the hamper kem out, an' down wint Terence, falling splash dash into the
wather, an' the ould gandher a-top iv him; down they both wint to the
bottom wid a souse you'd hear half-a-mile off; an' before they had time
to rise agin, his Raverance, wid a fair astonishment, giv his horse one
dig iv the spurs, an' before he knew where he was, in he went, horse and
all, a-top iv them, an' down to the bottom. Up they all kem agin
together, gaspin' an puffin', an' off down the current with them like
shot, in undher the arch iv the bridge, till they kem to the shallow
wather. The ould gandher was the first out, an' the priest and Terence
kem next, pantin' an' blowin' an' more than half dhrounded: an' his
Raverance was so freckened wid the dhroundin' he got, and wid the sight
iv the sperit, as he consaved, that he wasn't the better iv it for a
month. An' as soon as Terence could spake, he said he'd have the life iv
the two gossoons; but Father Crotty would not give him his will; an' as
soon as he got quieter they all endeavoured to explain it, but Terence
consayved he went raly to bed the night before, an' his Raverance said
it was a mysthery, an' swore if he cotched anyone laughin' at the
accident, he'd lay the horsewhip across their shoulders; an' Terence
grew fonder an' fonder iv the gandher every day, until at last he died
in a wondherful ould age, lavin' the gandher afther him an' a large
family iv childer; an' to this day the farm is rinted by one iv Terence
Mooney's lineal legitimate postariors.
The Thrush and the Blackbird.
BY CHARLES JOSEPH KICKHAM (1828-1882).
A stranger meeting Sally Cavanagh, as she tripped along the mountain
road, would consider her a contented and happy young matron, and might
be inclined to set her down as a proud one; for Sally Cavanagh held her
head rather high, and occasionally elevated it still higher with a toss
which had something decidedly haughty about it. She turned up a short
boreen for the purpose of calling upon the gruff blacksmith's wife, who
had been very useful to her for some time before. The smith's habits
were so irregular that his wife was often obliged to visit the pawn
office in the next town, and poor Sally Cavanagh availed herself of
Nancy Ryan's experience in pledging almost everything pledgeable she
possessed. The new cloak, of which even a rich farmer's wife might feel
proud, was the last thing left. It was a present from Connor, and was
only worn on rare occasions, and to part with it was a sore trial.
Loud screams and cries for help made Sally Cavanagh start. She stopped
for a moment, and then ran forward and rushed breathless into the
smith's house. The first sight that met her eyes was our friend Shawn
Gow choking his wife. A heavy three-legged stool came down with such
force upon the part of Shawn Gow's person which happened to be the most
elevated as he bent over the prostrate woman, that, uttering an
exclamation between a grunt and a growl, he bounded into the air, and,
striking his shins against a chair, tumbled head over heels into the
corner. When Shawn found that he was more frightened than hurt, and saw
Sally with the three-legged stool in her hand, a sense of the ludicrous
overcame him, and, turning his face to the wall, he relieved his
feelings by giving way to a fit of laughter. It was of the silent,
inward sort, however, and neither his wife nor Sally Cavanagh had any
notion of the pleasant mood he was in. The bright idea of pretending to
be "kilt" occurred to the overthrown son of Vulcan, and with a fearful
groan he stretched out his huge limbs and remained motionless on the
broad of his back.
Sally's sympathy for the ill-used woman prevented her from giving a
thought to her husband. Great was her astonishment then when Nancy flew
at her like a wild cat. "You kilt my husband," she screamed. Sally
retreated backwards, defending herself as best she could with the stool.
"For God's sake, Nancy, be quiet. Wouldn't he have destroyed you on'y
for me?" But Nancy followed up the attack like a fury. "There's nothing
the matter with him," Sally cried out, on finding herself literally
driven to the wall. "What harm could a little touch of a stool on the
back do the big brute?"
