“You must know that this cabin of yours stands on the middle of a fairy pass. We often come this way in our wanderings through the air in cold nights, and often we wished to warm ourselves at your fire-side; but as there was a window in the back of your cabin, we had not power to stop, but were compelled to pursue our journey. Now that the window is stopped, we can come in and remain as long as we wish, and resume our journey through the door by which we enter. We pass this way almost every night, and you need never feel in the least apprehensive of injury so long as you let us pursue our pastimes undisturbed.” “I’ll be bound me or mine shall never annoy one of yez,” said Larry. “That’s a good fellow, Larry,” said the little chap; “and now take those pipes and play us a tune.” “Och, the devil a chanter I ever fingered,” said Larry, “since I was christened.” “No matter,” said the little fellow; “I’ll go bail you’ll play out of the soot.” Larry “yoked” on the pipes, and lilted up in darling style a merry tune, whilst the old chap was ready to split with laughing. “What’s the name of that tchune?” said Larry. “_Caith-na-brogueen_,” replied the fairy piper; “a tune I composed in memory of your escape from the cat; a tune that will soon become a favourite all over Munster.” Larry handed back the pipes; the little man placed them in a red bag, and, bidding his host “good night,” dashed up the chimney. The next night, and almost every following night, the din of fairy revels might be heard at Larry Roche’s fire-side, and Larry himself was their constant companion in their midnight frolics. He soon became the best performer on the bagpipes in the south of Ireland, and after some time surrendered his cabin to the sole occupation of the “good people,” and wandered with his family through all the Munster counties, and was welcome and kindly treated wherever he came. After some time, the cabin from neglect fell, and offered no further impediment to the fairy host in their midnight wanderings, whilst Larry followed a life of pleasure and peace, far from the scene of his former perils and privations. The cat, of course, was never seen after; but the peasantry of the neighbourhood say that the screams of the infernal fiend, mingled with the deep howlings of hell-hounds and the savage yellings of the sable hunter, may be distinctly heard in horrid chorus amongst the fens and morasses of the broad Moin-more.’ Thus ended the strange tale of Maurice O’Sullivan, who in addition to the unanimous applause of the company present, was treated to another flowing tumbler of the barley bree, which he tossed off to the health of those who, to use his own words, were “good people” in earnest--not fays or fairies, however, but the hospitable folks of Glen-Mac-Tir; adding at the same time that he was resolved to gratify the lovers of legendary lore with another of his wild Munster tales on the following night.