fallen asleep."
Saying this he began to wind the thread, and down came the lad fast asleep; and down came the red-eared hound and in his mouth the last morsel of the hare.
He struck the lad a stroke with the edge of his sword, and so cast his head off. As for the hound, if he used it no worse, he used it no better.
"It's little I'm pleased, and sore I'm angered," said O'Donnell, "that a hound and a lad should be killed at my court."
"Five pieces of silver twice over for each of them," said the juggler, "and their heads shall be on them as before."
"Thou shalt get that," said O'Donnell.
Five pieces, and again five were paid him, and lo! the lad had his head and the hound his. And though they lived to the uttermost end of time, the hound would never touch a hare again, and the lad took good care to keep his eyes open.

Scarcely had the lank grey beggarman done this when he vanished from out their sight, and no one present could say if he had flown through the air or if the earth had swallowed him up.
He moved as wave tumbling o'er wave As whirlwind following whirlwind, As a furious wintry blast, So swiftly, sprucely, cheerily, Right proudly, And no stop made Until he came To the court of Leinster's King, He gave a cheery light leap O'er top of turret, Of court and city Of Leinster's King.
Heavy was the flesh and weary the spirit of Leinster's king. 'Twas the hour he was wont to hear a story, but send he might right and left, not a jot of tidings about the story-teller could he get.
"Go to the door," said he to his doorkeeper, "and see if a soul is in sight who may tell me something about my story-teller."
The doorkeeper went, and what he saw was a lank grey beggarman, half his sword bared behind his haunch, his two old shoes full of cold road-a-wayish water sousing about him, the tips of his two ears out through his old hat, his two shoulders out through his scant tattered cloak, and in his hand a three-stringed harp.
"What canst thou do?" said the doorkeeper.
"I can play," said the lank grey beggarman.
"Never fear," added he to the story-teller, "thou shalt see all, and not a man shall see thee."
When the king heard a harper was outside, he bade him in.
"It is I that have the best harpers in the five-fifths of Ireland," said he, and he signed them to play. They did so, and if they played, the lank grey beggarman listened.
"Heardst thou ever the like?" said the king.
"Did you ever, O king, hear a cat purring over a bowl of broth, or the buzzing of beetles in the twilight, or a shrill tongued old woman scolding your head off?"
"That I have often," said the king.
"More melodious to me," said the lank grey beggarman, "were the worst of these sounds than the sweetest harping of thy harpers."
When the harpers heard this, they drew their swords and rushed at him, but instead of striking him, their blows fell on each other, and soon not a man but was cracking his neighbour's skull and getting his own cracked in turn.
When the king saw this, he thought it hard the harpers weren't content with murdering their music, but must needs murder each other.
"Hang the fellow who began it all," said he; "and if I can't have a story, let me have peace."
Up came the guards, seized the lank grey beggarman, marched him to the gallows and hanged him high and dry. Back they marched to the hall, and who should they see but the lank grey beggarman seated on a bench with his mouth to a flagon of ale.
"Never welcome you in," cried the captain of the guard, "didn't we hang you this minute, and what brings you here?"
"Is it me myself, you mean?"
"Who else?" said the captain.
"May your hand turn into a pig's foot with you when you think of tying the rope; why should you speak of hanging me?"
Back they scurried to the gallows, and there hung the king's favourite brother.
Back they hurried to the king who had fallen fast asleep.
"Please your Majesty," said the captain, "we hanged that strolling vagabond, but here he is back again as well as ever."
"Hang him again," said the king, and off he went to sleep once more.
They did as they were told, but what happened was that they found the king's chief harper hanging where the lank grey beggarman should have been.
The captain of the guard was sorely puzzled.
"Are you wishful to hang me a third time?" said the lank grey beggarman.
"Go where you will," said the captain, "and as fast as you please if you'll only go far enough. It's trouble enough you've given us already."
"Now you're reasonable," said the beggarman; "and since you've given up trying to hang a stranger because he finds fault with your music, I don't mind telling you that if you go back to the gallows you'll find your friends sitting on the sward none the worse for what has happened."
As he said these words he vanished; and the story-teller found himself on the spot where they first met, and where his wife still was with the carriage and horses.
"Now," said the lank grey beggarman, "I'll torment you no longer. There's your carriage and your horses, and your money and your wife; do what you please with them."
"For my carriage and my houses and my hounds," said the story- teller, "I thank you; but my wife and my money you may keep."
"No," said the other. "I want neither, and as for your wife, don't think ill of her for what she did, she couldn't help it."
"Not help it! Not help kicking me into the mouth of my own hounds! Not help casting me off for the sake of a beggarly old--"

