The
Folk of Furry Farm
The Romance of an Irish Village
By
K. F. Purdon
With an Introduction by
George A. Birmingham
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1914
BY
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION v
CHAPTER
I.--THE FURRY FARM 1
II.--THE GAME LEG 37
III.--THE “REST OF HIM” 57
IV.--A DAYLIGHT GHOST 105
V.--MATCHMAKING IN ARDENOO 146
VI.--A SETTLED GIRL 182
VII.--AN AMERICAN VISITOR 226
VIII.--ROSY AT FURRY FARM 278
IX.--COMRADE CHILDREN AT THE FURRY FARM 314
INTRODUCTION
WITH A NOTE ON THE PEOPLE OF THE PLAIN
BY GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM
It is the duty of the writer of an introduction, as I understand
his position, to provide what Mr. Bernard Shaw calls “First Aid to
Critics.” That is to say, it is my business to explain the position
which Miss Purdon holds in modern Irish literature and to say why her
work is interesting and in what respects it is good. I do not feel in
the least inclined to point out the weaknesses of her writing. For one
thing, there are plenty of reviewers in the world who will do that,
and apparently take pleasure in doing it. For another, although like
all human works this book is imperfect, I have enjoyed reading it and
have been too much interested in what I read to be impressed by the
faults which must, no doubt, exist. I shall, therefore, provide aid
only to the kinder sort of critic, to him who is sufficiently wise
to appreciate Miss Purdon’s work. I shall save him a lot of trouble,
for, if he reads this introduction, he will be able to allow himself to
enjoy Miss Purdon’s writing without bothering himself about what he is
to say in his review. I shall tell him that.
The first point about _The Folk of Furry Farm_ to which I wish to
draw attention is that it is written in prose. This may seem to be a
commonplace and obvious kind of fact, but in reality it has a certain
importance which might very well be overlooked. Miss Purdon belongs
to the Irish Literary Movement, and it has, as yet, produced very
little prose and less prose fiction. At the beginning the movement
was inspired by the hero tales of ancient Ireland and the mysticism
in which they are enveloped. These tales came down from the days of
paganism, and paganism, as everybody who appreciates the Irish Literary
Movement knows, was a wonderful and romantic thing, far superior to
the dowdy materialism of Christianity. Also, our literary movement
fed a good deal upon fairies. Who could write in ordinary prose about
subjects so fascinating as folk-lore and fairies? Mr. Yeats and his
followers could not. They wrote mystic and, as time went on, rather
incomprehensible verse. With them were a number of what we may call
politically patriotic poets like “Ethna Carbery” and Miss Milligan.
They were easier to understand, but were still a long way from the
commonplace things of ordinary life. Then came another band of writers,
headed by Mr. Padraic Colm, who gave us splendid poems about ploughers
and drovers, but still felt it necessary to drag in Dana and Wotan
occasionally. Mr. James Stephens, in his verse, went a step beyond
them, for his is the genius which can make the back street beautiful.
Poetry can get no nearer to realism than James Stephens and Joseph
Campbell.
Meanwhile the Abbey Theatre had been founded and the energies of
many young Irish writers were absorbed in composing plays for it.
It developed in much the same way as the poetry did. At first the
drama was almost as mystic and far-away as the early lyrics. Then
came Synge, the greatest of all the Abbey Theatre writers, who put
a gorgeous language into the mouths of rather squalid but intensely
human peasants. The tendency of his followers had been to emphasise the
squalidness but to leave out the poetry and a good deal of the human
nature. The lines written by Max Beerbohm about Mr. Masefield might
very well be applied to some of them:
A swear word in a village slum
A simple swear word is to some;
To ... something more.
In verse and drama alike the mystic has given way to the materialist,
high poetry to realism. But as yet the Irish Literary Revival has
produced very little ordinary prose literature and hardly any fiction.
Apart from Lady Gregory’s poetic “Kiltartan” prose, the best that has
been produced has generally been of a journalistic kind. I do not mean
that it has been journalese, but that it has appeared in newspapers
and periodicals, and has been concerned primarily with questions of
the day. To mention only two examples, no modern work of its kind has
been more brilliant than the articles in _The Homestead_ written by
“AE.,” while Mr. Arthur Griffith’s editorials for _The United Irishman_
and _Sinn Féin_ are often worthy of comparison with the best that came
from the pen of Mitchel. Of a more permanent kind were the critical
articles of “John Eglinton,” many of them published originally in the
now defunct _Dana_.
