From “In Chimney Corners,” copyright, 1899, by Doubleday,
Page & Company. By special permission from the author.
Wanst upon a time, when pigs was swine, there was a poor widdy woman
lived all alone with her wan son Jack in a wee hut of a house, that
on a dark night ye might aisily walk over it by mistake, not knowin’
at all, at all, it was there, barrin’ ye’d happen to strike yer toe
again’ it. An’ Jack an’ his mother lived for lee an’ long, as happy
as hard times would allow them, in this wee hut of a house, Jack
sthrivin’ to ’arn a little support for them both by workin’ out, an’
doin’ wee turns back an’ forrid to the neighbors. But there was one
winter, an’ times come to look black enough for them--nothin’ to do,
an’ less to ate, an’ clothe themselves as best they might; an’ the
winther wore on, gettin’ harder an’ harder, till at length when Jack
got up out of his bed on a mornin’, an’ axed his mother to make
ready the drop of stirabout for their little brakwus as usual,
“Musha, Jack,” says his mother, says she, “the male-chist--thanks be
to the Lord!--is as empty as Paddy Ruadh’s donkey that used to ate
his brakwus at supper-time. It stood out long an’ well, but it’s
empty at last, Jack, an’ no sign of how we’re goin’ to get it filled
again--only we trust in the good Lord that niver yet disarted the
widow and the orphan--He’ll not see us wantin’, Jack.”
“The Lord helps them that help themselves, Mother,” says Jack back
again to her.
“Thrue for ye, Jack,” says she, “but I don’t see how we’re goin’ to
help ourselves.”
“He’s a mortial dead mule out an’ out that hasn’t a kick in him,”
says Jack. “An’, Mother, with the help of Providence--not comparin’
the Christian to the brute baste--I have a kick in me yet; if you
thought ye could only manage to sthrive along the best way you could
for a week, or maybe two weeks, till I get back again off a little
journey I’d like to undhertake.”
“An’ may I make bould to ax, Jack,” says his mother to him, “where
would ye be afther makin’ the little journey to?”
“You may that, then, Mother,” says Jack. “It’s this: You know the
King of Munsther is a great jintleman entirely. It’s put on him,
he’s so jintlemanly, that he was niver yet known to make use of a
wrong or disrespectable word. An’ he prides himself on it so much
that he has sent word over all the known airth that he’ll give his
beautiful daughter--the loveliest picthur in all Munsther, an’ maybe
in all Irelan’, if we’d say it--an’ her weight in goold, to any man
that in three trials will make him use the unrespectful word, an’
say, ‘Ye’re a liar!’ But every man that tries him, an’ fails, loses
his head. All sorts and descriptions of people, from prences an’
peers down to bagmen an’ beggars, have come from all parts of the
known world to thry for the great prize, an’ all of them up to this
has failed, an’ by consequence lost their heads. But, Mother dear,”
says Jack, “where’s the use in a head to a man if he can’t get mail
for it to ate? So I’m goin’ to thry me fortune, only axin’ your
blissin’ an’ God’s blissin’ to help me on the way.”
“Why, Jack,” says his mother, “it’s a dangersome task; but as you
remark, where’s the good of the head to ye when ye can’t get mail to
put in it? So, I give ye my blissin’, an’ night, noon, an’ mornin’
I’ll be prayin’ for ye to prosper.”
An’ Jack set out, with his heart as light as his stomach, an’ his
pocket as light as them both together; but a man ’ill not travel far
in ould Irelan’ (thanks be to God!) on the bare-footed stomach--as
we’ll call it--or it’ll be his own fault if he does; an’ Jack didn’t
want for plenty of first-class aitin’ an’ dhrinkin’ lashin’s an’
lavin’s and pressin’ him to more. An’ in this way he thravelled away
before him for five long days till he come to the King of Munsther’s
castle. And when he was comed there he rattled on the gate, an’ out
come the King.
“Well, me man,” says the King, “what might be your business here?”
“I’m come here, your Kingship,” says Jack, mighty polite, an’
pullin’ his forelock, be raison his poor ould mother had always
insthructed him in the heighth of good breedin’--“I’m come here,
your R’yal Highness,” says Jack, “to thry for yer daughter.”
“Hum!” says the King. “Me good young man,” says he, “don’t ye think
it a poor thing to lose yer head?”