Nancy's feelings appeared to rush suddenly into another channel, for she
turned round quickly, and kneeling down by her husband, lifted up his
head. "_Och! Shawn, avourneen, machree_," she exclaimed, "won't you
spake to me?" Shawn condescended to open his eyes. "Sally," she
continued, "he's comin' to--glory be to God! Hurry over and hould up his
head while I'm runnin' for somethin' to rewive him. Or stay, bring me
the boulster."
The bolster was brought, and Nancy placed it under the patient's head;
then, snatching her shawl from the peg where it hung, she disappeared.
She was back again in five minutes, without the shawl, but with
half-a-pint of whiskey in a bottle.
"Take a taste av this, Shawn, an' 'twill warm your heart."
Shawn Gow sat up and took the bottle in his hand.
"Nancy," says he, "I believe, afther all, you're fond o' me."
"Wisha, Shawn, achora, what else'd I be but fond av you?"
"I thought, Nancy, you couldn't care for a divil that thrated you so
bad."
"Och, Shawn, Shawn, don't talk that way to me. Sure, I thought my heart
was broke when I see you sthretched there 'idout a stir in you."
"An' you left your shawl in pledge again to get this for me?"
"To be sure I did; an' a good right I had; an' sorry I'd be to see you
in want of a dhrop of nourishment."
"I was a baste, Nancy. But if I was, this is what made a baste av me."
And Shawn Gow fixed his eyes upon the bottle with a look in which hatred
and fascination were strangely blended. He turned quickly to his wife.
"Will you give in it was a blackbird?" he said.
"A blackbird," she repeated, irresolutely.
"Yes, a blackbird. Will you give in it was a blackbird?"
Shawn Gow was evidently relapsing into his savage mood.
"Well," said his wife, after some hesitation, "'twas a blackbird. Will
that plase you?"
"An' you'll never say 'twas a thrish agin?"
"Never. An' sure, on'y for the speckles on the breast, I'd never say
'twas a thrish; but sure, you ought to know betther than
me--an'--an'--'twas a blackbird," she exclaimed, with a desperate
effort.
Shawn Gow swung the bottle round his head and flung it with all his
strength against the hob. The whole fireplace was for a moment one blaze
of light.
"The Divil was in id," says the smith, smiling grimly; "an' there he's
off in a flash of fire. I'm done wid him, any way."
"Well, I wish you a happy Christmas, Nancy," said Sally.
"I wish you the same, Sally, an' a great many av 'em. I suppose you're
goin' to first Mass? Shawn and me'll wait for second."
Sally took her leave of this remarkable couple, and proceeded on her way
to the village. She met Tim Croak and his wife, Betty, who were also
going to Mass. After the usual interchange of greetings, Betty surveyed
Sally from head to foot with a look of delighted wonder.
"Look at her, Tim," she exclaimed, "an' isn't she as young an' as hearty
as ever? Bad cess to me but you're the same Sally that danced wid the
master at my weddin', next Thursday fortnight'll be eleven years."
"Begob, you're a great woman," says Tim.
Sally Cavanagh changed the subject by describing the scene she had
witnessed at the blacksmith's.
"But, Tim," said she, after finishing the story, "how did the dispute
about the blackbird come first? I heard something about it, but I forget
it."
"I'll tell you that, then," said Tim. "Begob, ay," he exclaimed
abruptly, after thinking for a moment; "'twas this day seven years, for
all the world--the year o' the hard frost. Shawn Gow set a crib in his
haggard the evenin' afore, and when he went out in the mornin' he had a
hen blackbird. He put the _goulogue_[1] on her nick, and tuk her in his
hand; and wud' one _smulluck_ av his finger knocked the life out av her;
he walked in an' threw the blackbird on the table.
"'Oh, Shawn,' siz Nancy, 'you're afther ketchin' a fine thrish.' Nancy
tuk the bird in her hand an' began rubbin' the feathers on her breast.
'A fine thrish,' siz Nancy.
"''Tisn't a thrish, but a blackbird,' siz Shawn.
"'Wisha, in throth, Shawn,' siz Nancy, ''tis a thrish; do you want to
take the sight o' my eyes from me?'
"'I tell you 'tis a blackbird," siz he.
