priest.

"Good evening, your reverence," cried Toonie, and flourished off his
cap, so that out fell his capful of moonshine. And though he went on all
the way up over the top of Drundle Head, never a fairy did he spy; for
he forgot that, in passing what he supposed to be the priest, he had let
go both his mouthful of silence and his capful of moonshine.

The next night, when he was coming to the ascent of the hill, he saw a
little elderly man wandering uncertainly over the ground ahead of him;
and he too seemed to have his hands full of courage and his cap full of
moonshine. As Toonie drew near, the other turned about and said to him,
"Can you tell me, neighbour, if this be the way to the fairies?"

"Why, you fool," cried Toonie, "a moment ago it was! But now you have
gone and let go your mouthful of silence!"

"To be sure, to be sure--so I have!" answered the old man sadly; and
turning about, he disappeared among the bushes.

As for Toonie, he went on right over the top of Drundle Head, keeping
his eyes well to the right; but never a fairy did he see. For he too had
on the way let go his mouthful of silence.

Toonie, when his second failure came home to him, was quite vexed with
himself for his folly and mismanagement. So that it should not happen
again, he got his wife to tie on his cap of moonshine so firmly that it
could not come off, and to gag up his mouth so that no word could come
out of it. And once more taking his courage in both hands, he set out.

For a long way he went and nothing happened, so he was in good hopes of
getting the desire of his eyes before the night was over; and, clenching
his fists tight upon his courage, he pressed on.

He had nearly reached to the top of Drundle Head, when up from the
ground sprang the same little elderly man of the evening before, and
began beating him across the face with a hazel wand. And at that Toonie
threw up both hands and let go his courage, and turned and tried to run
down the hill.

When her husband did not return, Toonie's wife became a kind of a
widow. People were very kind to her, and told her that Toonie was not
dead--that he had only fallen into the hands of the good-folk; but all
day long she sat and cried, "I fastened on his cap of moonshine, and I
tied up his tongue; and for all that he has gone away and left me!" And
so she cried until her child was born and named Little Toonie in memory
of his lost father.

After a while people, looking at