“If I lose it,” says Jack, “sure one consolation’ll be that I’ll
lose it in a glorious cause.”
An’ who do ye think would be listenin’ to this same deludherin’
speech of Jack’s, from over the wall, but the King’s beautiful
daughter herself. She took an eyeful out of Jack, an’ right well
plaised she was with his appearance, for,--
“Father,” says she at once, “hasn’t the boy as good a right to get a
chance as another? What’s his head to you? Let the boy in,” says
she.
An’ sure enough, without another word, the King took Jack within the
gates, an’ handin’ him over to the sarvints, tould him to be well
looked afther an’ cared for till mornin’.
Next mornin’ the King took Jack with him an’ fetched him out into
the yard. “Now then, Jack,” says he, “we’re goin’ to begin. We’ll
drop into the stables here, an’ I’ll give you your first chance.”
So he took Jack into the stables an’ showed him some wondherful big
horses, the likes of which poor Jack never saw afore, an’ everyone
of which was the heighth of the side wall of the castle an’ could
step over the castle walls, which were twenty-five feet high,
without strainin’ themselves.
“Them’s purty big horses, Jack,” says the King. “I don’t suppose
ever ye saw as big or as wondherful as them in yer life.”
“Oh, they’re purty big indeed,” says Jack, takin’ it as cool as if
there was nothin’ whatsomever astonishin’ to him about them.
“They’re purty big indeed,” says Jack, “for this counthry. But at
home with us in Donegal we’d only count them little nags, shootable
for the young ladies to dhrive in pony-carriages.”
“What!” says the King, “do ye mane to tell me ye have seen bigger in
Donegal?”
“Bigger!” says Jack. “Phew! Blood alive, yer Kingship, I seen horses
in my father’s stable that could step over your horses without
thrippin’. My father owned one big horse--the greatest, I believe,
in the world again.”
“What was he like?” says the King.
“Well, yer Highness,” says Jack, “it’s quite beyond me to tell ye
what he was like. But I know when we wanted to mount it could only
be done by means of a step-laddher, with nine hundred and ninety
steps to it, every step a mile high, an’ you had to jump seven mile
off the topmost step to get on his back. He ate nine ton of turnips,
nine ton of oats, an’ nine ton of hay in the day, an’ it took
ninety-nine men in the daytime, an’ ninety-nine more in the
night-time, carrying his feeds to him; an’ when he wanted a drink,
the ninety-nine men had to lead him to a lough that was nine mile
long, nine mile broad, an’ nine mile deep, an’ he used to drink it
dry every time,” says Jack, an’ then he looked at the King,
expectin’ he’d surely have to make a liar of him for that.
But the King only smiled at Jack, an’ says he, “Jack, that was a
wonderful horse entirely, an’ no mistake.”
Then he took Jack with him out into the garden for his second trial,
an’ showed him a beeskep, the size of the biggest rick of hay ever
Jack had seen; an’ every bee in the skep was the size of a thrush
an’ queeny bee as big as a jackdaw.
“Jack,” says the King, says he, “isn’t them wondherful bees? I’ll
warrant ye, ye never saw anything like them?”
“Oh, they’re middlin’--middlin’ fairish,” says Jack--“for this
counthry. But they’re nothin’ at all to the bees we have in Donegal.
If one of our bees was flying across the fields,” says Jack, “and
one of your bees happened to come in its way, an’ fall into our
bee’s eye our bee would fly to the skep, an’ ax another bee to take
the mote out of his eye.”
“Do you tell me so, Jack?” says the King. “You must have great
monsthers of bees.”
“Monsthers,” says Jack. “Ah, yer Highness, monsthers is no name for
some of them. I remimber,” says he, “a mighty great breed of bees me
father owned. They were that big that when my father’s new castle
was a-buildin’ (in the steddin’ of the old one which he consaived to
be too small for a man of his mains), and when the workmen closed in
the roof, it was found there was a bee inside, an’ the hall door not
bein’ wide enough, they had to toss the side wall to let it out.
