they were relaysed by the King, that same little fairy, King Brian Connors, used often to visit thim an’ sit with thim colloguin’ and debaytin’ an’ considherin’ in Darby O’Gill’s kitchen.
One lonesome Decimber night, when Bridget and the childher were away visiting Bridget’s father at Ballingher, and the angry blast was screaming and dhrifting the first white flakes of winther around Darby’s house, thin it was that Darby O’Gill, Brian Connors, the King of the Good People, and Maureen McGibney sat with their heads together before the blazing hearth. The King, being not much higher than your two hands, sat on the child’s stool betwixt the other two, his green cloak flung back from his chowlders, and the goold crown on his head glistening in the firelight.
It was a pleasant sight to watch them there in the flickering hearth glow. From time to time, as he talked, the ould King patted Maureen’s hands and looked smiling up into her purty gray eyes. They had been discoursing on the subject of Throubles and Thribulations.
“Arrah! You ought to be the happy man, King,” Darby says, sipping his noggin of punch, “with no
