Bridgeen and the Leprechaun

by Herminie Templeton Kavanagh

 

BRIDGEEN AND THE LEPRECHAUN

By Herminie Templeton Kavanagh

ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. J. MOWAT

OUTSIDE of France the month of May is not the month of May,” Victor Hugo says. Surely, surely the great poet never saw the break of May in Ireland. If on the May day we are talking about he had walked down the winding road from Ballinderg by little Bridgeen Daley's side, and with her had kept his eyes and ears awake, looking in the ditches and under the hedges for the leprechaun, the little fairy cobbler, he would have changed that saying entirely, I'm thinking.

On either side of the narrow lane pressed the bursting hedges, dazzling pink and white, while beyond, in the fields, over every hillock and upland surged riotous crowds of laughing, yellow buttercups and golden-hearted daisies. And the violets—every green leaf hid a purple cluster! And the perfume—but sure one can't talk about the perfume of the Irish violets, because it gives one such a lonesome, longing heartsickness to think about them there! The linnets and the blackbirds contended desperately with one another as to who should give the heartiest, merriest welcome to the spring. And above all hovered the kindly sky, as grave, as blue, and as tender as Bridgeen's own eyes.

But back in the village of Ballinderg it was little about blackbirds and linnets the people were thinking. Little Mickey Driscoll, who never before in all the troubled days of his short life had resented any honestly earned cuff on the ear, to-day leaned disconsolately against the shady side of the thatched cottage, weeping torrents of indignant tears into the short skirt of his brown linsey frock.

A few feet away, on an upturned tub beside the open door, sat his subdued and commiserating father, too wise for any open expression of sympathy or comfort, but nodding and winking covert assurances and beckoning to the lad with coaxing, compassionate fingers.

“Come over here, Mickey avic,” he whispered. “Don't cry, ahager. Where did she slap ye? Oh, my, oh, my, on the two little red legs of ye! What did ye do, allanna?”

“Naw-nawthin', da-daddy; I—I—only dhrew wan finger down, that a-way, on sisther Eileen's white dhress to see if it would make a mark,” sobbed the heartbroken child.

“Oh, isn't that the turrible thing,” soothed his hypocritical parent, “to larrup ye loike that jist for wan weeney bit of a sthreek. Oh, husheen, husheen; no wondher yer heart's in tatthers!” He drew the little lad between his knees and smoothed his tumbled yellow curls.

Daniel Driscoll and his weeping son Mickey were not the only victims of feminine oppression in Ballinderg that Saturday afternoon; they but typified the general state of affairs, for in every cottage an anxious, flustered woman was bustling back and forth from dresser to clothespress and from bedroom back to kitchen, and woe betide any unfortunate man or child or four-footed beast that got in the way of her flying feet!

On each side of the winding village street the male portion of the community, apprehensive, subdued and biddable, sat smoking their pipes under the projecting thatch of the cottages. The air was tense with expectation. To-day no child loitered on an errand. At the first word of command there was a flash of bare legs, a swish of red petticoat, and he was shot across the street from threshold to threshold with the speed and precision of field-gun practice.

AND who could blame the busy mothers for their feverish perturbation! Wasn't the archbishop himself—not the bishop, mind you, but the archbishop—coming down on the morrow to the humble village chapel to give confirmation to the children. Don't be talkin'! Wasn't Father Cassidy the clever man entirely to get such an honor for Ballinderg?

But, oh, dear, the bother of it! What with the grandeur of white veils and wreaths for the girls and brand-new suits for the boys—shoes for a good many of them, too—the parish was fairly turned upside down and made bankrupt, so it was.

Late in the afternoon, Father Cassidy, tired and happy, having put the last touch to the decorations in the chapel and the last bunch of wild flowers in the altar vases, went cantering home along the gravel country lane on his black hunter, Terror.

He passed through the village and had almost reached the Ballymore crossroads when he spied just ahead of him a slim, bare-footed little girl, trudging wearily along and carrying in her clasped arms a pair of brogues almost as heavy as herself.

