pillosopher, to have the most raynouned fairy in the worruld take such a shine to you,” wint on the head.
“Haven’t ye seen enough to make yerself like him?” cried the King, raising half his body through the open windy. “Didn’t ye mark how ca’m an’ bould he stood waitin’ for ye, whin any other man in Ireland would be this time have wore his legs to the knees runnin’ from ye? Where is the pillosopher except Darby O’Gill who would have guessed that ’twas meself that was in the coach, an’ would have flung me the by-worrud so careless and handy?” cried the King, his face blazing with admyration.
The worruds put pride into the heart of our hayro, an’ pride the worruld over is the twin sisther of courage. And then, too, whilst the King was talkin’ that deep, obsthreperous cloud which had covered the sky slipped off the edge of the moon an’ hurried to jine its fellows, who were waiting for it out over the ocean. And the moon, to make a-minds for its late obscuraytion, showered down sudden a flood of such cheerful, silver light that the drooping, separate leaves and the glistening blades of grass lept up clane an’ laughin’ to the eye. Some of that cheer wint into Darby’s