"'Indeed, then, it isn't, but a thrish,' siz she.
"Anyway, one word borrowed another, an' the end av it was, Shawn flailed
at her an' gev her the father av a batin'.
"The Christmas Day afther, Nancy opened the door an' looked out.
"'God be wud this day twelve months,' siz she, 'do you remimber the fine
thrish you caught in the crib?'
"''Twas a blackbird,' siz Shawn.
"'Och,' siz Nancy, beginnin' to laugh, 'that was a quare blackbird.'
"'Whisht, now, Nancy, 'twas a blackbird,' siz Shawn.
"'Och,' siz Nancy, beginnin' to laugh, 'that was the quare blackbird.'
"Wud that, one word borrowed another, an' Shawn stood up an' gev her the
father av a batin'.
"The third Christmas Day kem, an' they wor in the best o' good humour
afther the tay, an' Shawn, puttin' on his ridin'-coat to go to Mass.
"'Well, Shawn,' siz Nancy, I'm thinkin' av what an unhappy Christmas
mornin' we had this day twelve months, all on account of the thrish you
caught in the crib, bad cess to her.'
"''Twas a blackbird,' siz Shawn.
"'Wisha, good luck to you, an' don't be talkin' foolish,' siz Nancy;
'an' you're betther not get into a passion agin, on account av an ould
thrish. My heavy curse on the same thrish,' siz Nancy.
"'I tell you 'twas a blackbird,' siz Shawn.
"'An' I tell you 'twas a thrish,' siz Nancy.
"'Wud that, Shawn took a _bunnaun_ he had _saisonin'_ in the chimley,
and whaled at Nancy, an' gev her the father av a batin'. An' every
Christmas morning from that day to this 'twas the same story, for as
sure as the sun, Nancy'd draw down the thrish. But do you tell me,
Sally, she's afther givin' in it was a blackbird?"
"She is," replied Sally.
"Begob," said Tim Croak, after a minute's serious reflection, "it ought
to be put in the papers. I never h'ard afore av a wrong notion bein' got
out av a woman's head. But Shawn Gow is no joke to dale wud, and it took
him seven years to do id."
FOOTNOTE:
[1] A forked stick
Their Last Race.
_From "At the Rising of the Moon."_
BY FRANK MATHEW (1865--).
I.--THE FACTION FIGHT.
In the heart of the Connemara Highlands, Carrala Valley hides in a
triangle of mountains. Carrala Village lies in the corner of it towards
Loch Ina, and Aughavanna in the corner nearest Kylemore. Aughavanna is a
wreck now: if you were to look for it you would see only a cluster of
walls grown over by ferns and nettles; but in those remote times, before
the Great Famine, when no English was spoken in the Valley, there was no
place more renowned for wild fun and fighting; and when its men were to
be at a fair, every able-bodied man in the countryside took his
kippeen--his cudgel--from its place in the chimney, and went out to do
battle with a good heart.
Long Mat Murnane was the king of Aughavanna. There was no grander sight
than Mat smashing his way through a forest of kippeens, with his enemies
staggering back to the right and left of him; there was no sweeter sound
than his voice, clear as a bell, full of triumph and gladness, shouting,
"Hurroo! whoop! Aughavanna for ever!" Where his kippeen flickered in the
air his followers charged after, and the enemy rushed to meet him, for
it was an honour to take a broken head from him.
But Carrala Fair was the black day for him. That day Carrala swarmed
with men--fishers from the near coast, dwellers in lonely huts by the
black lakes, or in tiny, ragged villages under the shadow of the
mountains, or in cabins on the hill-sides--every little town for miles,
by river or sea-shore or mountain built, was emptied. The fame of the
Aughavanna men was their ruin, for they were known to fight so well that
every one was dying to fight them. The Joyces sided against them; Black
Michael Joyce had a farm in the third corner of the valley, just where
the road through the bog from Aughavanna (the road with the cross by it)
meets the high-road to Leenane, so his kin mustered in force. Now Black
Michael, "Meehul Dhu," was long Mat's rival; though smaller, he was near
as deadly in fight, and in dancing no man could touch him, for it was
said he could jump a yard into the air and kick himself behind with his
heels in doing it.
