“... there should be Little People up the mountain yonder....

“If you will come to tea at four o’clock, Fergus will tell you a story of the Little People,” said Mary to Hortense, adding as Hortense hesitated a moment, “Bring Andy with you.”

Hortense accepted gladly and ran to inform Andy of the invitation and that nut cake with chocolate icing had been especially made for the occasion.

At four o’clock Andy and Hortense, in their best bib and tucker and with clean smiling faces, knocked at the door of the little cottage beyond the orchard where lived Fergus and Mary.

The tea was all that could be asked for in variety and quantity, and it was quite evident when Hortense and Andy had finished with it that if they ate even a mouthful of supper later, they would be taking a grave risk of bad dreams and castor oil.

Fergus lighted his pipe, drew his chair a little closer to the hearth, and related the story of Shamus the Harper.

You must know that a very long time ago, when many kings ruled Ireland, there lived a boy named Shamus. He was not, however, the son or grandson of a king, which was in itself a distinction. In fact, his father had a bit of a farm and a few sheep, and it was his intention that Shamus, likewise, should be a farmer and a raiser of sheep.

Shamus, however, had other ideas. Being a shrewd lad, he saw early that men seldom made a fortune and won the good things of the world through toil and the sweat of their brows. Not at all! And Shamus loved an easy life only less than he loved to play upon the harp and sing songs of the old days, the wars of kings, and the love of beautiful women. He was always playing upon the harp when he should have been working in the fields and watching the sheep, and his father soon realized that the lad was fit for no honest work but was designed by nature only to be a harper and a maker of ballads.

One day he said to his son, “Take your harp and go to the house of the King. Perhaps he may find a use for you, for sure it is you are of no use to me. When you have won gold and wear fine clothes, perhaps after long years you will return to see me in my old age, and I will think better of you.”

Shamus was glad at these words and, packing a few things in a bag
and slinging his harp upon his back, off he went to the house of
the King.

It was a fine house with many servants and poor relations of the King, eating the bread of idleness. There were harpers, also, but as there can never be too many of them in the world, the King said to Shamus, “Play me a ballad of kings and wars, and the love of women, and, if the song be good, you shall stay with me and have little to do but make songs and sing them.”

Shamus did as he was told and sang a song which the King liked
well, and accordingly the lad was given a fine coat and all he
could eat and nothing to do, and he was content.

Now, the King had a daughter who was as beautiful as the dawn. No sooner had Shamus set eyes upon her than he fell in love with her and resolved to win her as his wife, if she would have him and the King would consent. He made songs which he sang to her, and the Princess liked them. She grew fond of Shamus, who was a handsome lad.

The King, however, after the way of kings and fathers, had other ideas and announced throughout the kingdom that the Princess should be the wife of him who was victorious in a quest, which was no other than to win from the King of the Little People the gold cup forever filled with good wine. No matter how much was drunk therefrom, the cup was never empty. The King chose this quest for the reason that he was very fond of good wine and could never get enough.

Shamus, therefore, like many others, set out to win the gold cup from the King of the Little People. He slung his harp on his shoulder and put a bit of bread and meat in a bag to stay him on his journey, which promised to be long.

Now, Shamus, having been reared in the country, knew that the Little People liked best to live in the hills and mountains. So to the mountains he went, making songs to lighten the long way. He made a song of running water, and of the wind in the trees, and of moonlight upon a grassy slope, and these he liked better than any songs he had yet composed.

At last he came to the hills and mountains and set himself to watch for the Little People. Every moonlight night he sat by a green hill, hoping that the Little People would come forth to dance, as is their way, but never did he chance to see them, and he began to despair of finding them. Nevertheless he was not sad, for he had his harp, and the songs which came to him were beautiful, and he cared even more for these than for the love of the Princess. One day, as he sat in the woods playing upon his harp, he chanced to look up, and there drew near a beautiful creature upon a beautiful horse from whose mane hung many silver bells that chimed sweetly in the wind.

“Play me a song if you are a harper,” said she.

He played her his song of running water, and she liked it well; he
played his song of wind in the trees, which she liked yet better;
and then he played his song of moonlight on a grassy slope.

The beautiful creature clapped her hands.

“Come with me to Elfland,” said she, “for I am Queen of that place,
and I will give you a coat of even cloth and make you a minstrel at
my court. Have you the courage to do so?”

“It is the one wish of my heart,” said Shamus.

Accordingly, up he mounted behind the Queen of Elfland and away
flew her horse, the silver bells chiming in the wind.

For three days and nights they flew, and Shamus saw the moon turn red and heard the roaring of the sea. At last they came to the Court of Elfland, where, on a golden throne, sat the King of the Little People, most brave and fierce, tugging at his beard.

“What have we here?” he roared in a big voice. “Then let him play,”
commanded he when the Queen of Elfland had spoken her word.

Shamus played his three songs, and the King of the Little People no
longer pulled at his beard but sat as one in a dream.

