“Plase yeself,” says Darby. “I see Father Casidy comin’ down the hedge,” he says, “an’ he has a prayer for ye all in his book that’ll burn ye up like wisps of sthraw if he ever catches ye here,” says Darby.
With that the roaring and bawling was pitiful to hear, and in a few minutes a bag with two hundhred goold sovereigns in it was trun at Darby’s threshold; and fifty people, young an’ some of them ould, flew over an’ stood beside the King. Some of them had spent years with the fairies. Their relatives thought them dead and buried. They were the lost ones from that parish.
With that Darby pulled the bit of twine again, opening the trap, and it wasn’t long until every fairy was gone.
The green coat of the last one was hardly out of sight when, sure enough, who should come up but Father Cassidy, his book in his hand. He looked at the fifty people who had been with the fairies standin’ there—the poor crathures—thremblin’ an’ wondherin’ an’ afeard to go to their homes.
Darby tould him what had happened.
“Ye foolish man,” says the priest, “you could