"I'm not as beggarly or as old as ye think. I am Angus of the Bruff; many a good turn you've done me with the King of Leinster. This morning my magic told me the difficulty you were in, and I made up my mind to get you out of it. As for your wife there, the power that changed your body changed her mind. Forget and forgive as man and wife should do, and now you have a story for the King of Leinster when he calls for one;" and with that he disappeared.
It's true enough he now had a story fit for a king. From first to last he told all that had befallen him; so long and loud laughed the king that he couldn't go to sleep at all. And he told the story- teller never to trouble for fresh stories, but every night as long as be lived he listened again and he laughed afresh at the tale of the lank grey beggarman.

Thursday, July 28, 2005

Harp's have voices

Once upon a time there lived a beautiful girl called Llio who could play the harp beautifully. It was said that she could make the harp speak, that when she played you heard the true voice of the harp. And so she was much in demand as a harper in her own village and beyond. She would play at funerals and weddings, at dances and at fairs; she played in the church on Sundays and she played at christenings and would rock the baby to sleep with the gentleness of her playing. She was a beautiful girl, was Llio ... tall and white-skinned, with thick curls of shining black hair and deep, solemn blue eyes and a mouth that looked as though a rosebud was just beginning to open. She gave her life to her harp-playing, and she gave it all her love and her energy and spirit. And the harp would speak, and its tone was seductive and bewitching, and it held Llio in its thrall.

One day, when Llio was almost twenty, she was walking to the village with her harp on her back, ready to play at a wedding for two of the young folk she knew well. Oh, what a wedding it was to be! And Llio was to provide the music for the dancing and romancing. The day was clear and bright, and Llio walked with a small skip in her step. She was joined as she walked by a young man called Gerwyn. 'I love to hear you playing,' said Gerwyn kindly. 'Thank you,' said Llio. "I love to play.' 'What else do you do?' he asked. 'Do you sew or cook, or create furniture with your hands, or mind the sheep or milk the cows?' 'None of those things,' said Llio. 'I just play the harp.' 'Do you learn about other people and places, about the other lands across the sea?' 'No,' said Llio. 'I just play my harp.' 'What about the cries of children and the joys of motherhood, do you know about these? Or the joys of learning old stories, and who the bards are?' persisted Gerwyn. 'No,' said Llio, 'I just play the harp.' 'Then how can you play,' said Gerwyn, 'when you have no knowledge of the world?' 'I don't need knowledge or experiences of any kind,' said Llio. 'The harp speaks in its own voice.' 'Then you are slave, not master,' said Gerwyn, and disappeared. Llio stood looking after him for a long time. But he had just vanished into thin air as it were -- gone. There was just Llio and her harp. So, she resumed her journey.

Well, she played for that wedding as she had never played before, letting the harp have its head, as it were, playing in its own voice and making magic of the sounds. They laughed and cried and danced and hugged, the people who heard it, and Llio sat aside by herself, the music pouring from her fingers. Yet she realised that what Gerwyn said was true. This was the harp's voice, not her own. And she realised that she knew little of love, little of sadness and joy, little of what it was to be real. The harp sang, not she; perhaps one day she would make it sing because she had claimed her own voice and her own song. On her way home, Gerwyn appeared to her again. 'Have you thought about what I said?' 'Oh, yes,' said Llio. 'Then marry me,' said Gerwyn. 'Not until I find my own voice,' said Llio.

