over, and there before his two popping eyes was a sight of wondheration.
Sitting on a white stone an’ working away like fury, hammering pegs into a little red shoe, half the size of your thumb, was a bald-headed ould cobbler of about twice the hoight of your hand. On the top of a round, snub nose was perched a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, an’ a narrow fringe of iron-gray whuskers grew undher his stubby chin. The brown leather apron he wore was so long that it covered his green knee-breeches an’ almost hid the knitted gray stockings.
The Leprechaun—for it was he indade—as he worked, mumbled an’ mutthered in great discontent:
“Oh, haven’t I the hard, hard luck,” he said. “I’ll never have thim done in time for her to dance in to-night. So, thin, I’ll be kilt entirely,” says he. “Was there ever another quane of the fairies as wearing on shoes an’ brogues an’ dancin’-slippers? Haven’t I the—” Looking up, he saw Darby.
“The top of the day to you, dacint man!” says the cobbler, jumpin’ up. Giving a sharp cry, he pinted quick at Darby’s stomach. “But, wirra, wirra, what’s that woolly, ugly thing you have crawl-