“It's Bridgeen Daley,” he muttered. “The kind Lord look down on that houseful of motherless children.” Father Cassidy reined in his horse beside her. “Is that you, Bridgeen?” he called. “Come here, asthore. Oh, I see, ye've been to Neddy Hagan's to get yer father's brogues mended. I'm greatly afraid all this grandeur will be the ruination of us at last.”

The little girl bobbed a curtsey and raised a pair of timid blue eyes to the priest's face.

Illustration: “Do You Take the Lane and Hurry Home, Asthore, and I'll Take the Road and Keep an Eye Out for Him”

“I hear everyone saying, allanna, what a grand little mother you are to the brothers and sisters since—since your poor mother was taken away from you; and it's pleased I am and proud of you.”

The ghost of a smile flickered a moment over the child's sensitive lips. Wasn't it the grand thing entirely to be praised like that by such a great man as Father Cassidy! But it's little he knew the trouble Bridgeen had with those same brothers and sisters; indeed she was strongly tempted to tell him of the goings on of Jamesy. Musha, why shouldn't she tell him? When Daniel Casey, the tailor, went wrong with the drink didn't his wife Julia call in Father Cassidy to put corrections on Daniel? And didn't it work wonders?

As if reading her thought the priest bent low and looked almost deferentially into the innocent, blushing face. “I suppose it's great trials entirely you have with them, acushla?”

Thus encouraged, the colleen broke forth: “Jamesy's the worst, sir,” she cried. “Even Paudeen the baby is more biddable—and Jamesy four years old yisterday and ought to have more sinse. But nothin' plazes him, yer riverence, but pokin' at the fire. Whin I go home now I'll warrant it he's hunkerin' in the ashes I'll find him. If yer honor's riverence'd only stop in and give him a spakin' to”—there was a little catch in Bridgeen's voice as she realized her boldness—“I'd—I'd take it kind.”

Father Cassidy shook his head in sorrowful surprise. “Dear, dear, will you look at that now! I wouldn't have believed it of Jamesy, and him four years old too. Wait till I lay me eyes on him! However, 'tis of yourself I'd like be asking. Are you all ready for the confirmation to-morrow? Have you yer white wreath and veil?”

BRIDGEEN'S eyes dropped instantly, and she fell to digging in the turf with a bare toe. “No,” she whispered, and her head drooped lower and lower.

Wasn't it a terrible thing to be the only girl in the chapel before the archbishop without a white wreath and veil. But, ochone mavrone, the pennies which her mother and she had so carefully hoarded by them had gone a fortnight ago to buy the makings of a sober brown shroud with which to cover a quiet breast.

“Never mind, mavourneen,” said Father Cassidy. “I've a plan. On your way home do you be looking carefully under the hedge as you go along, and who knows you may meet up with the leprechaun. Do you know what the leprechaun is, Bridgeen?”

“Yis, sir—I mane, yer riverence—he's the sly, fairy cobbler that sits undher a twig makin' shoes for the Little People; and if ye can only find him and kape yer eye on him the while, it's three grand wishes he'll give ye to buy his freedom.”

“True for you, Bridgeen, but remember what a cunning trickster the lad is; if he can beguile you to take your eyes from him for a second, he's gone forever; don't forget that. I'm off now. Do you take the lane and hurry home, asthore, and I'll take the road and keep an eye out for him myself, an' whichever of us finds the leprechaun first will go and tell the other.”

There was a laugh in Father Cassidy's eyes as he nodded good-day. Then something tinkled on the road at Bridgeen's feet. She stooped to pick it up. Wonders! It was a bright silver shilling.

“Thank you kindly, yer riverence,” she gasped, but Father Cassidy was already galloping away down the road, laughing softly to himself.

LOOK at that now, Father Cassidy himself to be talking of the leprechaun. Why, then, in spite of what the schoolmaster said, there was truly such a little man, dressed in a green cloak and red cap. It was no lie at all Tim O'Brien was telling. Dear, dear, wouldn't it be the grandest luck in the world if one could only——

“But sure what good if I did meet up with him?” thought Bridgeen. “Isn't it too frightened to spake to him I'd be, let alone clever enough to make the like of him a prisoner? But three wishes! Oh, if I only could.”