Then the queeny bee--ah! she was a wonderful baste entirely!” says
Jack. “Whenever she went out to take the air she used to overturn
all the ditches and hedges in the country; the wind of her wings
tossed houses and castles; she used to swallow whole flower gardens;
an’ one day she flew against a ridge of mountains nineteen thousand
feet high and knocked a piece out from top to bottom, an’ it’s
called Barnesmore Gap to this day. This queeny bee was a great
trouble an’ annoyance to my father, seein’ all the harm she done the
naybours round about; and once she took it in her head to fly over
to England, an’ she created such mischief an’ disolation there that
the King of Englan’ wrote over to my father if he didn’t come
immediately an’ take home his queeny bee that was wrackin’ an’
ruinin’ all afore her he’d come over himself at the head of all his
army, and wipe my father off the face of the airth. So my father
ordhered me to mount our wondherful big horse that I tould ye about,
an’ that could go nineteen mile at every step, an’ go over to
Englan’ an’ bring home our queeny bee. An’ I mounted the horse an’
started, an’ when I come as far as the sea I had to cross to get
over to Englan’, I put the horse’s two fore feet into my hat, an’ in
that way he thrashed the sea dry all the way across an’ landed me
safely. When I come to the King of Englan’ he had to supply me with
nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand men an’ ninety-nine thousand
mile of chains an’ ropes to catch the queeny bee an’ bind her. It
took us nine years to catch her, nine more to tie her, an’ nine
years and nine millions of men to drag her home, an’ the King of
Englan’ was a beggar afther from that day till the day of his death.
Now what do ye think of that bee?” says Jack, thinkin’ he had the
King this time sure enough.
But the King was a cuter one than Jack took him for, an’ he only
smiled again, an’ says he,--
“Well, Jack, that was a wondherful great queeny bee entirely.”
Next, for poor Jack’s third an’ last chance the King took him to
show him a wondherful field of beans he had, with every bean-stalk
fifteen feet high, an’ every bean the size of a goose’s egg.
“Well, Jack,” says the King, says he, “I’ll engage ye never saw more
wondherful bean-stalks than them?”
“Is it them?” says Jack. “Arrah, man yer Kingship,” says he, “they
may be very good--for this counthry; but sure we’d throw them out of
the ground for useless afther-shoots in Donegal. I mind one
bean-stalk in partickler, that my father had for a show an’ a
cur’osity, that he used to show as a great wondher entirely to
sthrangers. It stood on ninety-nine acres of ground, it was nine
hundred mile high, an’ every leaf covered nine acres. It fed nine
thousand horses, nine thousand mules, an’ nine thousand jackasses
for nineteen years. He used to send nine thousand harvestmen up the
stalk in the spring to cut and gather off the soft branches at the
top. They used to cut these off when they’d reach up as far as them
(which was always in the harvest time), an’ throw them down, an’
nine hundred and ninety-nine horses an’ carts were kept busy for
nine months carting the stuff away. Then the harvestmen always
reached down to the foot of the stalk at Christmas again.”
“Faix, Jack,” says the King, “it was a wondherful bean-stalk, that,
entirely.”
“You might say that,” says Jack, trying to make the most of it, for
he was now on his last leg. “You might say that,” says he. “Why, I
mind one year I went up the stalk with the harvestmen, an’ when I
was nine thousand mile up, doesn’t I miss my foot, and down I come.
I fell feet foremost, and sunk up to my chin in a whinstone rock
that was at the foot. There I was in a quandhary--but I was not long
ruminatin’ till I hauled out my knife, an’ cut off my head, an’ sent
it home to look for help. I watched after it, as it went away, an’
lo an’ behould ye, afore it had gone a mile I saw a fox set on it,
and begin to worry it. ‘By this an’ by that,’ says I to meself, ‘but
this is too bad!’--an’ I jumped out an’ away as hard as I could run,
to the assistance of my head. An’ when I come up, I lifted my foot
an’ give the fox three kicks, an’ knocked three kings out of
him--every one of them a nicer an’ a better jintleman than you.”
“Ye’re a liar, an’ a rascally liar,” says the King.
“More power to ye!” says Jack, givin’ three buck leaps clean into
the air, “an’ it’s proud I am to get you to confess it; for I have
won yer daughter.”
Right enough the King had to give up to Jack the daughter--an’ be
the same token, from the first time she clapped her two eyes on Jack
she wasn’t the girl to gainsay him--an’ her weight in goold. An’
they were both of them marrid, an’ had such a weddin’ as surpassed
all the weddin’s ever was heerd tell of afore or since in that
country or in this. An’ Jack lost no time in sendin’ for his poor
ould mother, an’ neither herself nor Jack ever after knew what it
was to be in want. An’ may you an’ I never know that same naither.