“Those are good songs,” said he at last. “Give him a coat of the
even cloth, and he shall play to me when I desire.”

Accordingly, Shamus was given a fine green coat and became a minstrel at the court of the King of the Little People. So carefree was the life, and the food and wine so good, that the memory of his former life and of the beautiful Princess became as the memory of a dim and half-forgotten sorrow, and Shamus thought no more of returning to the world.

One day, however, when he was recalling all his old songs to please the King, who, after the way of kings, was always hankering for something new, his fingers found a song of his childhood, one that carried him back to the days in his father’s house. Then he also remembered other things, including the Princess and his love for her and the quest upon which he had started. His fingers fumbled with the strings, he could find no voice to sing further, and great tears rolled down his face and splashed on the ground.

“Stop it!” commanded the King of the Little People, drawing his
feet up under him for fear of the damp. “Why is it you weep such
wet tears?”

So Shamus told him the cause of his sorrow while the King plucked
at his beard and looked wise. When Shamus had finished, the King
said to him:

“If I should give you the goblet that you seek and back you should
go to the world, sorrowful would be your days and nightly would you
lament the lost and beautiful years you have spent with me.”

“Nevertheless,” said Shamus, “so it is, and I must live my life as
it is ordered.”

“So be it,” said the King. “I do not value the goblet a whit but I
must, of course, lay upon you three tasks which you must perform
before it is yours.”

“What are they?” Shamus asked.

“First,” said the King, “get me the magic dog that belongs to the
King of the Gnomes and the sound of whose silver bell drives away
all thought of sorrow.”

“Good,” said Shamus, and away he went to seek the King of the
Gnomes.

After many days and adventures too numerous to relate, he came to the house of the King of the Gnomes, which was inside a mountain and as thickset with jewels as the grass with dew on a fine morning.

Shamus told his desire and the King of the Gnomes ordered the dog to be brought. It was a tiny creature, and looking at its coat one way its color was gold, and looking at it another way its color was green, and underneath it was a fire red. Around its neck was a silver bell that chimed sweetly as it walked and at the sound of which all sorrow was forgotten.

“’Tis a fine dog,” said Shamus.

“’Tis that.” said the King, “and the sound of the bell is sweet,
but one thing it will not do. Have you a wife?” said he.

“I have not,” said Shamus.

The King looked at him long with envy in his eyes.

“Some are born lucky in this world,” said he. “Know that I have a wife whose tongue is like the roar of a waterfall day and night, save now and then when she takes a nap as she is now doing. Her talk drowns out the sound of the silver bell and drives me nearly mad. Make her cease her clatter, and the dog is yours.”

Just then there was a great noise and out came the Queen, talking thirteen to the dozen. The King clapped his fingers to his ears, and the magic dog put his tail between his legs and crawled under the throne. The King said never a word, but his glance said plain as day, “Isn’t it as I said?”

So Shamus took his harp and began to play his song of running water. At first he could not make himself heard, but after a while, as he played, the Queen’s talk came slower and slower, and softer and softer, and by and by she was speechless.

Then Shamus began to walk slowly away, and the Queen followed. On and on he walked until he came to a stream. In the middle was a stone. Around it foamed the white water. Onto the stone leapt Shamus, still playing. The Queen stood on the bank and wrung her hands, and then with a shriek she threw herself in and was swept away in the white water.

Shamus leapt back to the bank where stood the King much pleased.

“The dog is yours,” said he, “and a good bargain I’ve made. The silence,” he said, “will be like honey on the tongue. Now and then,” he said, “I’ll likely come to the stream and drop in a bit of a stone. It roars louder than it did, don’t you think?”

And indeed it did so, for the Queen’s voice was going still and has
never since stopped.

Shamus took the little dog under his arm and carried him back to
the King of the Little People.

“So far so good,” said the King. “Next, bring me the magic
blackbird who sings so sweetly for the King of the Forest.”

Off went Shamus again, this time to the forest, where he found the
King sitting under an oak tree.

“What do you here?” said the King, and Shamus told him.

“I’ll not part with the bird,” said the King, “although I’m a bit tired of his song. It’s too sweet,” said he, “and I prefer the cawing of crows and the croaking of ravens. However, it is much admired by others, and therefore I shall keep him.”

He ordered the bird to be brought and bade it sing, which it did
most beautifully.

“His high notes are a bit hoarse to-day,” said the King. “I’ve
heard him do better.”

The bird cast him a murderous glance, and Shamus, who was a singer himself, felt sore at heart that a good song should receive so little praise. However, he kept his thoughts to himself, which he had found a good practice when dealing with kings.

Also, he stayed to supper with the King and afterwards sang and
played, the King every now and then breaking in with a word to say
how it should be done.

“You do not badly for a beginner,” said he when Shamus had
finished.

Shamus could have slain him where he stood for those ungracious
words, but he bided his time, pretending to be well-pleased.

