ott, Sir Walter's young daughter-in-law, drew back, and declared
that she was afraid to go. Everybody urged her and reasoned with her,
but she could not be persuaded--she would not go--she would stay where
she was. Sir Walter did not seem at all vexed with her, though he
laughed at her childish fears, but insisted on staying with her; and as
the boat pushed off, he sat down on the shore beside her, and plucked
flowers for her hair, and tried his best to entertain her--the good,
kind great man! When the laughter and songs of his merry friends came
to him across the water, he would smile cheerily, and wave his hat to
them, and never once said how sorry he was not to be with them. I have
heard many noble things about Sir Walter Scott, but nothing that speaks
better for his generous, tender heart, than this little anecdote.

I should like to describe further this strange and charming place, but
I fear I have no room for any more descriptions of scenery. I will now
try to give you some idea of the fairy lore and superstitions of this
part of Ireland.

The fairies, or "good people," according to the belief of the peasants,
are not confined to any locality; they are all over the country,
wherever they can find pleasant, secluded nooks, flowers, and green
grass. Their meeting-places are said to be the "Raths," which are
singular artificial mounds, supposed to have been built by the Danes,
away back in the heathen ages. Fairies have the reputation of being in
general good-humored and kindly, though full of merry pranks and
frolicsome tricks; yet the peasants are very careful not to offend them
by intruding upon their haunts at night, or speaking disrespectfully of
their little mightinesses--for they say, "they have tempers of their
own, and not having a Christian _idication_, can't be blamed for not
behaving in a Christian-like fashion--poor _craturs_."

The _Phooka_ is said to be a half-wicked, half-mischievous spirit, who
takes the form of many strange animals, but oftenest assumes that of a
wild horse. His great object then, is to get a rider, and when he has
persuaded a poor fellow to mount him, he never lets him off till he has
treated him to a ride long and hard enough to last him his lifetime.
Over bogs and moors, ditches and walls, across streams, up and down
mountains, he gallops, leaps, and plunges, making the welkin ring with
his horrible horse-laugh, and snorting fire from his nostrils.

There is a funny s