So she went home, and from that day she spent time listening to her mother and her sisters and her brothers, to her father and the neighbours; to the people in her village and the children. She didn't play the harp quite so much. Then came a dreadful day when sickness struck the village, and Llio spent her days nursing her father, who recovered, and her mother, who didn't. She helped the others bury their dead. And she brought out her harp and played of her sadness. And she realised that at last, she was telling the harp what to do ... the sounds to make, the expression to create. She told of sadness and love, of self-scarifice and of dying in peace, of loneliness and longing. And as she walked home, Gerwyn appeared and asked her again to marry him. 'Now I can do so,' said Llio, 'For I have found my voice and the harp plays the songs in my heart.' 'Then,' said Gerwyn, his eyes shining, 'Let us give it and you new songs to sing. Of gladness. Of children. Of learning and growing.' And he kissed her. And Llio played the kiss in notes she chose, and she played the love and the safety she felt with Gerwyn. She played the traditional songs of her country, but now the harp spoke with her voice. And when at last, white-haired and old, Llio was laid to rest, her harp was eventually placed in her grave with her. 'It was her voice,' they said. 'It cannot be separated from her.'

And in death as in life, the harp hung mute, because it had no longer any voice of its own. It had the voice of Llio the Harpist, and the depths of a lifetime accounted for in the trembling of its strings. 'It spoke for her,' said the villagers. 'It was her voice.' And, at the end, authentically, it was her voice ... the voice now stilled but living on in the person of her sons. And in the llais (voice) there was awen (inspiration), and in both was all that she was and could be. Gerwyn kept her harp for a while, but then he decided to bury it with her, for it had been part of her life for so long ... And so he carefully placed it on her coffin, and as he did so, a cacophany of sound enveloped him. It was Llio, speaking through her harp. Bells and trumpets sounded from the litle modest instrument ... and above all, comfort and blessing. The harp would always sing from the heart of the harpist ... from the spirit and the soul of the one who played. Gerwyn stood, watching the harp as it was covered with the soil. And in his ears that were still full of love and grief, he stood, watching the burial, and hearing in his mind's ear the voice of the woman he had loved. It was her voice, he murmured. Nothing would change that. It was now and would be eternally her voice, the sacrifice she was making for him. The sacrifice she had always made ... the giving of her own voice for the inspiration of others

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

The Sprightly Tailor

The Sprightly Tailor
A sprightly tailor was employed by the great Macdonald, in his castle at Saddell, in order to make the laird a pair of trews, used in olden time. And trews being the vest and breeches united in one piece, and ornamented with fringes, were very comfortable, and suitable to be worn in walking or dancing. And Macdonald had said to the tailor, that if he would make the trews by night in the church, he would get a handsome reward. For it was thought that the old ruined church was haunted, and that fearsome things were to be seen there at night.

The tailor was well aware of this - but he was a sprightly man, and when the laird dared him to make the trews by night in the church, the tailor was not to be daunted, but took it in hand to gain the prize. So, when night came, away he went up the glen, about half a mile distance from the castle, till he came to the old church. Then he chose him a nice gravestone for a seat and he lighted his candle, and put on his thimble, and set to work at the trews - plying his needle nimbly, and thinking about the hire that the laird would have to give him.

For some time he got on pretty well, until he felt the floor all of a tremble under his feet - and looking about him, but keeping his fingers at work, he saw the appearance of a great human head rising up through the stone pavement of the church. And when the head had risen above the surface, there came from it a great, great voice. And the voice said, "Do you see this great head of mine?"

"I see that, but I'll sew this!" replied the sprightly tailor - and he stitched away at the trews.
Then the head rose higher up through the pavement, until its neck appeared. And when its neck was shown, the thundering voice came again and said, "Do you see this great neck of mine?"
"I see that, but I'll sew this!" said the sprightly tailor - and he stitched away at his trews.
Then the head and neck rose higher still, until the great shoulders and chest were shown above the ground. And again the mighty voice thundered, "Do you see this great chest of mine?"
And again the sprightly tailor replied, "I see that, but I'll sew this!" and stitched away at his trews.

And still it kept rising through the pavement, until it shook a great pair of arms in the tailor's face, and said, "Do you see these great arms of mine?"
"I see those, but I'll sew this!" answered the tailor - and he stitched hard at his trews, for he knew that he had no time to lose.