Bridgeen had heard a hundred times how years and years ago it was a fairy thrush that had coaxed Tim O'Brien out of this same lane—in troth, almost from this same spot—across the fields to the fairy rath where, Tim declared, he saw the leprechaun. Now, a thrush which had followed Bridget from the village, whirring in short flights along the top of the hedge, stopped on a branch just above her head and began singing fit to burst his swelling throat. And indeed 'twas he that had the fine, friendly song with him!

At first it's little heed the child gave to the bird, for the priest's last words had raised a solemn wonder in her mind, for now, after what Father Cassidy had said, there could be no danger in asking from the fairy cobbler the favor of three wishes. Neither could it be wrong for one to search for the little fairy; didn't the priest himself bid her look carefully under the hedges and didn't he promise to do the same? Well, wasn't it a queer world entirely!

By this time she had reached the stile into Hagan's meadow, so she seated herself on the lowest step to think up the three best wishes and to rest her arms from the heavy brogues.

Wouldn't it be the grand fortune entirely to meet the leprechaun? She turned a dozen wishes over and over in her mind: There was the wreath and veil for herself of course, but then on the other hand there were potatoes and meal for next week, and barely enough turnips for the cow, and the turf down to the last row, and oh, so many needed things; but, above and beyond them all, one impossible, shining wish.

HOWEVER, Father Cassidy had bidden her to hurry home, so, putting aside the pleasant wishes, Bridgeen slowly picked up the brogues from the grass where she had laid them and arose to go. As she did so she cast anxious eyes at the big red sun which was already sending shadows across the fields. And as she looked, there arose sharp and clear before her the great dead tree off at the foot of the hills, the tree that marked the fairy rath where Tim O'Brien once had seen the leprechaun.

“Why couldn't I go there looking for him?” The colleen trembled with excitement. “But it would be dark before I could go to the fairy fort and back again,” she thought shrinkingly.

And the distant tree towered so gloomily, so lonesomely, so silently, that Bridgeen hesitated, with her foot on the stile. But only an instant did she pause, for the friendly thrush which had followed her down the lane from the village, rose out of the hedge near by and with a coaxing, beguiling trill darted away across the meadow toward the fairy sentinel tree.

“I do believe he's calling me,” she whispered.

The cheery note of the thrush took much of the lonesomeness out of the gathering shadows, and Bridgeen, with an answering cry in her throat, quickly hid her father's brogues under the stile and without so much as a glance behind followed the bird's flight.

Eager and brave enough she ran across the fields after the twinkling brown speck which, with many excited calls and soft, coaxing trills, lured her straight as a sunbeam through the cool, damp grass. Out of the meadow over the upland Bridgeen sped; down from the upland into the moor she flew. An astonished curlew sent up a reproachful cry, and the moor hens, indignant at this untimely intrusion, fluttered angrily out of the bog.

The wind beating against the girl's face as she ran blurred the sight of her wide, blue eyes; and by and by, because of a throbbing in her temples, the line between earth and sky began to waver unsteadily up and down. Then, too, a mysterious, shadowy form, invisible, but nevertheless strongly palpable to her excited imagination, peeped out of the ditch after she had passed, and she knew that another strange shape crouched hidden in the rushes.

BUT, in spite of all her fears, a new, wild hope lent fluttering courage to her heart and gave such strength of speed to her bare, brown feet that before Bridgeen realized how far she had traveled, the gray, withered sentinel tree flashed up from the ground in her path and stood towering high above her head.

With a quick clasp of her hands and a frightened little gasp, Bridgeen stopped short and looked timidly around. Well might she hesitate! Just a few yards beyond the tree, shadowy, dark, and dumb, crouched the low green mound which was famed through all the countryside as the leprechaun's fairy fort.

There was not a man in the barony, let alone a child, foolhardy enough to venture to this spot after dark; and yet here was Bridgeen standing alone in that very place, with the sun fast disappearing behind the mountains.

To gain a moment's courage, she turned and looked in the direction of the village. It seemed miles and miles away, and a soft, white mist was creeping low along the meadows, cutting her off from the world of living things. There was not a cricket's chirp to break the throbbing silence. Even a curlew's cry would have brought some comfort with it. As she listened a chilling sense of utter loneliness fell upon her, and a nameless dread reached out and touched her like a ghostly hand.

