All magic fades, magical creatures lose their power, and deities retire. But not in sacred Ireland, where the spirit of a pragmatic age breathes only half-heartedly, and the wondrous still thrive, bestowing gifts on the good and vexing the wicked. Ladies and gentlemen in ceremonial finery, red caps and green cloaks, barely discernible among the grasses and flowers, ride out in cavalcades and dance in the nighttime graveyards, teaching presumptuous youths a lesson, and occasionally abducting a human child, leaving an enchanted log in the cradle. Bored merrows lure sailors to the ocean floor, tempting them with a bottle of brandy. Grumpy leprechauns, skilled shoemakers, never forget to indulge in mischief—rarely innocent ones. Yesterday's dead haunt their slayers as ghosts, and prophetic banshees already mourn the dead of tomorrow. It's no wonder that, while collecting and systematizing the tales and legends of his native land, Ireland's greatest poet, William Butler Yeats (1865–1939), became convinced: 'If you dig deep enough, everyone is a seer. A Celt is already a seer.'