home. They had been swans so long now that it did not seem to them
that they had ever been anything else. When the winter came again and
again and again, and the days of chilling storm and the nights of
freezing darkness were upon them, the poor brothers longed for nothing
but the end of it all. The thought of the old castle hall, with its
bright fires and its feasts and its music of minstrels and its dances
and its games, was only another pain to them, and they wished only to
die and to leave their sorrows.
"Then they crowded close together, to be as warm as they could, and
Fair-shoulder tried to spread her wings over her brothers, to keep the
storm from them. She tried to comfort them, and she told them again
and again the story that she had heard from the people who stood by
the lake to hear them sing, the story that the King had told, that,
after many hundreds of years, strange men should come across the sea
to Erin--men with shaven heads; that they should build houses and set
up tables in the east ends of their houses, and that they should ring
bells; and when the swans should hear the first sound of those bells
they should have their human shape again, and then they should be
happy forever.
"For three hundred years they were at Loch Derg, and then, by the
power of their enchantment, they were compelled to leave it. They flew
to the sea of Moyle, and there they stayed, through the summer's heat
and the winter's cold, for three hundred years more. Still the sister
told her brothers of the strange men who were to come to Erin and of
the bells that were to free them. But they could not be comforted. The
strange men were too long in coming.
"When the three hundred years were past they had to fly away again to
another sea. As they flew, they passed over the spot where their
father's castle had stood and where they had been happy children
together. Not a stone of the beautiful castle could they see. It had
all crumbled down, and the grass had grown over it for many a year.
They saw the fox that had its hole where their father's bright hearth
fire had been, and they saw the ditch of dirty water where their
father used to welcome kings and bards and wise men at his gate. They
kept their way through the air and saw no more; yet they had seen all
that there was to see. It gave the poor swans only a little ache at
the heart, for they were past hope now. They had suffered too much to
believe anything or to think of anything but the suffering that was
past and the more suffering that was to come.
"The end of their journey came and they swam in a new sea. Again the
sister tried to cheer her brothers, but they could not be cheered. The
strange men with the shaven heads would never come, they thought. They
had waited for them too long.
"But the hundreds of years that had passed had done more than to bring
sorrow to the poor swans. In lands far away a new faith had grown up,
not like the Druids' faith. And at last across the sea to Erin came
the holy St. Patrick. He brought monks with him, and they had shaven
heads. They went about the island and preached, and built chapels. In
the east end of each chapel they set up an altar, and they said masses
and rang bells. And they built a chapel on the island that has since
been called the Isle of Glory.
"And so, one bright morning, Fair-shoulder and her brothers were
swimming near the Isle of Glory, when, of a sudden, there came to them
from the shore the sweet sound of a bell. Then Fair-shoulder called to
her brothers, and they all swam to the shore. And as soon as they were
on shore their form of swans was gone. Fair-shoulder was a beautiful
young girl again, and the brothers were strong, beautiful boys. They
walked up to the little chapel together, and there a monk baptized
them.
"And as soon as they were baptized they were young and strong no
longer. Fair-shoulder was an old, old woman, and her brothers were
old, old men. They were so weak with the age of a thousand years that
they fell upon the floor of the chapel. The monks took them up and
cared for them for a few days, and then they died. And so the word of
the Druid came to pass, that when the strange men should ring their
bells the children of Lir should be swans no longer, and should be
happy forever."
They all waited for a few minutes, to be sure that there was no more
of the story, and then John said: "Mother, it's easy for you to be
tellin' us them tales, and they may be all thrue enough, and I'm not
sayin' they're not. But what good are they to us? The word of the
Druid came thrue, but how long was it in comin' thrue? A thousand
years?"
"A thousand years or more," said his mother; "but the stories can
teach us to be patient, if they can do nothing else."
"They may do that," said John; "the blessed Lord He knows you've been
patient, and He knows the rest of us have tried to be. But what does
it all come to? We can't wait a thousand years for the betther times.
Pether, here, is right. The States would be a betther place for all of
us. If we had the money I'ld say that we ought to go there."
"It's not the bad times alone that's in it," said Peter. "As I told
you before, I could stand them. It's the bother that we're put to all
the time. It's that would make us go to the States this minute, if we
had the chance. But I suppose your mother could never be leavin'
Ireland now, John; she's gettin' so old now, maybe she couldn't stand
the journey."
