As I did not put any faith in witchcraft, I was willing to attribute this to some natural cause affecting the cow, though the milk showed no perceptible change in either quantity or quality; neither did she exhibit any symptoms of ailment or disorder, except that she began to cast her hair. She was well supplied with good fodder, comfortably lodged, and well attended, and every possible care taken of the milk, but all to no purpose; the butter was not forthcoming; and for my incredulity I was laughed at by my neighbours. “Your cow is bewitched,” cried they; “and you may as well throw chaff against the wind, as think you will get your butter back, till you get the charm.” Some said “the Hawk” had it, some that the gipsy took it away in her can, and others that it followed the piper. Be that as it may, I had to eat my bread butterless, and brood over my loss, without even the comfort of common condolence. Various were the counter-charms recommended for my adoption. “Send for Fraser the Scotchman from beyond the Lough,” said one; “he fears neither man nor fiend, and he will surely get it.” “Send for ‘the Hawk,’ and clip a bit off her ear,” said another. “Let them keep their mouths full of water, and never speak while they are churning,” said a third. In short, I found there were as many ways of getting it back, as there were of losing it--all equally simple, and probably as efficacious. Thus matters continued until the early part of the month of April, when one morning a man called, who desired to see me. I found him a light, active, cute-looking fellow, low in stature and spare in habit, but sinewy, well set and well knit, and regularly smoke-dried. He was pretty well clad in frieze, cord breeches, and yarn stockings and pumps; his caubeen on one side, a cutty in his mouth, and a certain jauntiness in his air, and crafty audacity in his look, which seemed to say, “I’d have you to know I’m a clever fellow.” “So,” said he at once without preamble, “so you’ve lost your butter.” “Yes,” said I, “’tis certainly gone.” “Well, if you like, I’ll get it for you. My name is OROHOO (O’Hara); I live at Sliev Bawn--the people call me the Fairy man--I can find things that’s stole--and I keep the _garvally_.” “Indeed!” said I: “why, you must be a clever fellow: but can you get my butter?” “Not a doubt of it,” said he, “if it is in the country.” I had heard of the garvally before, which was described as “a crooked thing like the handle of an umbrella, covered with green baize.” It was formerly in much repute for swearing on; “and a terrible thing it was, for if you swore falsely and it round your neck, your mouth would turn to the back of your head, or you’d get such a throttling as you’d never get the better of.” It had latterly, however, lost much of its virtue, or rather of its fame, by an unbelieving vagabond yoking it on and swearing to a manifest falsehood, without suffering any visible inconvenience. But to return to Orohoo.