The business of the Fair had been hurried so as to leave the more time
for pleasure, and by five of the afternoon every man was mad for the
battle. Why, you could scarcely have moved in Callanan's Field out
beyond the churchyard at the end of the village, it was so packed with
men--more than five hundred were there, and you could not have heard
yourself speak, for they were jumping and dancing, tossing their
caubeens, and shouting themselves hoarse and deaf--"Hurroo for Carrala!"
"Whoop for Aughavanna!"
Around them a mob of women, old men and children, looked on
breathlessly. It was dull weather, and the mists had crept half way down
the dark mountain walls, as if to have a nearer look at the fight.
As the chapel clock struck five, Long Mat Murnane gave the signal. Down
the village he came, rejoicing in his strength, out between the two last
houses, past the churchyard and into Callanan's Field; he looked every
inch a king; his kippeen was ready, his frieze coat was off, with his
left hand he trailed it behind him holding it by the sleeve, while with
a great voice he shouted--in Irish--"Where's the Carrala man that dare
touch my coat? Where's the cowardly scoundrel that dare look crooked at
it?"
In a moment Black Michael Joyce was trailing his own coat behind him,
and rushed forward, with a mighty cry "Where's the face of a trembling
Aughavanna man?" In a moment their kippeens clashed; in another,
hundreds of kippeens crashed together, and the grandest fight ever
fought in Connemara raged over Callanan's Field. After the first roar of
defiance the men had to keep their breath for the hitting, so the shout
of triumph and the groan as one fell were the only sounds that broke the
music of the kippeens clashing and clicking on one another, or striking
home with a thud.
Never was Long Mat nobler; he rushed ravaging through the enemy,
shattering their ranks and their heads; no man could withstand him; Red
Callanan of Carrala went down before him; he knocked the five senses out
of Dan O'Shaughran, of Earrennamore, that herded many pigs by the sedgy
banks of the Owen Erriff; he hollowed the left eye out of Larry Mulcahy,
that lived on the Devil's Mother Mountain--never again did Larry set the
two eyes of him on his high mountain-cradle; he killed Black Michael
Joyce by a beautiful swooping blow on the side of the head--who would
have dreamt that Black Michael had so thin a skull.
For near an hour Mat triumphed, then suddenly he went down under foot.
At first he was missed only by those nearest him, and they took it for
granted that he was up again and fighting. But when the Aughavanna men
found themselves outnumbered and driven back to the village, a great
fear came on them, for they knew that all Ireland could not outnumber
them if Mat was to the fore. Then disaster and rout took them, and they
were forced backwards up the street, struggling desperately, till hardly
a man of them could stand.
And when the victors were shouting themselves dumb, and drinking
themselves blind, the beaten men looked for their leader. Long Mat was
prone, his forehead was smashed, his face had been trampled into the
mud--he had done with fighting. His death was untimely, yet he fell as
he would have chosen--in a friendly battle. For when a man falls under
the hand of an enemy (as of any one who differs from him in creed or
politics) revenge and black blood live after him; but he who takes his
death from the kindly hand of a friend leaves behind him no ill-will,
but only gentle regret for the mishap.
II. THEIR LAST RACE.
When the dead had been duly waked for two days and nights, the burying
day came. All the morning long Mat Murnane's coffin lay on four chairs
by his cabin, with a kneeling ring of dishevelled women keening round
it. Every soul in Aughavanna and their kith and kin had gathered to do
him honour. And when the Angelus bell rang across the valley from the
chapel, the mourners fell into ranks, the coffin was lifted on the rough
hearse, and the motley funeral--a line of carts with a mob of peasants
behind, a few riding, but most of them on foot--moved slowly towards
Carrala. The women were crying bitterly, keening like an Atlantic gale;
the men looked as sober as if they had never heard of a wake, and spoke
sadly of the dead man, and of what a pity it was that he could not see
his funeral.