Illustration: So She Seated Herself on the Lowest Step to Think Up the Three Best Wishes and to Rest Her Arms From the Heavy Brogues

Overcome by a shapeless fear she turned to fly from the awesome spot, when clear and cheery from a leafless bough above her head the same thrush began to call. Bridgeen paused, wonderstruck, for the bird was now chirping as plainly almost as spoken words: “The leprechaun! The leprechaun!”

'Twas like a friend's voice in her ear and brought with it the recollection of the importance of her mission. She hesitated no longer. Stealthily and still half afraid, she tiptoed her way over to the shallow ditch which ran about the enchanted place and, with many a shuddering glance, stepped slowly down. There was nothing there save Mayflowers, ivy and daisies.

It was in this very ditch that Tim O'Brien had seen the leprechaun; Bridgeen remembered that well. Her heart beating like that of a captured bird, the child stood, with parted lips and panting breast, wondering whether she should go to the right or to the left, when the twigs stirred on the bank above her head and, glancing quickly up, she saw through the fringe of leaves two round, golden eyes peering down upon her.

For one horrified instant Bridgeen stared fascinated at the eyes, and the eyes, fixed and unwinking, glared back at her. All power of motion deserted the child. Then a smothered cry broke from her lips. At the sound of her voice a pair of slim ears popped straight up above the eyes, and a great brown rabbit sat up on his haunches and listened for a moment, greatly surprised. Then, as though reassured, he coolly turned and with a saucy whisk of his fluffy tail scampered out of sight.

With a quick laugh of relief the nervous colleen wiped her lips with her apron and crept on her way round the fairy rath. She looked eagerly under every bush, and behind every clump of rushes, but found no sign of the leprechaun. After making the circle, so tired was Bridgeen and so disheartened that she sat herself down to think. But lo and behold you, she had hardly time to settle herself comfortably, when from somewhere behind her came the tack, tack, tack of a little hammer!

She listened, every sense alert. There could be no mistake. From behind a sloe bush not five feet away the sound came tinkling clear as a bell—tack-tack-tack-tack.

“Surely,” said Bridgeen to herself, and she trembled at the thought, “it must be the leprechaun!”

Then quietly, oh, so quietly, she stole over to the sloe bush and peeped cautiously behind it. There, in truth, was a sight of wonder. Seated on a flat stone and partly hidden by the grass worked a frowning little cobbler, hammering and stitching with all his might on a dainty wee slipper the size of your thumb.

WHILE Bridgeen stared the fairy, frowning deeper still, began singing in a high querulous voice:

Tick, tack, tickety, tack!
⁠I've not a breath to lose;
Bad manners to their dancing,
⁠But they're cruel on their shoes!
The quane plays on her silver pipes,
⁠The king lolls on his throne,
But underneath the hawthorn three
⁠I mend and moil alone.

He stopped singing. “All the rest of the world spendin' their lives in fun and jollity!” he muttered. “Wirra, wirra, I'm fair kilt with work, so I am.” With a vicious bang of the little hammer he started again:

They trail their robes of shiny silk,
⁠Wear many a jeweled ring;
I'd make them careful of their brogues
⁠If I could be the king.
They ride the wind from cloud to cloud
⁠'Mid wonder and delight,
But I must stitch the satin shoes
⁠The quane will wear to-night.

The mist is on the spangled fields;
⁠I'm perished with the frost!
If a mortal's eye falls on me,
⁠Tare an' ages, sure I'm lost!
He may ask for love and beauty;
⁠Sure they always ask for wealth;
Much good in love or beauty ——
⁠Huh! I'd rather have me health.

Tick, tack, tickety, tack ——

He sprang to his feet, shaking his tiny hammer at Bridgeen. ““What's the worruld comin' to,” he shouted fiercely, “whin one of your age comes gallopin' and cavortin' over the fields to torture out of a poor ould man the favor of three wishes, you young r-r-rob-ber?”

“No, no, Misther Leprechaun, not that at all,” Bridgeen hurried to say. “I don't want to force yer honor to do anything. I came only to beg from you one little wish. See, I will take my eyes from you, so that you may go away if you like; but, oh, it would be kind of you, indeed, indeed it would, to hear the wish before you go.”

