Irish Wonders | Page 7

each layer, disintegrating
first, is washed away by the rains and a clearly defined step is formed.
These terraces are generally about twenty feet high, and of a breadth,
varying with the situation and exposure, of from ten to fifty feet.
The highway from Ennis to Ballyvaughn, a fishing village opposite
Galway, winds, by a circuitous course, through these freaks of nature,
and, on the long descent from the high land to the sea level, passes the
most conspicuous of the neighboring mountains, the Corkscrew Hill.
The general shape of the mountain is conical, the terraces composing it
are of wonderful regularity from the base to the peak, and the strata
being sharply upturned from the horizontal, the impression given is that
of a broad road carved out of the sides of the mountain and winding by
an easy ascent to the summit.
"'Tis the Pooka's Path they call it," said the car-man. "Phat's the Pooka?
Well, that's not aisy to say. It's an avil sper't that does be always in
mischief, but sure it niver does sarious harrum axceptin' to thim that
desarves it, or thim that shpakes av it disrespictful. I never seen it,
Glory be to God, but there's thim that has, and be the same token, they
do say that it looks like the finest black horse that iver wore shoes. But
it isn't a horse at all at all, for no horse 'ud have eyes av fire, or be
breathin' flames av blue wid a shmell o' sulfur, savin' yer presince, or a
shnort like thunder, and no mortial horse 'ud take the lapes it does, or
go as fur widout gettin' tired. Sure when it give Tim O'Bryan the ride it
give him, it wint from Gort to Athlone wid wan jump, an' the next it tuk
he was in Mullingyar, and the next was in Dublin, and back agin be
way av Kilkenny an' Limerick, an' niver turned a hair. How far is that?
Faith I dunno, but it's a power av distance, an' clane acrost Ireland an'
back. He knew it was the Pooka bekase it shpake to him like a
Christian mortial, only it isn't agrayble in its language an' 'ull niver give
ye a dacint word afther ye're on its back, an' sometimes not before
aither.

"Sure Dennis O'Rourke was afther comin' home wan night, it was only
a boy I was, but I mind him tellin' the shtory, an' it was at a fair in
Galway he'd been. He'd been havin' a sup, some says more, but whin he
come to the rath, and jist beyant where the fairies dance and ferninst the
wall where the polisman was shot last winther, he fell in the ditch, quite
spint and tired complately. It wasn't the length as much as the wideness
av the road was in it, fur he was goin' from wan side to the other an' it
was too much fur him entirely. So he laid shtill fur a bit and thin thried
fur to get up, but his legs wor light and his head was heavy, an' whin he
attimpted to get his feet an the road 'twas his head that was an it, bekase
his legs cudn't balance it. Well, he laid there and was bet entirely, an'
while he was studyin' how he'd raise, he heard the throttin' av a horse
on the road. ''Tis meself 'ull get the lift now,' says he, and laid waitin',
and up comes the Pooka. Whin Dennis seen him, begob, he kivered his
face wid his hands and turned on the breast av him, and roared wid
fright like a bull.
[Illustration: Dennis and the Pooka]
"'Arrah thin, ye snakin' blaggârd,' says the Pooka, mighty short, 'lave
aff yer bawlin' or I'll kick ye to the ind av next week,' says he to him.
"But Dennis was scairt, an' bellered louder than afore, so the Pooka,
wid his hoof, give him a crack on the back that knocked the wind out
av him.
"'Will ye lave aff,' says the Pooka, 'or will I give ye another, ye roarin'
dough-face?'
"Dennis left aff blubberin' so the Pooka got his timper back.
"'Shtand up, ye guzzlin' sarpint,' says the Pooka, 'I'll give ye a ride.'
"'Plaze yer Honor,' says Dennis, 'I can't. Sure I've not been afther
drinkin' at all, but shmokin' too much an' atin', an' it's sick I am, and not
ontoxicated.'
"'Och, ye dhrunken buzzard,' says the Pooka, 'Don't offer fur to desave

me,' liftin' up his hoof agin, an' givin' his tail a swish that sounded like
the noise av a catheract, 'Didn't I thrack ye for two miles be yer breath,'
says he, 'An' you shmellin' like a potheen fact'ry,' says he, 'An' the nose
on yer face