The Joyces, too, had waited, as was the custom, for the Angelus bell,
and now Black Michael's funeral was moving slowly towards Carrala along
the other side of the bog. Before long either party could hear the
keening of the other, for you know the roads grow nearer as they
converge on Carrala. Before long either party began to fear that the
other would be there first.
There is no knowing how it happened, but the funerals began to go
quicker, keeping abreast; then still quicker, till the women had to
break into a trot to keep up; then still quicker, till the donkeys were
galloping, and till everyone raced at full speed, and the rival parties
broke into a wild shout of "Aughavanna abu!" "Meehul Dhu for ever!"
For the dead men were racing--feet foremost--to the grave; they were
rivals even in death. Never did the world see such a race, never was
there such whooping and shouting. Where the roads met in Callanan's
Field the horses were abreast; neck and neck they dashed across the
trampled fighting-place, while the coffins jogged and jolted as if the
two dead men were struggling to get out and lead the rush; neck to neck
they reached the churchyard, and the horses jammed in the gate. Behind
them the carts crashed into one another, and the mourners shouted as if
they were mad.
But the quick wit of the Aughavanna men triumphed, for they seized their
long coffin and dragged it in, and Long Mat Murnane won his last race.
The shout they gave then deafened the echo up in the mountains, so that
it has never been the same since. The victors wrung one another's hands;
they hugged one another.
"Himself would be proud," they cried, "if he hadn't been dead!"
The First Lord Liftinant.
BY WILLIAM PERCY FRENCH (1854--).
(AS RELATED BY ANDREW GERAGHTY, PHILOMATH.)
"Essex," said Queen Elizabeth, as the two of them sat at breakwhist in
the back parlour of Buckingham Palace, "Essex, me haro, I've got a job
that I think would suit you. Do you know where Ireland is?"
"I'm no great fist at jografy," says his lordship, "but I know the place
you mane. Population, three millions; exports, emigrants."
"Well," says the Queen, "I've been reading the Dublin Evening Mail and
the Telegraft for some time back, and sorra one o' me can get at the
trooth o' how things is goin', for the leadin' articles is as
conthradictory as if they wor husband and wife."
"That's the way wid papers all the world over," says Essex; "Columbus
told me it was the same in Amerikay, when he was there, abusin' and
conthradictin' each other at every turn--it's the way they make their
livin'. Thrubble you for an egg-spoon."
"It's addled they have me betune them," says the Queen. "Not a know I
know what's goin' on. So now, what I want you to do is to run over to
Ireland, like a good fella, and bring me word how matters stand."
"Is it me?" says Essex, leppin' up off his chair. "It's not in airnest
ye are, ould lady. Sure it's the hoight of the London saison. Every
one's in town, and Shake's new fairy piece, 'The Midsummer's Night
Mare,' billed for next week."
"You'll go when ye're tould," says the Queen, fixin' him with her eye,
"if you know which side yer bread's buttered on. See here, now," says
she, seein' him chokin' wid vexation and a slice o' corned beef, "you
ought to be as pleased as Punch about it, for you'll be at the top o'
the walk over there as vice-regent representin' me."
"I ought to have a title or two," says Essex, pluckin' up a bit. "His
Gloriosity the Great Panjandhrum, or the like o' that."
"How would His Excellency the Lord Liftinant of Ireland sthrike you?"
says Elizabeth.
"First class," cries Essex. "Couldn't be betther; it doesn't mean much,
but it's allitherative, and will look well below the number on me hall
door."
Well, boys, it didn't take him long to pack his clothes and start away
for the Island o' Saints. It took him a good while to get there, though,
through not knowin' the road; but by means of a pocket compass and a tip
to the steward, he was landed at last contagious to Dalkey Island. Going
up to an ould man who was sittin' on a rock, he took off his hat, and,
says he--
"That's great weather we're havin'?"
"Good enough for the times that's in it," says the ould man, cockin' one
eye at him.
"Any divarshun' goin on?" says Essex.
"You're a sthranger in these parts, I'm thinkin'," says the ould man,
"or you'd know this was a 'band night' in Dalkey."
