A few days after, I conversed on the subject with an intelligent person, a herd in charge of an extensive stock farm. After hearing my story to an end, he indulged in a hearty laugh at my expense. “Faith,” said he, “I took you for a sensible man, and did not suppose you would credit such folly.” “I’d as soon believe my mother was a bishop,” said I, “as put any faith in it some time ago. But how can I get over the chain of circumstantial evidence?--not a link of it wanting. First, ‘the Hawk’ coming with her seven-and-sixpenny geese, then the gipsies and the piper, and losing my butter just then.” “’Tis very easy,” said he, “to account for it. In the first place, you took your cow from grass and fed her on hay.” “Yes, but she had plenty of winter cabbage, and we gave her boiled potatoes.” “Just the thing; cabbage is good for plenty of milk, but not for butter. I’ll engage you gave her the potatoes warm.” “Yes.” “And she got a scour?” “Indeed she did, and her hair fell off.” “So I thought. And afterwards she got in good condition?” “Yes.” “Oh! ay, she put her butter on her ribs. Did you kill a pig at Christmas?” “I did.” “Where did you put your bacon in press?” “Why, under the shelf in the dairy.” “Now the murder is out! Never as long as you live put meat, either fresh or salt, near your milk-vessels; if you do, you will surely spoil your milk and lose your butter.” “This may account for my loss, but what have you to say to its coming back?” “Why, what’s to hinder it, when your bacon is in the chimney and your cow at grass?” “But the red blobs in the plate, and Orohoo fighting the devil for me, what do you say to that?” Here he gave way to such a violent fit of laughter that I really thought he would burst the waistband of his doe-skins. “Orohoo! ha! ha!--Orohoo! ha! ha! ha!--the greatest villain that ever breathed. He came to me one time that I had a cow sick, and said she was fairy-smitten, and that he would cure her. He began with his tricks with the milk and water, just the same as he did with you; but I watched him closer; and when I saw the smoke rising out of the plate, I got him by the neck, shook a little bottle of vitriol out of the cuff of his coat, and took a paper of red earthy powder out of his waistcoat pocket.” I looked aghast and confounded. Was I, then, the dupe of the fairy man? The thought was humiliating, and I even wished that I had remained in ignorance, but on reflection had reason to congratulate myself that it was only a temporary lapse, and that I was right in my original opinion, that, except the witchery of a pair of blue languishers, or the fairy spell of a silver-tongued syren, there is now no evil of the kind to be apprehended. A. * * * * *