“Bad scran to you,” says Sheelah. “I’ll have to go an’ ask the banshee herself about that. Don’t stir from that spot till I come back.”
You may believe it or not, but with that sayin’ she bent the head of her crutch well forward, an’ before Darby’s very face she trew—savin’ your presence—one leg over the stick as though it had been a horse, an’ while one might say Jack Robinson the crutch riz into the air an’ lifted her, an’ she went sailing out of sight.
Darby was still gaping an’ gawpin’ at the darkness where she disappeared whin—whisk! she was back agin an’ dismountin’ at his side.
“The luck is with you,” says she, spiteful. “That wish I give, that wish I grant you. You’ll find seven crossed rushes undher McCarthy’s door-step; uncross them, put them in fire or in wather, an’ the spell is lifted. Be quick with the third wish—out with it!”
“I’m in a more particular hurry about that than you are,” says Darby. “You must find me my brier pipe,” says he.
“You omadhaun,” sneered the fairy-woman, “’tis sthuck in the band of your hat, where you put it when you left your own house the night. No, no, not in