"I wasn't aware of it," says Essex; "the fact is," says he, "I only
landed from England just this minute."
"Ay," says the ould man, bitterly, "it's little they know about us over
there. I'll hould you," says he, with a slight thrimble in his voice,
"that the Queen herself doesn't know there is to be fireworks in the
Sorrento Gardens this night." Well, when Essex heard that, he
disrembered entirely he was sent over to Ireland to put down rows and
ructions, and away wid him to see the fun and flirt wid all the pretty
girls he could find. And he found plenty of them--thick as bees they
wor, and each one as beautiful as the day and the morra. He wrote two
letters home next day--one to Queen Elizabeth and the other to Lord
Mountaigle, a playboy like himself. I'll read you the one to the Queen
first:--
"Dame Sthreet, April 16th, 1599.
"Fair Enchantress,--I wish I was back in London, baskin' in your sweet
smiles and listenin' to your melodious voice once more. I got the
consignment of men and the post-office order all right. I was out all
the mornin' lookin' for the inimy, but sorra a taste of Hugh O'Neill
or his men can I find. A policeman at the corner o' Nassau Street told
me they wor hidin' in Wicklow. So I am makin' up a party to explore
the Dargle on Easter Monda'. The girls here are as ugly as sin, and
every minute o' the day I do be wishin' it was your good-lookin' self
I was gazin' at instead o' these ignorant scarecrows.
"Hopin' soon to be back in ould England, I remain, your lovin' subject
Essex."
"P.S.--I hear Hugh O'Neill was seen on the top o' the Donnybrook tram
yesterday mornin'. If I have any luck the head'll be off him before
you get this.
E."
The other letter read this way:--
"Dear Monty--This is a great place, all out. Come over here if you
want fun. Divil such play-boys ever I seen, and the girls--oh! don't
be talkin'--'pon me secret honour you'll see more loveliness at a tay
and a supper ball in Rathmines than there is in the whole of England.
Tell Ned Spenser to send me a love-song to sing to a young girl who
seems to be taken wid my appearance. Her name's Mary, and she lives in
Dunlary, so he oughtn't to find it hard. I hear Hugh O'Neill's a
terror, and hits a powerful welt, especially when you're not lookin'.
If he tries any of his games on wid me, I'll give him in charge. No
brawlin' for your's truly
Essex."
Well, me bould Essex stopped for odds of six months in Dublin,
purtendin' to be very busy subjugatin' the country, but all the time
only losin' his time and money widout doin' a hand's turn, and doin' his
best to avoid a ruction with "Fighting Hugh." If a messenger came to
tell him that O'Neill was camping out on the North Bull, Essex would up
stick and away for Sandycove, where, after draggin' the forty-foot hole,
he'd write off to Elizabeth, saying that, "owing to their suparior
knowledge of the country the dastard foe had once more eluded him."
The Queen got mighty tired of these letters, especially as they always
ended with a request to send stamps by return, and told Essex to finish
up his business and not be makin' a fool of himself.
"Oh, that's the talk, is it," says Essex; "very well, me ould sauce-box"
(that was the name he had for her ever since she gev him the clip on the
ear for turnin' his back on her), "very well me ould sauce-box," says
he, "I'll write off to O'Neill this very minute, and tell him to send in
his lowest terms for peace at ruling prices."
Well, the threaty was a bit of a one-sided one--the terms being--
1. Hugh O'Neill to be King of Great Britain.
2. Lord Essex to return to London and remain there as Viceroy of
England.
3. The O'Neill family to be supported by Government, with free passes
to all theatres and places of entertainment.
4. The London Markets to buy only from Irish dealers.
5. All taxes to be sent in stamped envelopes, directed to H. O'Neill,
and marked "private." Cheques crossed and made payable to H. O'Neill.
Terms cash.
Well, if Essex had had the sense to read through this treaty he'd have
seen it was of too graspin' a nature to pass with any sort of a
respectable sovereign, but he was that mad he just stuck the document in
the pocket of his pot-metal overcoat, and away wid him hot foot for
England.