There have been, of course, a number of Irish novelists and essayists
who have made great names for themselves, but they have not drawn
their inspiration from the movement which produced the poets. Mr.
George Moore has viewed the Irish Literary Revival as a spectator.
His original inspiration was not from Ireland. Miss Somerville and
Miss Ross are the successors of Lever. No corner of the mantle of Mr.
Standish O’Grady has fallen upon them. They would have written just the
same if there had been no Gaelic League, no fairies, and no ancient
Irish heroes. For Oscar Wilde and Bernard Shaw Ireland can claim just
the same sort of credit, and no more, as she can claim for Sheridan and
Goldsmith. Standish O’Grady, the father of the whole movement, wove
historical romances out of incidents in Irish history. He has had few
or no followers.
There are signs now that the literary movement, having worked from
the highest to the most materialistic in prose and drama, is going to
follow the natural course of development and express itself in prose
fiction. Mr. James Stephens, one of the most brilliant of our poets,
has deserted verse and taken, quite suddenly, to novel-writing. Already
he has earned fame and an assured position. I am inclined to think
that he is typical of a wide change of which Miss Purdon is another
example. If she had published a book ten or fifteen years ago it would
probably have been verse. Happily this is to-day, and she has found a
scope for her abilities more suitable to them than poetry.
I hope that Miss Purdon will not resent being called part of a
movement. When she has written a few more books and read reviews of
them she will become quite accustomed to this particular kind of
insult. In reality she holds a position a little apart from other
Irish authors. Her distinction is that she has chosen a new part of
the country to write about. I do not know exactly where the Furry
Farm is, but I am inclined to place it somewhere in the western part
of Leinster, in Meath or Kildare, on the great plain which fattens
cattle for the market. Other Irish writers, whether they wanted humour,
romance, or mysticism, have gone to the maritime counties for their
material. Galway, Cork, and Wicklow provide scenes for most of the
plays which are acted in the Abbey Theatre. Some poets write about
Donegal, others prefer North-East Ulster, and a few brave spirits have
ventured into the streets and suburbs of Dublin. But I cannot remember
that any plays or poems of importance have been written about the
people of the central plain. They are regarded, for some reason obscure
to me, as unworthy of a place in literature. They have, so one would
gather, lost the virtues of Gaeldom without acquiring the sentimental
regard for them which rescues Dublin from the reproach of “seoninism.”
The accepted view of literary Ireland is that the people of Meath are
as uninteresting as the bullocks which they herd.
Miss Purdon comes to us to prove the contrary. A great merit of her
work is the fidelity with which she reproduces the dialect of the
peasants about whom she writes. I do not know the western Leinster
speech myself, but I am certain that Miss Purdon deals with it
faithfully. She could not--no single person could--have invented _all_
the phrases and expressions which she has put into the mouths of the
characters of her stories. We have in her book the living tongue
spoken by a neglected class of Irishmen. I do not say that the people
of Meath and Kildare have the magic glamour of Celtic mysticism. I am
no judge of such things. I have seldom succeeded in recognising it
even in places where I know that it must be. But Miss Purdon’s people
have imagination. How else would they say of a lonely place, “There
wasn’t a neighbour within the bawl of an ass of it”? If they had not
humour, they would not think of saying, “His pockets would be like
sideboards, the way he’d have them stuck out with meat and eggs and so
on.” The men who use expressions like these cannot possibly be stupid,
and Miss Purdon makes them very real. They are, as their speech shows,
of a type different from that of the peasantry of the Atlantic coast.
Perhaps they have no appeal to make to poets; but they must certainly
be capable of providing material for many plays and novels. Miss Purdon
has discovered a new country, found a fresh subject for the pens of
Irish writers.
G. A. B.
The
Folk of Furry Farm
The Folk of Furry Farm
CHAPTER I
THE FURRY FARM
There isn’t one now at Ardenoo that could tell you rightly about the
Heffernans, or when the first of the name had come in upon the Furry
Farm. People would remark that they were “the oldest standards about
the place, and had been there during _secula_.” And some said that in
the real old ancient times, it was Heffernans that had owned the whole
countryside, and had been great high Quality then, until they were
turned out of their home, through their being Catholics. Of course such
things did occur, but not often. There would not be many willing to be
mixed up in such dirty work. And, moreover, those that came in on land
in that way, mostly always did it to keep their place warm for whoever
had had to quit out. There’s a lot of nature in people, more than
they get credit for. That’s how things don’t turn out as bad as you
might expect very often. And of course along with all, there’s a great
satisfaction in getting the better of the law.
