Ay, it’s a bad thing to displeasure the gentry, sure enough — they can be unfriendly if they’re angered, an’ they can be the very best o’ gude neighbours if they’re treated kindly.
  My mother’s sister was her lone in the house one day, wi’ a big pot o’ water boiling on the fire, and ane o’ the wee folk fell down the chimney, and slipped wi’ his leg in the hot water.
 He let a terrible squeal out o’ him, an’ in a minute the house was full o’ wee crathurs pulling him out o’ the pot, an’ carrying him across the floor.
 “Did she scald you?” my aunt heard them saying to him.
 “Na, na, it was mysel’ scalded my ainsel’,” quoth the wee fellow.
 “A weel, a weel,” says they. “If it was your ainsel scalded yoursel’, we’ll say nothing, but if she had scalded you, we’d ha’ made her pay.”

Pat Diver, the tinker, was a man well-accustomed to a wandering life, and to strange shelters; he had shared the beggar’s blanket in smoky cabins; he had crouched beside the still in many a nook and corner where poteen was made {91} on the wild Innishowen mountains; he had even slept on the bare heather, or on the ditch, with no roof over him but the vault of heaven; yet were all his nights of adventure tame and commonplace when compared with one especial night.
 During the day preceding that night, he had mended all the kettles and saucepans in Moville and Greencastle, and was on his way to Culdaff, when night overtook him on a lonely mountain road.
 He knocked at one door after another asking for a night’s lodging, while he jingled the halfpence in his pocket, but was everywhere refused.
 Where was the boasted hospitality of Innishowen, which he had never before known to fail? It was of no use to be able to pay when the people seemed so churlish. Thus thinking, he made his way towards a light a little farther on, and knocked at another cabin door.
 An old man and woman were seated one at each side of the fire.
 “Will you be pleased to give me a night’s lodging, sir?” asked Pat respectfully.
 “Can you tell a story?” returned the old man.
 “No, then, sir, I canna say I’m good at story-telling,” replied the puzzled tinker.
 “Then you maun just gang farther, for none but them that can tell a story will get in here.”
[...]

Thady and Grace Connor lived on the borders of a large turf bog, in the parish of Clondevaddock, where they could hear the Atlantic surges thunder in upon the shore, and see the wild storms of winter sweep over the Muckish mountain, {131} and his rugged neighbours. Even in summer the cabin by the bog was dull and dreary enough.
 Thady Connor worked in the fields, and Grace made a livelihood as a pedlar, carrying a basket of remnants of cloth, calico, drugget, and frieze about the country. The people rarely visited any large town, and found it convenient to buy from Grace, who was welcomed in many a lonely house, where a table was hastily cleared, that she might display her wares. Being considered a very honest woman, she was frequently entrusted with commissions to the shops in Letterkenny and Ramelton. As she set out towards home, her basket was generally laden with little gifts for her children.
 “Grace, dear,” would one of the kind housewives say, “here’s a farrel [16] of oaten cake, wi’ a taste o’ butter on it; tak’ it wi’ you for the weans,” or, “Here’s half-a-dozen of eggs; you’ve a big family to support.”
 Small Connors of all ages crowded round the weary mother, to rifle her basket of these gifts. But her thrifty, hard life came suddenly to an end. She died after an illness of a few hours, and was waked and buried as handsomely as Thady could afford.
 Thady was in bed the night after the funeral, and the fire still burned brightly, when he saw his departed wife across the room and bend over the cradle. Terrified, he muttered rapid prayers, covered his face with the blanket; and on looking up again the appearance was gone.
 Next night he lifted the infant out of the cradle, [...]

Not far from Rathmullen lived, last spring, a family called Hanlon; and in a farm-house, some fields distant, people named Dogherty. Both families had good cows, but the Hanlons were fortunate in possessing a Kerry cow that gave more milk and yellower butter than the others.
 Grace Dogherty, a young girl, who was more admired than loved in the neighbourhood, took much interest in the Kerry cow, and appeared one night at Mrs. Hanlon’s door with the modest request —
 “Will you let me milk your Moiley cow?”
 “An’ why wad you wish to milk wee Moiley, Grace, dear,” inquired Mrs. Hanlon.
 “Oh, just becase you’re sae throng at the present time.”
 “Thank you kindly, Grace, but I’m no too throng to do my ain work. I’ll no trouble you to milk.”
 The girl turned away with a discontented air; but the next evening, and the next, found her at the cow-house door with the same request. {150}
 At length Mrs. Hanlon, not knowing well how to persist in her refusal, yielded, and permitted Grace to milk the Kerry cow.
 She soon had reason to regret her want of firmness. Moiley gave no milk to her owner.
 When this melancholy state of things lasted for three days, the Hanlons applied to a certain Mark McCarrion, who lived near Binion.
 “That cow has been milked by someone with an evil eye,” said he. “Will she give you a wee drop, do you think? The full of a pint measure wad do.”
 “Oh, ay, Mark, dear; I’ll get that much milk frae her, any way.”
 “Weel, Mrs. Hanlon, lock the door, an’ get nine new pins that was never used in clothes, an’ put them into a saucepan wi’ the pint o’ milk. Set them on the fire, an’ let them come to the boil.”
 The nine pins soon began to simmer in Moiley’s [19] milk.
 Rapid steps were heard approaching the door, agitated knocks followed, and Grace Dogherty’s high-toned voice was raised in eager entreaty.
 “Let me in, Mrs. Hanlon!” she cried. “Tak off that cruel pot! Tak out them pins, for they’re pricking holes in my heart, an’ I’ll never offer to touch milk of yours again.”

1] W. B. Yeats, ed., Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry (Walter Scott 1888), contains “A Donegal Fairy” (p.46); “Jamie Freel and the Young Lady: A Donegal Tale” (pp.53-59 - as attached); “Far Darrig in Donegal” (ibid., p.90-93), and “Grace Connor” (ibid., p.130-32), and “Bewitched Butter” (ibid., p.149-50).

[ See Yeats’s anthology in RICORSO Library > “Irish Classics > W. B. Yeats” - via index, or direct. ]

2] Rosemary Gray, ed. & sel., Irish Ghost Stories (Wordsworth Editions 2005), incls. “Far Darrig in Donegal” and “Jamie Freel and the Young Lady: A Donegal Tale” [available online; accessed 10.01.2012].

3] The Field Day Anthology of Irish Writing, Vol. IV: “Irish Women’s Writing and Traditions” (2002), incls. “Jamie Freel and the Young Lady: A Donegal Tale” (1909) on p.1169ff.

4] Lindel Buckley reprints “Grace Connor” - at Donegal Genealogy Resources > “Works of Letitia McClintock, Dunmore, Kilrea” [online; accessed 10.01.2012]. Note: This is the tale of a woman, the title character, who returns from the grave to haunt her husband and divulges to other women her concern about unpaid debts. The whole (which incorporates a footnote on farrel, farll, farli, or parli (i.e., griddle bread) - is given in newspaper column facsimile style. (Extract: “Thady Connor worked in the fields, and Grace made a livelihood as a pedlar, carrying a basket of remnants of cloth, calico, dugget, and frieze about the country [...]’ No other works are given and no biography cited.

Louth on Line > McClintock [link; accessed 05.09.2008; unavailable at 10.01.2012].