“But fairies can’t cross runnin’ water,” says Darby, wondherin’.
“That’s all shuperstition,” says the King. “Didn’t I cross the river Ryan? But, ma’am,” says he, “you have a third favour, an’ one I’m wishin’ for mightilly meself, an’ that is, that ye’ll taiche us the ballad of ‘Mary McGinnis.’”
The banshee blushed. “I have a cowld,” says she. “’Tis the way with singers,” says the King, winkin’ at Darby, “but we’ll thank ye to do yer best, ma’am,” says he.
Well, the banshee took out her comb, an’ fastening to it the broken ind, she passed it through her hair a few times an’ began the song.
At first her woice was purty wake an’ thrimblin’, but the more she combed the sthronger it grew, till at last it rose high and clear, and sweet and wild as Darby’d heerd it that Halloween night up at McCarthy’s.
The two hayroes stood in the shadow of a three, Darby listening and the King busy writing down the song. At the last worrud the place where she had been standing flashed empty an’ Darby never saw her again.