It’s likely some friend of the Heffernans had stood to them in this
way, when they had had to leave, and had just held the land for them,
till they could slip back upon it again. But they had never said how it
was. A queer, silent sort they were ever and always, that would never
have much talk out of them about anything that would be going on, let
alone about themselves.
But however it came to pass, at the time I am going to tell you about,
there was nothing left of what had been once a very great fine kind
of a place, only a bit of a ruined house, like, with the remains of a
roof made of slabs of bog-oak over part of it, and it all reducing away
under the weather.
Whatever it used to be, the Heffernans I knew would just fasten a calf
in it, maybe, or put a goose to hatch there the way her mind wouldn’t
be riz, it being a very quiet corner. And it was necessary to have
every such little business as that going on at the Furry Farm, if you
wanted to be able even to pay the rent, let alone live yourself out of
the land. For the Heffernans had to pay rent now, as well as another;
and for land that was no great shakes, being very poor and thin. The
best of it they never got back at all.
Betimes you’d hear it remarked in Ardenoo, how that they and their
land were well matched. For if some of their bottom-land was sour, so
was the Heffernan temper; and they could be as crabbed and contrary in
their ways as the furze that was bristling over their own hills. And
in another thing they were like their farm. Whatever treatment they
got, that’s what they’d give. If you acted well by a Heffernan, they’d
do the same by you; but they’d never pass over a bad turn; and, troth!
there’s more than the Heffernans of the opinion that it’s only a fool
that forgets! And so by their land. Hungry as it was, it would always
return some sort of a crop, in proportion to the way it was tilled and
manured. But it and its owners weren’t much to look at; you had to know
them well, before you could find out the good there was in them.
In the course of time, there was a Heffernan in the Furry Farm,
Michael by name, that was what you might call a chip of the old block.
Quiet-going in himself, he was; silent and fond of industering; and a
bit near about money, on the top of all. You’ll often see people like
that; as if them that worked hard had no time for enjoying what they
make; whereas people that are poor and through-other will spend their
last penny twice as free as what one like Heffernan would spend his
first. And what’s more, they’ll get far better value out of it, too.
But that was just Michael’s way of going on; he’d sooner be putting
up money in the old stocking than spending it on an odd spree. And he
had every right to please himself. For he had no one else, barring
a sister, older than himself, and twice as curious in her ways, and
she with a tongue in her head as long as to-day and to-morrow. Many’s
the time she let Mickey feel the length and breadth of it, but he had
the fashion of never making her an answer, no matter what. It was the
best of his play to say nothing. A man scarce ever can get the better
of a woman that starts to give him a tongue-thrashing. Sure they do
have great practice at it; and small blame to them! isn’t it the only
thing they can do, to have their say out? Heffernan held his whisht in
particular, because he knew well what would happen. The sister would
get that outrageous mad with him, when she couldn’t make him as angry
as herself, that she’d have to quit out; go away for weeks at a time
she would, to friends in Dublin. Then poor Mickey would have great ease.
As far as she was concerned, that is, for he’d have the place to
himself. But he never slackened on the work, only would be at it, early
and late; so much so, that the people would be wondering why he’d
bother his head with it all.
“And he ’ithout one in it, only himself!” they’d cry; “and no signs
of he to be looking out for a wife, either! A middling stale boy poor
Mickey should be, at this present!”
That was true enough, and along with that, he was no great beauty, to
look at. The sister was worse again; as ugly as if she was bespoke.
Still in all, she never gave up all hopes of she getting married. But
that’s the way with a-many a one, as well as Julia Heffernan.
Well, there came the day that she riz a shocking row all out with
Mickey; and for what, neither man nor mortal could tell; no, nor Julia
herself, let alone Mickey. Off with her, to some third or fourth cousin
of theirs in England.
“Luck’s a king and Luck’s a beggar!” says she; “and a body never knows
whose flure it’s waiting on, for you!”
“Sure it’s leaving it behind you, maybe, you are! going off that-a-away
in such a hurry!” says Mickey.
Not but what he was praying for she to be gone. But he knew if he let
on to her how anxious he was to get shut of her, the sorra toe she’d
stir. The same as if you were driving a pig. You must pull it back, if
you want it to go on.