“Do! Take yer eyes from me! I dare ye!” snapped the little man.

And indeed turn away her head she did; but when she looked back to the rock again, there still sat the little cobbler much as before, only now there was a friendlier light shining through his big spectacles.

“That was the daycintest thrick,” vowed he, thumping the rock with his fist, “that I've seen a human crachure do in foive hundhred years—I mane whin ye turned yer head, mavourneen. Be raison, I've a gr-reat curiosity to know what this one grand thing is that ye'd be after wishin' for. It's a crock o' goold, no doubt,” he said, peering.

Bridgeen shook her head sadly and threw him a wistful look.

The leprechaun dropped his chin into his hand and stared quizzically. “It's a coach an' four thin, I'm thinkin',” he ventured.

The sad, wistful look deepened on Bridgeen's face.

The leprechaun puzzled a moment in silence and then spoke up quickly: “A-ha, I have it now! If it isn't a purty red dhress wid green ribbons, an' a hat wid a feather as long as yer arrum, thin I'm fair bate out!” exulted he, clasping his knee in his hands and leaning back.

The little girl still hesitated.

“Millia murdher! Isn't it that ayther? Out with it! Spake up!” he encouraged.

Bridgeen nervously plaited the corner of her apron in her fingers and answered: “It isn't any of thim things I want at all, at all,” she hesitated. Then, boldly, “Of course I need a white veil and wreath and dress for my confirmation to-morrow.”

“Oh, my! Oh, my!” broke in the leprechaun. “The wreath and the veil and the purty white dhress! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”

“Still,” Bridgeen continued, “it isn't for thim I came to ask you.”

“Tare an ages, what is it, thin? Ye're makin' me narvous! I niver saw such a quare little colleen!”

“A fortnight ago last Monday”—and Bridgeen bit her lips to hide the tremble—“my mother died; and oh, how can I live longer without her!”

The leprechaun slowly wagged his head and clucked his tongue sympathetically.

Bridgeen faltered, “I know she's in Heaven as Father Cassidy says, and that it's cruel and wicked to wish her back to life again; but I know, too, that even if she is happy with the angels she still must miss little Paudeen the baby sometimes—and, Misther Leprechaun, the one wish I have is that you'll let me see my mother for a minute, just for a minute, won't you?”

HE little cobbler shook his head sadly. “What good 'ud that do?” he sighed.

“If you only knew how my heart aches and aches for a sight of her when I go home and find her not there! You don't know what a terrible thing it is to be without your mother, Leprechaun, do you?”

“I don't,” he answered, wiping his eyes with the corner of his apron. “I never had a mother, but I can aymagine. I wish I could bring her to ye, acushla, but it's beyant me power, I'm sorry to say. Ye see, she's a blessed sperrit up in Heaven and we fairies are only onblessed sperrits down here, ye undherstand; an' it's little the likes of her'd have to do with the likes of us. But maybe the talk I'm talkin' is too deep for ye, colleen. It's tayology,” he said with a grand sweep of his hand.

The last hope was gone. “Never again! Oh, mother! mother!”

The leprechaun had pushed his spectacles high on his forehead and was vigorously Wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “Stop, mavourneen,” he said gruffly, ashamed of his weakness. “Now maybe it isn't so bad as all that. Whist now!” He paused a moment in deep thought, and a-grim, determined look stole over his odd little face.

“I'm goin', Bridgeen Daley,” he said, getting up and tightening the strings on his leather apron. “Sthop yer cryin' an dhry yer eyes. I'm off. I may get insulted an' I may be malthrated, but I'm sure to have an argymint. Howandever, what I can do I will do, and what I can't do I won't do, but I'll sthrive my best endayvors; so do you go and sit again undher that withered three, and we'll see what'll happen. Don't be afeared, for if a thousand fairies were there ferninst ye they'd not harm a hair of yer purty head. But whatever ye do, stir not a stir, and spake not a worrud till the shadow of this three raiches yondher hazel bush. Good-by, I'm of!” And flash! he was gone.