"Have no fear about that," John answered; "mother's not so old as
you'ld make out, and she's likely to live longer now than some others
that's here this minute."
As he said this John felt Kitty's hand suddenly holding his closer,
and he knew that he ought not to have said it. "Don't mind what I'm
sayin'," he said to her in a whisper; "I dunno what I'm talkin' about,
but I didn't mean you at all, darlin', nor anybody particular. It'll
all come right somehow, and we'll soon see the roses back in your
cheek, and the smile on your lips, and the light in your eyes. Don't
mind what I said."
"But what's the use talkin' of it at all?" said Peter. "You've no
money and we've less. We might as well be talkin' of goin' to the moon
as to the States."
The old woman did not seem to be paying any attention to what the
others were saying, and now nobody at all said anything for a little
while. Then Mrs. O'Brien began: "John and Kitty, I think sometimes
it's true I'm getting old and foolish. I don't know what has made me
talk the way I have to-night I've seen it coming--oh, I've seen it
coming all along--yes, longer than any one of you has seen it--and I
knew I couldn't stand in the way. And yet to be leaving the old
places--the old fields and hills and paths--the old streams and trees
and rocks--the old places where your father and I walked and sat and
talked so often together, where you were born and where he lies--I
couldn't bear to think of it. It's old and weak and foolish I'm
getting, and I couldn't bear to think of it. And so I've tried to make
you think of other things and to make you think that it would be
better somehow, some time. Maybe I've said too much, and maybe I've
kept you from going when you ought to have gone, but you'll know that
it was because I couldn't bear to think of leaving all the dear
places, and you'll forgive me; John and Kitty, you'll forgive me. I
can say no more. If I couldn't think of it, yet I must do it. It is
right that we should go, and we will go."
"And why should you be talkin' that way, mother?" said John. "Was it
what you said that kept us from goin' to the States long ago? Sure, if
you had said nothing at all, we hadn't the money to go, and so what
difference was it what you said?"
"Listen to me, John," said his mother; "it was all through me that you
didn't leave this land of sorrow long ago. It was because it had been
a land of joy as well to me that we all stayed here; and now, since
you're sure that it's right and best for you to go, it's not the want
of money that shall stand in your way. It's yourself knows, John, that
your father--Heaven be his bed!--was always the careful and the saving
man, and I always tried to help him the best I could. The times got a
little better with us, as you know, after those worst ones in '47 and
'48, and we saved a little again--it was not much, but it was
something. Your father left it with me before he died, and he said:
'Keep it always by you till you need it most. Don't use it till the
time comes when you can say, "I shall never need this money more than
I need it now."' So I have always kept it, and I have it now. That was
why I told you not to fear about the winter. It would have paid our
rent if all else had failed, and it would have taken us all through
the winter. But it's better that it should take us to the States. If
we stayed here and used the money, we'ld be as bad off in another
year. Kitty will be getting strong again there, and it'll be better
for all of us. The time that your father said has come; I'm sure we'll
never be needing the money that he left more than we're needing it
now. There's no more to be said; we'll go."
For a little while no more was said. John and Kitty gazed at the old
woman in wonder. The thing that they had thought about for so long,
and wished for as a happiness that could never be, was come to them.
And now it scarcely seemed a happiness; it was half a sorrow. Then
Ellen spoke: "Oh, Mrs. O'Brien, it was always you was the good
neighbor to us! It was always you was with us in joy and in sorrow!
What'll we ever do at all when you're gone and we're left here alone,
with none to be so kind to us as you've always been?"
And Peter said: "I was thinkin' that same. The Lord go wid you and
keep you, wherever you go, but it'll be the sad day for us when you go
away."
"Peter and Ellen," said the old woman "how could you think that we'ld
do a thing like that? You may be a fool sometimes, Peter, but you're
your father's son. Do you know what your father did for us, Peter?
When my John was dying with the fever, he sat and watched with him,
and brought him the water and the whey all night, and night after
night, when I was so worn out that I could watch no longer. He might
have taken the fever himself, and he might have died with it, and he
did take it, but the Lord spared his life for a while after that,
Heaven rest his soul! And another thing that John said to me before he
died was this: 'As long as you have a bit to eat or a drop to drink or
a penny to buy, never let Tom Sullivan or any of his want more than
you want yourself.'
