CELTIC FAIRY TALES
The Field of Boliauns
One fine day in harvest - it was indeed Ladyday in harvest,
that everybody knows to be one of the greatest holidays in the year - Tom Fitzpatrick was taking
a ramble through the ground, and went along the sunny side of a hedge; when all of a sudden he
heard a clacking sort of noise a little before him in the hedge. "Dear me," said Tom, "but isn't
it surprising to hear the stonechatters singing so late in the season?" So Tom stole on, going on
the tops of his toes to try if he could get a sight of what was making the noise, to see if he was
right in his guess. The noise stopped; but as Tom looked sharply through the bushes, what should
he see in a nook of the hedge but a brown pitcher, that might hold about a gallon and a half of
liquor; and by-and-by a little wee teeny tiny bit of an old man, with a little motty of a cocked
hat stuck upon the top of his head, a deeshy daushy leather apron hanging before him, pulled out
a little wooden stool, and stood up upon it, and dipped a little piggin into the pitcher, and
took out the full of it, and put it beside the stool, and then sat down under the pitcher, and
began to work at putting a heel-piece on a bit of a brogue just fit for himself. "Well, by the
powers," said Tom to himself, "I often heard tell of the Lepracauns, and, to tell God's truth,
I never rightly believed in them-but here's one of them in real earnest. If I go knowingly to
work, I'm a made man. They say a body must never take their eyes off them, or they'll escape."
Tom now stole on a little further, with his eye fixed on the little man just as a
cat does with a mouse. So when he got up quite close to him, "God bless your work, neighbour,"
The little man raised up his head, and "Thank you kindly," said he.
"I wonder you'd be working on the holiday!" said Tom.
"That's my own business, not yours," was the reply.
"Well, may be you'd be civil enough to tell as what you've got in the pitcher there?"
"That I will, with pleasure," said he; "it's good beer."
"Beer!" said Tom. "Thunder and fire! where did you get it?"
"Where did I get it, is it? Why, I made it. And what do you think I made it of?"
"Devil a one of me knows," said Tom; "but of malt, I suppose, what else?"
"There you're out. I made it of heath."
"Of heath!" said Tom, bursting out laughing; "sure you don't think me to be
such a fool as to believe that?"
"Do as you please," said he, "but what I tell you is the truth. Did you never hear
tell of the Danes."
"Well, what about them?" said Tom.
"Why, all the about them there is, is that when they were here they taught us to make
beer out of the heath, and the secret's in my family ever since."
"Will you give a body a taste of your beer?" said Tom. "I'll tell you what it is,
young man, it would be fitter for you to be looking after your father's property than to be
bothering decent quiet people with your foolish questions. There now, while you're idling away
your time here, there's the cows have broke into the oats, and are knocking the corn all about."
Tom was taken so by surprise with this that he was just on the very point of turning
round when he recollected himself; so, afraid that the like might happen again, he made a grab
at the Lepracaun, and caught him up in his hand; but in his hurry he overset the pitcher, and
spilt all the beer, so that he could not get a taste of it to tell what sort it was. He then
swore that he would kill him if he did not show him where his money was. Tom looked so wicked
and so bloody-minded that the little man was quite frightened; so says he, "Come along with me a
couple of fields off, and I'll show you a crock of gold."
So they went, and Tom held the Lepracaun fast in his hand, and never took his eyes
from off him, though they had to cross hedges and ditches, and a crooked bit of bog, till at last
they came to a great field all full of boliauns, and the Lepracaun pointed to a big boliaun, and
says he, "Dig under that boliaun, and you'll get the great crock all full of guineas."
Tom in his hurry had never thought of bringing a spade with him, so he made up his
mind to run home and fetch one; and that he might know the place again he took off one of his
red garters, and tied it round the boliaun.
Then he said to the Lepracaun, "Swear ye'll not take that garter away from that
boliaun." And the Lepracaun swore right away not to touch it.
"I suppose," said the Lepracaun, very civilly, "you have no further occasion
"No," says Tom; "you may go away now, if you please, and God speed you, and may
good luck attend you wherever you go."
"Well, good-bye to you, Tom Fitzpatrick," said the Lepracaun; "and much good may it
do you when you get it."
So Tom ran for dear life, till he came home and got a spade, and then away with him,
as hard as he could go, back to the field of boliauns; but when he got there, to and behold! not
a boliaun in the field but had a red garter, the very model of his own, tied about it; and as to
digging up the whole field, that was all nonsense, for there were more than forty good Irish acres
in it. So Tom came home again with his spade on his shoulder, a little cooler than he went, and
many's the hearty curse he gave the Lepracaun every time he thought of the neat turn he had served