BRIDGEEN went and sat under the tree as she was told. Presently she noticed how the stealthy shadow of the tree crept nearer and nearer the hazel bush. At last the quivering tracings of the topmost branch, reaching out eager fingers, touched the bush.

Bridgeen caught her breath and glanced around or some sign, but for the moment there as none. The only moving things she saw were two belated bees which, rising heavily laden from the sweetbriar bush at her side, buzzing and tumbling, started for home, and in the grass at her feet a busy little brown spider was measuring off the outlines of a net and which stopped now and then to listen, one slender arm lifted. The colleen looked reproachfully toward the white stone upon which had perched the leprechaun. There it still shone dimly amongst the swaying rushes.

“The time is past and she isn't here. Oh, I wonder if she'll come,” grieved Bridgeen.

As if in answer to the thought the rushes bowed low to the ground and over their heads swept a cool wind which lifted the curls on the child's brow. Or was it the wind? Was it not rather soft, caressing fingers that were smoothing the brown hair back from her forehead?

Bridgeen started to her knees with a sobbing, laughing cry of “Mother! mother! My own mother!”

For there, bending over her, was the face she loved best in all the world. Never before had the child seen so much tenderness and peaceful happiness shining in the dear, patient eyes. Crying and laughing, Bridgeen flung herself into the arms outstretched for her.

“Bridgeen asthore, acushla machree!” Though the voice was as soft as the voice of the wind, it still held the same lingering tenderness that had soothed and comforted a thousand griefs and sorrows.

And now, with her head once more in its old place upon her mother's breast, all the cares, all the heartaches were forgotten.

“Your lonesome cry brings me thus visible to you, allanna!”

“Oh, mother, I've wanted you so much!” murmured Bridgeen with a sigh of measureless joy and relief.

“But don't you know I am never away from you, asthore? I've felt every tear that you have shed, and every grief of your heart has been a pain to me.'

“OH, IF I had only known that, mother, I wouldn't have grieved. I thought you were away from us entirely,” cried the child.

“Listen, Bridgeen, and mark my words,” the mother warned, “for the time is short and I've many things to tell you.”

And then, with faces close, the two talked earnestly about many important things—how willingly Bridgeen must obey her father; how carefull she must be to keep the stirabout from burning in the morning; but, above all, how watchful she must be to keep her brother Jamesy away from the fire. The colleen promised faithfully not to forget. And so they talked on lovingly, happily together.

At last the mother said: “It is the children's bedtime, and you must be my own brave daughter and go to them. Keep well in your mind what I have said; be cheerful and contented, for we are not separated. And listen, mavourneen!

“To-morrow—the morning we had so long hoped for and planned for together, the day of your confirmation—though you will not see me there, still I'll be kneeling happy at your side.”

“Mother, I'll be contented and happy always now; indeed, indeed I will.”

“Now hurry home, mavourneen,” the mother whispered. “Run straight on without looking back. Have no fear, and remember!” Bridgeen felt a kiss on her forehead, and she knew that her mother was gone.

So, her happy heart filled with satisfied longings, without once turning her head, she ran out into the fields, her spirit growing lighter and lighter at every step.

ON AND ON she hurried, picking up her father's brogues as she passed the stile; and she never tarried till she came to her own door.

There she found waiting for her, all bristling with excitement, Kathleen, Norah, Jamesy and Paudeen, and they were carefully guarding a long, white, pasteboard box, held jealously between them.

“Oh Bridgeen, Father Cassidy was just here, an' he said he met the leprechaun, an' he left this box an' said he'd skiver Jamesy for pokin' at the fire, an' for us all not to so much as lay a finger on the knot of the cord till you came home.” It was Kathleen who spoke.

With shaking fingers and amid eager proffers of help from Kathleen, Norah, Jamesy, and even little Paudeen, the string was untied and the lid lifted. And what do you think was in that same box?

Why, nothing else but the prettiest white dress and veil and wreath ever worn in the parish of Ballinderg.

•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•

The next morning the good old archbishop leaned over Bridgeen Daley where she knelt.

He thought that in all the years of his life he had never seen so happy a face.

And do you wonder that to this day Bridgeen will hear no doubting or unkind word spoken of the leprechaun?