"And so, Peter and Ellen, when we go to the States, you'll both go
too. There's enough of the money to take us all there. If you're ever
able to pay it back, you can do it, if you like; but if not, we'll
never ask you for it. If we went away from here without you, my
husband would look down from Heaven and see me doing what he told me,
with his dying breath, never to do. He would come to me at night and
he would say: 'Mary, you are deserting in their sorrow the children of
them that never deserted us in our sorrow.' Do you think that I could
bear that? Do you think that I would do that?"
* * * * *
Now I have told you all the talk that went on in the O'Briens' house
that night. Perhaps you think that I have been a good while in doing
it. If you will forgive me, I will try to get on with the story a
little faster after this. Only one word more about this talk: you must
not think that this was the first time that these five people had ever
gone over and over this subject of America, or "the States," as they
called it. They had talked of it many times, but Mrs. O'Brien had
never given the word that they should go. The rest of them talked on
and on of what they wished. But when she spoke, they all knew that she
spoke of what was to be. They knew now that they should never talk of
going again, but they should go.
[Illustration: ]
III
THE LITTLE GOOD PEOPLE
There was a good deal of commotion that night in the rath near where
the O'Briens and the Sullivans lived. Do you know what a rath is? I
suppose not. It is hard work to tell stories to you, you are so
ignorant. I will tell you what a rath is. First I will tell you what
it looks like. It looks like a mound of earth, in the shape of a ring,
covered with turf, and perhaps with bushes. They are found all over
Ireland. Some people, who have studied so much that they have lost all
track of what they know and of what they don't know, say that these
raths were made by the people who lived in Ireland many hundreds of
years ago, and that they were strongholds to guard themselves and
their sheep and their cattle from their enemies or from wild beasts.
But people who know as much as Mrs. O'Brien, know that they are the
places where the fairies live, or the Good People, as she would call
them.
On this night that I have been telling you about, the Good People
inside the rath were eating and drinking and dancing and making merry
generally, as they do, you know, the most of the time. Perhaps you
would like to have me tell you how the inside of the rath looked too.
I will do the best I can. In the first place, the walls were all of
silver and the floor was all of gold. Perhaps you don't know--no, I
suppose you don't know--still you may happen to have heard of this
before: the fairies know just where to find pretty much all the gold
and silver and precious stones that there are in the world, if they
happen to want them. They don't want much of them, of course--only
just enough to make the walls and the roofs and the floors of their
houses of, and to put all over their clothes and to make all their
furniture and dishes of, and all their carriages and their boats, and
a few other things--but they know where to find plenty of gold and
silver, if they want it.
Now I think that I had better give you a little science. I believe
that a book which children are to read, always ought to teach
something, so I mean to teach you as much as I can. You must know,
then, that gold is one of the heaviest things in the world. Now you
know that the earth is always whirling round and round, so that the
things that it is made of naturally get shaken up more or less.
Besides that, it was once a good deal softer than it is now, so that
the things that it is made of could move about more than they can now.
And so the most of the gold, being, as I said, one of the heaviest
things, got sifted down toward the bottom--that is, toward the centre
of the earth. Only a little of it was left near the top, compared with
what went to the bottom. It would not be at all surprising if the
middle of the earth were a solid lump of gold, a thousand miles thick.
But we poor men cannot dig down very deep into the earth. We can only
scratch a little dirt off the top, and if we happen to grub up a few
pounds of gold we think that we are rich, and the rest of the world
thinks so too.
But the fairies laugh at us. They know how to go as deep into the
earth as they choose, and so any fairy who chooses can give away gold
all his life, and still have more of it in his dust-bin all the time
than all the kings in the world have in their treasuries. And the
other fairies don't call him rich.
But now we will go back to the rath. Of course it was all under the
ground, so that there was no daylight. At the time we are talking
about, there would not have been any anyway, for it was night. The
place was lighted up with thousands of diamonds and rubies and
emeralds, which were set all over the ceiling and shone like lamps.
Now I won't call you ignorant just because you say that you don't
understand how diamonds could light up anything, for I don't
understand it myself. Let us talk about it together and try to decide.