The sprightly tailor was taking the long stitches, when he saw it gradually rising and rising through the floor, until it lifted out a great leg, and stamping with it upon the pavement, said in a roaring voice, "Do you see this great leg of mine?"

"Aye, aye, I see that, but I'll sew this!" cried the tailor - and his fingers flew with the needle, and he took such long stitches, that he was just come to the end of the trews, when it was taking up its other leg. But before it could pull it out of the pavement, the sprightly tailor had finished his task - and, blowing out his candle, and springing from off his gravestone, he buckled up, and ran out of the church with the trews under his arm. Then the fearsome thing gave a loud roar, and stamped with both his feet upon the pavement, and out of the church he went after the sprightly tailor.

Down the glen they ran, faster than the stream when the flood rides it - but the tailor had got the start and a nimble pair of legs, and he did not choose to lose the laird's reward. And though the thing roared to him to stop, yet the sprightly tailor was not the man to be beholden to a monster. So he held his trews tight, and let no darkness grow under his feet, until he had reached Saddell Castle. He had no sooner got inside the gate, and shut it, than the apparition came up to it - and, enraged at losing his prize, struck the wall above the gate, and left there the mark of his five great fingers. Ye may see them plainly to this day, if ye'll only peer close enough.
But the sprightly tailor gained his reward - for Macdonald paid him handsomely for the trews, and never discovered that a few of the stitches were somewhat long.

Monday, July 25, 2005

I am required by law to make a complete disclosure of my background. Well as you should have guessed by now I am an Irish Leprechaun! '

As required every seven years we permit ourselves to expose our identity according to the "official Leprechaun handbook" paragraph 47 section 12 subsection 13 (always been a lucky charm for me)
For those who have been with me for a while in past blogs I gave you many hints. There was the exposing you to the Irish language, then was the time that I told you that my family were shoemakers that itself should have been a dead giveaway. I told you that I came from a small village in County Cork) We don't go to the big cities anymore as the last time a Leprechaun went to Dublin he was seen being carried off by a large Chihuahua! We all tried our best to save him but to no avail.
The Chihuahua is now the luckiest dog in the northern hemisphere as he now owns a stable of racing grayhounds. You might have seen him as a spokesperson for Taco Bell!
I also told you about Kermit the frog several times Where do you think his trademark expression "It's not easy being green " came from? Yes, that was us.
And why do you think I like coffee so much? you guessed it after 100's of years of drinking tea I thought it was time for a change!
And when the first Irish came to the "New World" who do you think meet them at the dock? Yes again, We do get around don't we?
Where the Irish are you'll find one of us. Several of us got to play ourselves on the TV series "Charmed"
Anyway we have to show ourselves to those who believe kinda like the tooth fairy ( who do you suppose got him that gig)?
Below you will find my treasure I traded that heavy pot of gold in for something much more valuable (Can you guess?) No,? well go stand before a mirror look deeply into your reflection and there you will find the greatest (if I do say so myself) treasure the world has ever seen!
It is important tht you read to the bottom of this page, not to do so causes you to forfeit "The luck of the Irish"See you tomorrw
Himself
There is no mention to be found of female leprechauns in traditional Irish legend, so as to how they came to be .. your guess is as good as mine.
These apparently aged, diminutive men are hard-working cobblers, turning out exquisite shoes for other sprites. If you happen across an industrious little fellow hammering out a shoe, look closely - for he may be a leprechaun. Step quietly, for leprechauns will avoid humans, knowing us to be foolish and greedy.
A leprechaun dresses in old-fashioned clothes of green, with a red cap, multi-pocketed leather apron, and buckled shoes. He is quite fond of a smoke from his foul smelling clay pipe which is always close by, and he is frequently in an intoxicated state from home-brew poteen. However, a leprechaun never becomes so drunk that the hand which holds the hammer becomes unsteady and his shoemaker's work affected. If you hear the sound of a hammer from behind a hedgerow you know you have found him.
As well as cobbling, his other trade is banking, and he is guardian to the ancient treasures. Much treasure was left by the Danes when they marauded through Ireland, and the leprechaun buries it in crocks or pots. Rainbows reveal where pots of gold are hidden, so he will sometimes spend all day moving crocks from one spot to another to elude the tell-tale end of the rainbow. If you catch a leprechaun, don't let him out of your grasp before he reveals his gold. He'll try to distract you with all manner of tricks and, in the blink of an eye, will dash out of sight. For such a sturdy little chap, he can move with the speed of a rabbit.
He carries two leather pouches. In one there is a silver shilling, a magical coin that returns to the purse each time it's spent. In the other there is a gold coin for bribing his way out of difficult situations. (Don't accept this coin - it turns into a rock). But he can be generous if you do him a good turn. Your kind deed wil be repaid with a wish.
Leprechauns come in two distinct groups - leprechaun and cluricaun. A cluricaun dresses very stylishly with a jaunty cap, large silver buckles on his shoes, beautiful gold laces and pale blue stockings. You will never see him wear an apron or carry a hammer. He has a jolly grin, a slightly pink-tipped nose and is almost always drunk and cheerful. Pass him by, for he never has any money, or any idea where treasure is buried.
A cluricaun will steal or borrow almost anything, making merry and creating mayhem in your house during the hours of darkness. He will happily busy himself raiding your kitchen, pantry, larder and cellar and after dinner he will harness your sheep, goats, dogs and even your domestic fowls to ride away.Through the countryside he will race them, over the fields and into the bog. Leprechauns denounce cluricaun behavior, but it has been said that cluricauns may just be leprechauns on drunken sprees.
You can make a trap with common household items. Take a net, a cardboard box, green paint, green tissue paper, some pennies and an old shoe. Firstly, paint the cardboard box green and place the old shoe inside. Cover the opening with thin green tissue paper. Carefully lay the pennies on the tissue paper. (If you don't want to use real money, you can easily substitute chocolate gold- wrapped coins or make your own by cutting circles out of cardboard and painting them gold).
Place the trap near some trees or hedgerows. Make sure it's disguised well and blends into the surroundings. When the Leprechaun sees the coins he will try to collect them. He will step onto the tissue paper, it will break and he will fall into the box. Now quickly throw the net over him.
You can also try to lure a leprechaun with some poteen instead of an old shoe. When he falls into the box he will drink the brew, get drunk and then you can grab him.
No one has yet caught a leprechaun, but don't be discouraged. Start looking today. Good luck !!