“Leaving it behind me, indeed!” says she; “no, but it’s hardship and a
dog’s life I’m leaving! I’ve stopped here long enough, slaving the skin
off me bones for ye!” says she.
So Mickey said no more, only drove her off himself on the side-car to
the train, with her box; and when she was gone, “A good riddance of bad
rubbish!” said Mickey to himself; and was getting up on the car again,
when he perceived on the platform, as if he was after getting off the
train, a young boy, a sort of a cousin of his own, by the name of Art
Heffernan.
They passed the time of day, of course, and then had some further
discourse, and it appeared that Art was out of a job. He had no means,
no, nor a home; not one belonging to him any nearer nor Mickey. All
his people were either gone to America, or to the old churchyard of
Clough-na-Rinka, he said.
So Mickey then preffered him the chance of coming back with him to the
Furry Farm for a bit, till he’d have time to look about him.
“I don’t mind if I do,” says Art; “but if I stop awhile and work about
the place, what will you do for me in the way of payment?”
“Duck’s wages; the run of your bill,” says Mickey.
“Throw in a shuit of clothes and a pair of brogues, twice a year; and
the grass of the little heifer I have,” says Art, “and I don’t mind
trying how we’ll get on for a bit.”
Mickey agreed to that. He was at a short at that time, with Julia gone
off, and no one likely at hand to do the work about the house, let
alone the farm. And Art was well worthy of what he got. He was a smart,
willing boy; able and ready to put his hand to whatever was required to
be done about the whole place. And Mickey was contented with him. By
this plan, he hadn’t to pay out money in wages; a thing he never had
any wish for was, to part money.
It all went on very well. Art worked early and late, and was always
agreeable and civil-spoken; so that the two of them, Heffernans both,
appeared always to be the best of friends. And the people began saying
among themselves, that Art was as apt as not to be coming in on the
Furry Farm, when the present man would be done with it. That would be
natural enough. But the thing turned out very different, in the heel of
the hunt, from what any one was laying out then about the Heffernans.
There chanced to be a poor widow woman living in a little bit of a
house that was edged in upon the Furry Farm. She paid some small trifle
of rent to Mickey for it and a garden there was to it. She had no one
in this living world in it only herself and a young slip of a girl, a
daughter of hers.
In a case of the kind, you’ll mostly always find there will be some one
or other ready to do the lone woman a good turn, such as the lend of a
hand in the getting of the turf, and the planting of the potatoes, and
so and so on. And Heffernan that was always counted to be a good enough
neighbour, in his own way, would say to Art of an evening, “When you
have this, that, and th’other done ... the pigs fed, and the horses
made up for the night, and water and turf left into the kitchen, you
may’s well take and mosey off down to the Widdah Rafferty’s, and see
does she want a hand with anything there.”
“All right!” Art would cry, he being, as I said, a very willing, handy
boy, ready for any job as soon as he’d have the one in hand completed.
So off he’d go; and Mickey would sit down in the chimney-corner, and
light his pipe, and swell himself out with the satisfaction of thinking
how that the poor widdah’s work was getting done, and still he to be at
no loss in life about it.
This went on for some time, till Heffernan began to take notice how
that Art appeared to be getting more and more anxious for his evening
job.
He thought this over for a while, and then says he to Art: “You’re in a
tearing hurry to-night to get all done,” he says; “and to be off from
about the place,” says he; “I doubt did you take time to more than half
milk them cows!” he says.
“The cows is right enough!” says Art, and he scrubbing away at himself
with a lump of yellow soap, and pumping water over himself till you’d
think he wanted to flood the yard.
“And where’s the sense in going to all that nicety?” says Mickey, “and
you about planting praties! washing your hands and face, no less, as
if it was a Sundah morning!”
Art got very red, but he made Mickey no answer, nor never did. He
just put the spade on his shoulder, and h-away with him to the Widdah
Rafferty’s.
When he came back that night, “I dunno in this earthly world what you
do be at, at all at all,” says Mickey to him, “but it appears as if
your whole illemint was for Rafferty’s and spending your time doing the
work there. A body would think that the girl there should be middling
sizeable and strong by this, and able to do her share of whatever small
matter of business they’d have in a place of the kind, and for they to
not be looking for so much assistance. It was another thing altogether,
while she was a child!”
Thinks Art to himself, “It was, so!” and out loud says he, “I never do
go in it, only when the day’s work here is over.”