Suppose you try the experiment. Some night, after dark, take all the
diamonds you have--every one of them--and carry them into a dark room
and spread them out, and see if they light up the room at all. I am
sure that you will find that they do not. On the contrary, if you let
go of them, you will have to go and get a light to hunt for them by.
But I suppose the fairies have some other kind of diamonds than ours,
or else they know some other way of using the same kind. Sometimes
they use fireflies, caught in spider-web nets, but these are generally
for out of doors. To light up their houses they almost always use
diamonds.
There were two tiny bits of turf fire in the rath. One of them was at
one end of the hall, where the King sat, for the King to light his
pipe by, and the other was at the other end, for the other fairy men
to light their pipes by. Fairies do not like fire, as a rule, and they
would never have any more of it about than they could help. But I know
that they must have had some, for I know that Irish fairies smoke
pipes, and how could they light them unless they kept a little fire on
hand?
Now, I know what you will say to that. You will say: "If they could
light a room with diamonds, why couldn't they light pipes with them?"
Well, that is not very easy to answer, but I feel sure that even a
fairy would never think of lighting a pipe with a diamond. I have
owned up already that I don't know exactly how they light rooms with
them, but it is easier for me to imagine a diamond giving light than
giving heat. Isn't it for you? Now, be honest about it.
At one end of the hall sat the King and the Queen, on their thrones.
Near them were half a dozen fairy men who were playing on pipes and
fiddles. All over the floor there were dozens and scores of fairies,
men and women, dancing to the music. All around the walls stood or sat
many more of them, looking at the dancers, and now and then applauding
and shouting at particular ones, or talking together, or simply
smoking their pipes.
Suddenly two fairies rushed into the hall, with a little sound like
the noise of a humming-bird's wings when it passes close to you. From
the lower end of the hall, where they came in, they went straight
through the crowd to where the King and Queen sat. They dropped on
their knees before them for an instant, and then rose and spoke to
them. In a moment the King clapped his hands, with a sign for the
pipers and the fiddlers to stop playing. The instant that they
stopped, everybody in the hall was still.
The King stood up and said to them: "Will ye be still now and listen,
all of ye, to the news that's come to me this minute, and then will ye
help me to think what we're to do about it at all? Here's these two
that's just come in, and they're just afther tellin' me that they've
been at the O'Briens' house this evenin', and there they heard talk
betune the O'Briens and the Sullivans, and it's all decided that both
the O'Briens and the Sullivans is goin' to the States. And it's sorry
I'll be to see the O'Briens lavin' the counthry. I don't care so much
for the Sullivans."
"It was the O'Briens," said the Queen, "that always put the bit and
sup outside the door for us, and what we'll be doin' widout the milk
and the pertaties and the fresh wather, I dunno."
"Ye needn't be throubled about that," the King answered; "haven't we
always enough to eat and drink of our own, whatever happens?"
"Thrue for you," said the Queen, "we have our own food and drink, but
it's not the same that we get from human people. Ye know that same
yourself, and it's you as much as any that'll be missin' them things
when the O'Briens is gone."
"That's the thrue word too," said the King; "it'll be the bad day for
us all out, when they go. What for are they lavin' the counthry at
all?"
"If ye plase, Your Majesty," said one of the fairies who had brought
the news, "we heard all that too. It's the hard times that's in it.
It's that makes them all want to go, and then, more than that, it's
the bother the Sullivans are put to all the time, wid the cow givin'
no milk and the pig not gettin' fat, and all that, and they're bound
that they'll go away and stand it no longer."
"Is that it?" said the King. "It's that divil Naggeneen that's in it.
I told him he could bother them a little if he liked, but not to
bother them too much, and now he's drivin' them and their neighbors
out of the counthry, and we all have to suffer for it. He'll make it
up to us in some way, if they go, or I'll take it out of him. Come
here, Naggeneen! What are ye doin' down there by yourself? Come up
here and stand forninst me, till I give ye a piece of me mind. Now,
what's all this about the O'Briens and the Sullivans lavin' the
counthry? What have ye been about wid them?"
