human
God save us. Christ save us! The Holy Virgin guard us! St. Patrick defend us! St. Columba--
gpt
Don't you come a-near me, bad Piper Tim! she sobbed.
human
You don't dare step on the magic circle anyhow. It 'ud burn your wicked foot!
gpt
I was just lookin' for you, Moira aroon, he said propitiatingly.
human
I was wishin' to tell you--to tell you--why, that it's all pretend. There aren't any little people really, you know. Tis just old Tim's nonsense. He shivered at the blasphemy and crossed himself.
gpt
Or, if there are any, 'tis only in th' ould country.
human
An' if there _are_ any, which they aren't, they're bad things for Christians to have aught to do with, because they know neither right nor wrong, and 'tisn't fit that mortals should iver be light an' gay wi' that burden gone! So they're bad for us--an' we shouldn't think of thim, and just cross ourselves wheniver--
gpt
Och, Moira, acushla, sure an' I know how 'tis to ye-- And then with a reaction to virtue, he said sternly,
human
An' if they're not bad, why do they go when you call on the blessed saints?
gpt
Och, bad Piper Tim, to scare them away from me! It's not that they're bad--only that good's too heavy for them. They're such _little_ people! It's too heavy! It's too heavy.
human
You, Ralph! she cried angrily through her sobs, to her oldest boy, stricken open-mouthed and silent by his mother's amazing outburst,
gpt
As she brushed away the tears she said fretfully,
human
My sakes! When my liver gets to tormenting me so I have the megrims like a girl, it's time to do something.
gpt
Moira, Tim was a big fool to tell you lies. There aren't really any little people. Tis only a way of talkin'-like, to say how lovely the woods and stars an' all are.
human
Why do you sit on the Round Stone evenings?
gpt
That's just it! I pretend all kind o' things, but it's really because the moon is like gold, and the white fog comes up in puffs like incense in the church, an' the valley's all bright wi' lamps like the sky wi' stars. That's all anybody means by fairies--just how lovely things are if we can but open our eyes to see thim, an' take time from th' ugly business o' livin' to hear thim, and get a place quiet enough to half see what everything means. I didn't know before, in Ireland, but now I'm like one born again to the ferie country, and now I think I know. There aren't any Little People really but just in your own head--
human
Are there not, Piper Tim? Are there not? Listen! You'll see! She held up a tiny forefinger to the great man towering above her. As he looked down on her, so pixy-like in the twilight of the pines, he felt his flesh creep. She seemed to be waiting for something infinitely comic which yet should startle her. She was poised, half turned as though for flight, yet hung so, without a quiver in an endless listening pause. The man tried in vain to remember the name of a single saint, so held was he by the breathless expectancy in the eyes of the little hobgoblin. His nerves gave way with a loud snap when she suddenly leaped up at him with snapping fingers and some whispered, half-heard exclamation of