The Luck of the Mulligans
The wee King of the Fairies sat in the dust of the road where Ann Mulligan had dhropped him. There were dents in his goold crown, and the baby’s dhress he still wore was soiled and tore.
Ow! Ow! Ow! What a terrible joult agin the ground Ann Mulligan gave him when she took the covering from his head and found his own face gazing up at her instead of her baby Patsy’s. He turned to shake his fist up the road, and twishted once more to shake his fist down the road.
“Be the bones of Pether White,” he says, “what me and me subjects’ll do to-night to this parish’ll make the big wind seem like a cock’s breath!”
“But,” he says, again, “how’ll I hide meself till dark? Wirra! Wirra! if it were only sunset—the sun has melted every power and charm and spell out of me—the power has left my four bones. I can be seen and molested by any spalpeen that comes along; what’ll I do at all at all! I think I had best be get-