A fairy who had not been in the hall before had just come in at the
far end from the King, who had caught sight of him. He was smoking a
pipe. He had his hands in the pockets of his little green breeches, he
wore a red jacket, and on his head was a red cap. He came slowly up
the hall, when the King called him, and stood before the throne. "Take
off your cap, ye worthless vagabone," said the King, "when you speak
to me."
"I wasn't spakin' to you," said Naggeneen; "it was you that spoke to
me. You called me, and here I am to the fore, though I don't belong to
your pitiful little thribe, and I needn't come when you call, if I
don't like."
"Oh, needn't ye?" said the King. "Take off your cap now, or it'll be
taken off for ye."
Naggeneen took off his cap.
"Now," said the King, "what have ye been doin' to the Sullivans, that
they're lavin' the counthry and persuadin' the O'Briens to go wid
them?"
"I've been doin' nothin'," said Naggeneen, "but what you said I might
do."
"Oh, haven't ye?" said the King. "And what was that?"
"Oh," said Naggeneen, "I just took all the cream and the most of the
milk from their cow, and you yourself had a share of it, as you know
well; and I put a charm on their pig, so that it wouldn't get fat, no
matter how much it 'uld be atin'; and then I druv the smoke of their
fire down the chimney, and I threw the dishes and the pans around in
the night, just so they wouldn't get lazy wid restin' too well, and a
few more little things like that."
"Was that all ye did?" said the King. "And how long have ye been at it
that way?"
"Ever since the day that Mrs. Sullivan threw the dirthy wather on me,
as I was passin' the house. But I'm not the only one that's in it.
Some of your own people here have helped me, and good they are at
divilment too."
"And those things was all you did, was they?" said the King. "And
didn't I tell ye ye could bother them a little, but not too much? What
would ye have done if I had told ye to do what ye liked wid them?"
"What would I have done then? Oh, I'ld have shown ye the real fun
then. What would I have done then? I'ld have pinched them and stuck
pins in them all day and all night. I'ld have put charms on
themselves, so that they'ld grow thinner than the pig. I'ld have took
the pertaties out of the creel when they were put to drain at the
door. If they went away from home I'ld make them think that they saw
their house burning up, and so I'ld scare them to death. What would I
do if you gave me leave? What wouldn't I do?"
"Well, you've done enough as it is," said the King, "to get the whole
of us into throuble, and now let's hear what you're goin' to do to
get us out of it. Here they are lavin' the counthry and takin' the
O'Briens wid them, that was always the good neighbors to us, and they
themselves were sometimes useful in their own way, in spite of
themselves. And now I ask ye, Naggeneen, what are ye goin' to do to
get us out of the throuble ye've got us into?"
"I'm in no throuble meself," Naggeneen answered, "and I dunno what I
have to do wid any throuble that you may be in."
"You're in no throuble yourself? Haven't ye been as good as livin' on
the Sullivans all this time? And now what are ye goin' to do widout
them?"
"I'm goin' to do nothin' widout them; I'm goin' wid them."
"Goin' wid them! Goin' wid them!"
"Them was me words; you and your silly little thribe can do what ye
like; I'm goin' wid them. It's a stuffy little place, this rath of
yours, and I've a notion thravellin' would be good for me health, any
way."
"But how can ye go wid them?"
"It's not hard at all," said Naggeneen, "and it's been done before
this. I was near doin' it meself once. I don't suppose ye remember me
old friend MacCarthy."
"MacCarthy of Ballinacarthy?" the King asked.
"The same," said Naggeneen, "and it was he was the good friend to
mortal or fairy. It was he kept the good house and the good table and
the good cellar--more especially the good cellar. That was not so many
years ago--a hundred and odd, maybe. A fine man he was; we don't see
his like now. I lived wid him the most of the time--in the cellar. And
the strange thing about him was that, though nobody ever had a bad
word for him, though all his servants said that he was the kindest and
the best masther that ever stepped, he could get nobody to stay in the
place of butler. It was all well enough wid the rest--cooks, maids,
hostlers, stable boys--but the first time ever a new butler went into
that beautiful wine cellar for wine, back he'ld come in a hurry and
say that he'ld lave his place the next day, and nothing on earth would
keep him in it. Now, wasn't that strange?"
"Did you say you lived in that cellar?" the King asked.
"The most of the time," said Naggeneen.
"Then it was not strange," said the King.