Fern pressed a wrinkled finger against each of the tiny shamrocks embedded in the mossy roof. “I used to love playing leprechauns,” she mused, turning the miniature clover-colored house in her stiff hands. “Guess you’re not so magical after all.”
Peering inside
By Deborah Bainbridge I can’t believe I landed my red breeches in detention again. “Dia dhuit!” Mrs. O’Grady, a plump fiery-haired lady, walks past a row of my classmates and removes my green top hat by its gold buckle. “Third time this year, isn’t it, Skylar? You’re seventeen and as mischievous as the next leprechaun.
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