"Why, the priest that christened me was tould by my father, to put in the proper prayer against the fairies--an' a priest can't refuse it when he's asked--an' he did so. Begorra, it's well for me that he did--(let the tallow alone, you little glutton--see, there's a weeny thief o' them aitin' my tallow)--becaise, you see, it was their intention to make me king o' the fairies." "Is it possible?" "Devil a lie in it. Sure you may ax them, an' they'll tell you." "What size are they, Frank?" "Oh, little wee fellows, with green coats, an' the purtiest little shoes ever you seen. There's two of them--both ould acquaintances o' mine--runnin' along the yarn-beam. That ould fellow with the bob-wig is called Jim Jam, an' the other chap, with the three-cocked hat, is called Nickey Nick. Nickey plays the pipes. Nickey, give us a tune, or I'll malivogue you--come now, 'Lough Erne Shore.' Whist, now--listen!" The poor fellow, though weaving as fast as he could all the time, yet bestowed every possible mark of attention to the music, and seemed to enjoy it as much as if it had been real. But who can tell whether that which we look upon as a privation may not after all be a fountain of increased happiness, greater, perhaps, than any which we ourselves enjoy? I forget who the poet is who says-- "Mysterious are thy laws; The vision's finer than the view; Her landscape Nature never drew So fair as Fancy draws." Many a time, when a mere child, not more than six or seven years of age, have I gone as far as Frank's weaving-shop, in order, with a heart divided between curiosity and fear, to listen to his conversation with the good people. From morning till night his tongue was going almost as incessantly as his shuttle; and it was well known that at night, whenever he awoke out of his sleep, the first thing he did was to put out his hand, and push them, as it were, off his bed. "Go out o' this, you thieves, you--go out o' this now, an' let me alone. Nickey, is this any time to be playing the pipes, and me wants to sleep? Go off, now--troth if yez do, you'll see what I'll give yez to-morrow. Sure I'll be makin' new dressin's; and if yez behave decently, maybe I'll lave yez the scrapin' o' the pot. There now. Och! poor things, they're dacent crathurs. Sure they're all gone, barrin' poor Red-cap, that doesn't like to lave me." And then the harmless monomaniac would fall back into what we trust was an innocent slumber.