Saturday, July 23, 2005

King O'Toole and His Goose

Och, I thought all the world, far and near, had heerd o' King O'Toole--well, well, but the darkness of mankind is untellible! Well, sir, you must know, as you didn't hear it afore, that there was a king, called King O'Toole, who was a fine old king in the old ancient times, long ago; and it was he that owned the churches in the early days. The king, you see, was the right sort; he was the real boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and hunting in particular; and from the rising o' the sun, up he got, and away he went over the mountains after the deer; and fine times they were.

Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but, you see, in course of time the king grew old, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got stricken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost entirely for want o' diversion, because he couldn't go a-hunting no longer; and, by dad, the poor king was obliged at last to get a goose to divert him. Oh, you may laugh, if you like, but it's truth I'm telling you; and the way the goose diverted him was this-a-way: You see, the goose used to swim across the lake, and go diving for trout, and catch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew every other day round about the lake, diverting the poor king. All went on mighty well until, by dad, the goose got stricken in years like her master, and couldn't divert him no longer, and then it was that the poor king was lost entirely. The king was walkin' one mornin' by the edge of the lake, lamentin' his cruel fate, and thinking of drowning himself, that could get no diversion in life, when all of a sudden, turning round the corner, who should he meet but a mighty decent young man coming up to him.

"God save you," says the king to the young man.
"God save you kindly, King O'Toole," says the young man.
"True for you," says the king. "I am King O'Toole," says he, "prince and plennypennytinchery of these parts," says he; "but how came ye to know that?" says he.
"Oh, never mind," says St. Kavin.