When all were asleep that night, Shamus slipped from his bed and went into the woods where he began to play softly his song of the wind in the trees. Louder and louder he played, and sure enough, the blackbird soon came and perched on a tree near by. When he had done, the bird said, “It is a pleasure to hear a song well-played.”

“Sorry was I to hear the words of the King when you sang so sweetly
before him,” replied Shamus.

“Little he knows of songs,” retorted the bird, “and I’m thinking
I’ll go where I’ll be appreciated.”

“Then come with me,” said Shamus. “There are kings and kings, and
some are better than others.”

So he told him of the King of the Little People and of the good
things that came to those who sang for him.

“I’ll go with you,” answered the bird.

Quietly they slipped away lest the King of the Forest surprise
them, and back they went to the King of the Little People.

“Good again,” acknowledged the King, and he commanded the bird to
sing.

“I’m almost minded to let you off the third task,” the King
exclaimed, “but a vow is a vow and must not be broken. Bring me
last the hare that dances by moonlight.”

Shamus went off a third time and traveled until he came to a fine grassy slope, and there he awaited the full moon. Sure enough, as he lay hidden, out came the hare and began to dance, leaping and bounding and playing with his shadow.

Then Shamus began to play, softly at first and then louder and
louder. Higher and faster danced the hare to the music and when it
was done he sat down, panting, on the grass.

“It is a good song, and never have I danced so well,” exclaimed he.

“And never,” said Shamus, “have I seen such wonderful dancing.”

“Thank you for that,” rejoined the hare. “It is not often that I
get an audience which can appreciate me, and you know yourself that
a bit of praise helps wonderfully to make one do his best.”

“’Tis so,” said Shamus. “A word of praise is meat and drink to one
who sings or dances,” he added remembering the hare.

Shamus told the hare of the King of the Little People and the good
things at his court.

“Belike he’d have a bit of a carrot or a patch of good clover,”
said the hare wistfully.

“That he would,” Shamus returned heartily. “Come with me and I’ll
show you.”

“I’ll do it,” said the hare, and off they went to the King of the
Little People.

“You have done all that I asked,” said the King, “and do you still
wish to return to the world?”

“It is my fate to do so,” said Shamus.

“So be it,” said the King, “but long will you lament the day. It is
easier to go than to return. However, I’m not saying that some day
you may not come back to me, for I like you well.”

The King gave Shamus the magic goblet and ordered that he be borne
from Elfland, and Shamus returned to the world.

With the goblet in his pocket and his harp slung over his shoulder, he made his way to the court of the King and the Princess. On the throne sat an old woman, and the faces of those around were strange to him.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Shamus told her the story of his wanderings and produced the
goblet.

“Where is the Princess?” he inquired.

At these words the old Queen upon the throne burst into loud
weeping.

“Long have you been gone, Shamus,” said she. “It is seven times
seven years since you left me. And now I am old, and you are as you
were. It is too late!”

To Shamus, the time passed in Elfland had been no more than a year,
and his heart was sorrowful as he turned away without a word.

“Belike my father is dead,” said he as he bent his steps toward
home.

There he also found new faces and was given the word that his
father had been dead this many a year. In sorrow Shamus turned
away, making sad songs to comfort his heart.

Thus he wandered through the world, finding no place where he could
rest. His songs were sad and all who heard them wept, but he was
not unhappy, for there is a certain pleasure in even a sad song.

Yet always he longed for Elfland and the ways of the Little People, and the sound of the bell on the magic dog, whose chime brings forgetfulness of all sorrow. Try as he would, he could never find the way, and he knew that it was because his songs were sad and he was no longer young at heart.

Older he grew with white hair and feeble step, and one day he was weary and sat himself down in a wood to rest. He sat there, thinking of his lost youth and the sad ways of the world, longing to die.

As he lamented, his fingers plucked his harp and he played again
his best songs, those of running water, and the sound of wind in
the trees, and of moonlight on a grassy slope.

His heart grew young within him as he played, and when he rose to
his feet, the dimness of age fell away from his eyes. Before him
stood the Queen of the Little People, as she had stood long before.

“Will you come with me, Shamus?” said she.

“Alas,” said he, “I am now too old.”

“Your songs are young,” said she, “and you are young again in
heart. Come with me, where you may be young forever and play glad
songs.”

Shamus mounted up behind on the beautiful horse, away they flew,
and that was the last ever seen of him upon earth.

Hortense and Andy sat silent a moment as Fergus looked at them with his merry blue eyes.

“I wish there were still Little People,” said Hortense with a sigh.

“Perhaps there are,” said Fergus. “Who knows?”

“Have you ever seen them?” Andy demanded.

“Not of late,” Fergus admitted, “but when I was a young lad in Ireland I saw them many a time.”

“But not here?” said Hortense.

“It’s because I’m old, not because they’re not about,” said Fergus. “To young eyes there should be Little People up the mountain yonder on a fine moonlight night.”

Andy and Hortense looked at each other as though to say, “We’ll find out, won’t we?” which was indeed what both of them were thinking.