can you tell me a story?” “Divil a one,” said I. On which he caught me by the shoulder, and put me out like a shot. It was a wild blowing night. Never in all my born days did I see such a night—the darkest night that ever came out of the heavens. I did not know where I was for the life of me. So when one of the men came after me and touched me on the shoulder, with a “Michael H——, can you tell a story now?” “I can,” says I. In he brought me; and putting me by the fire, says: “Begin.” “I have no story but the one,” says I, “that I was sitting here, and you two men brought in a corpse and put it on the spit, and set me turning it.” “That will do,” says he; “ye may go in there and lie down on the bed.” And I went, nothing loath; and in the morning where was I but in the middle of a green field!’ ‘Drumcliff’ is a great place for omens. Before a prosperous fishing season a herring-barrel appears in the midst of a storm-cloud; and at a place called Columkille’s Strand, a place of marsh and mire, an ancient boat, with Saint Columba himself, comes floating in from sea on a moonlight night: a portent of a brave harvesting. They have their dread portents too. Some few seasons ago a fisherman saw, far on the horizon, renowned Hy Brazel, where he who touches shall find no more labour or care, nor cynic laughter, but shall go walking about under shadiest boscage, and enjoy the conversation of Cuchulain and his heroes. A vision of Hy Brazel forebodes national troubles. Drumcliff and Rosses are chokeful of ghosts. By bog, road, rath, hillside, sea-border they gather in all shapes: headless women, men in armour, shadow-hares, fire-tongued hounds, whistling seals, and so on. A whistling seal sank a ship the other day. At Drumcliff there is a very ancient graveyard. _The Annals of the Four Masters_ have this verse about a soldier named Denadhach, who died in 871: ‘A pious soldier of the race of Con lies under hazel crosses at Drumcliff.’ Not very long ago an old woman, turning to go into the churchyard at night to pray, saw standing before her a man in armour, who asked her where she was going. It was the ‘pious soldier of the race of Con,’ says local wisdom, still keeping watch, with his ancient piety, over the graveyard. Again, the custom is still common hereabouts of sprinkling the doorstep with the blood of a chicken on the death of a very young child, thus (as belief is) drawing into the blood the evil spirits from the too weak soul. Blood is a great gatherer of evil spirits. To cut your hand on a stone on going into a fort is said to be very dangerous.