You see it was Saint Kavin, sure enough--the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. "Oh, never mind," says he, "I know more than that. May I make bold to ask how is your goose, King O'Toole?" says he.
"Blur-an-agers, how came ye to know about my goose?" says the king.
"Oh, no matter; I was given to understand it," says Saint Kavin.
After some more talk the king says, "What are you?"
"I'm an honest man," says Saint Kavin.
"Well, honest man," says the king, "and how is it you make your money so aisy?"
"By makin' old things as good as new," says Saint Kavin.
"Is it a tinker you are?" says the king.

"No," says the saint; "I'm no tinker by trade, King O'Toole; I've a better trade than a tinker," says he--"what would you say," says he, "if I made your old goose as good as new?"
My dear, at the word of making his goose as good as new, you'd think the poor old king's eyes were ready to jump out of his head. With that the king whistled, and down came the poor goose, just like a hound, waddling up to the poor cripple, her master, and as like him as two peas. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, "I'll do the job for you," says he, "King O'Toole."
"By _Jaminee_!" says King O'Toole, "if you do, I'll say you're the cleverest fellow in the seven parishes."

"Oh, by dad," says St. Kavin, "you must say more nor that--my horn's not so soft all out," says he, "as to repair your old goose for nothing; what'll you gi' me if I do the job for you?--that's the chat," says St. Kavin.
"I'll give you whatever you ask," says the king; "isn't that fair?"
"Divil a fairer," says the saint; "that's the way to do business. Now," says he, "this is the bargain I'll make with you, King O'Toole: will you gi' me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer, after I make her as good as new?"
"I will," says the king.
"You won't go back o' your word?" says St. Kavin.
"Honour bright!" says King O'Toole, holding out his fist.
"Honour bright!" says St. Kavin, back agin, "it's a bargain. Come here!" says he to the poor old goose--"come here, you unfortunate ould cripple, and it's I that'll make you the sporting bird." With that, my dear, he took up the goose by the two wings--"Criss o' my cross an you," says he, markin' her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute--and throwing her up in the air, "whew," says he, jist givin' her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she took to her heels, flyin' like one o' the eagles themselves, and cutting as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain.

Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standing with his mouth open, looking at his poor old goose flying as light as a lark, and better than ever she was: and when she lit at his feet, patted her on the head, and "_Ma vourneen_," says he, "but you are the _darlint_ o' the world."
"And what do you say to me," says 'Saint Kavin, "for making her the like?"
"By Jabers," says the king, "I say nothing beats the art o' man, barring the bees."
"And do you say no more nor that?" says Saint Kavin.
"And that I'm beholden to you," says the king.
"But will you gi'e me all the ground the goose flew over?" says Saint Kavin.
"I will," says King O'Toole, "and you're welcome to it," says he, "though it's the last acre I have to give."
"But you'll keep your word true?" says the saint.
"As true as the sun," says the king.

"It's well for you, King O'Toole, that you said that word," says he; "for if you didn't say that word, the devil the bit o' your goose would ever fly agin."
When the king was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was pleased with him, and then it was that he made himself known to the king. "And," says he, "King O'Toole, you're a decent man, for I only came here to try you. You don't know me," says he, "because I'm disguised."
"Musha! then," says the king, "who are you?"
"I'm Saint Kavin," said the saint, blessing himself.
"Oh, queen of heaven!" says the king, making the sign of the cross between his eyes, and falling down on his knees before the saint; "is it the great Saint Kavin," says he, "that I've been discoursing all this time without knowing it," says he, "all as one as if he was a lump of a _gossoon_?--and so you're a saint?" says the king.

"I am," says Saint Kavin.
"By Jabers, I thought I was only talking to a dacent boy," says the king.
"Well, you know the difference now," says the saint. "I'm Saint Kavin," says he, "the greatest of all the saints.".
And so the king had his goose as good as new, to divert him as long as he lived: and the saint supported him after he came into his property, as I told you, until the day of his death--and that was soon after; for the poor goose thought he was catching a trout one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made--and instead of a trout, it was a thieving horse-eel; and instead of the goose killing a trout for the king's supper--by dad, the eel killed the king's goose--and small blame to him; but he didn't ate her, because he darn't ate what Saint Kavin had laid his blessed hands on.