This vexed Mickey; for wasn’t it as much as to say, up to his face,
that he begrudged the widdah woman what Art did for her; whereas he
had no objections in life to it, as long as his own business wasn’t
interfered with. There’s plenty of that kind of good-nature in the
world; the same as the way people have of giving away things they
can’t use themselves, and then they expect great praise for doing what
costs them nothing. But sure, you mightn’t expect too much from the
likes of Heffernan.
He said no more then, only the very next evening a while after Art had
quit off to Rafferty’s didn’t Mickey make up his mind to take a waddle
off there himself, and see what was going on.
“An’ a fine evening it is, too,” he says to himself, quite
cheerful-like; “and the ground in the finest of order for getting in
the spuds.”[1]
For it was one of those long, clear spring’s days, when the birds are
just beginning to tune up, and you can imagine to see a growth in the
grass, and a change taking place upon the trees and hedges, as if some
one was hanging veils of purple and green between you and them. But
the sorra leaf is out on them yet! There’s nothing to be seen only
bare branches, and the sting of winter is in the wind still. The days
does be long and bright, so much so that a body is apt to imagine that
the hard weather is all gone away, and that there’s to be nothing only
what’s warm and pleasant from that out. And still in all, it’s the
lonesomest time, and the time you’ll fret the most, of the whole year.
Heffernan had none of these things in his mind, and he making his way
along to the Widdah Rafferty’s; only planning he was how to get up
a-nigh it, without he to be seen himself.
It was along a bit of a _boreen_[2] the house was; and as Mickey came
within sight of it, “I see no signs of work to be doing presently in
this garden!” says he, and he craning his neck, and making himself as
small as he could. And what he was after saying was true enough. You
could just take notice of Art’s spade, stuck up straight in a half-dug
furrow. But sight nor light of man nor mortal there wasn’t to be seen
in the garden that Art was supposed to be planting.
On steps Heffernan; and now he begins to hear the pleasant little
hum-hum of a spinning-wheel. The sound of it inside must have deadened
the noise of his brogues and he going along the rough boreen, so as
that he was enabled to get up close to the house annonst-like, and have
a peep at what was going on there, without any one knowing he was in it
at all.
Well, he looked in, and troth, there was no delay on him to do so. He
mightn’t have been so cautious. For the people inside were too much
taken up with themselves and their own goings-on to think of looking
round for any one else.
There was the Widdah Rafferty, sitting in the chimney-corner at her
wheel; but the sorra much spinning she was doing, with the way Art had
her laughing, going on with his antics, himself and the daughter. In
spite of all the hardship, Mrs. Rafferty was a very contented sort of
a person, never going to meet trouble, as the saying is. Laughing at
Art she was, and her daughter, Rosy. The two of them were sitting on a
form, letting on to be very hard at work, cutting the seed potatoes,
and they with a kish[3] upon the floor foreninst them, to throw the
seed into, according as they’d have it ready.
“That’s never Rosy Rafferty!” thinks Heffernan to himself. Mickey,
as you know, was never one to be having much discourse with the
neighbours, beyond that he’d just pass the time of day with them. And
that’s how he had never chanced to see the girl, no more than that he
might meet her now and then, going along the road, with her shawl over
her head, and her eyes on the ground, and she with the mother, on their
way to Mass. Poor and all as the Widdah Rafferty was, she made a shift
someways or other to rear this one child of hers very nice and tender.
She’d never agree to let her go off to dances at the cross-roads, or
the like of that, without she could be with her, herself. And in troth,
Rosy Rafferty was as beautiful a young creature as ever the sun shone
down upon; with cheeks like hedge roses, and a pair of big, soft eyes
that you’d think ... well, in fact, it would be a thing impossible
to put down upon paper what such a girl looks like. Every eye forms
a beauty for itself. What delights me, you wouldn’t maybe give a
_thraneen_[4] for. But it was given up to Rosy that there wasn’t the
peel of her in all Ardenoo, in the regard of looks, and along with
that, she was as shy as a filly, and as sweet as a little bird.
To Mickey Heffernan in especial, that had never passed much remarks
about any girl, it appeared something altogether strange and new, to
see the bright little face of her, shining there in the dim, smoky
cabin, like a lovely poppy among the weeds of a potato-patch.
“Mind yer eye!” she was saying to Art, “or you’ll cut the hand off of
yourself!”
“Which eye?” says Art, and he with his own two eyes turned full upon
Rosy; and, in troth, what a fool he’d be to have them anywhere else;
“which eye do ye mane? Is it the eye in me head, or the eye in me hand
I’m to mind?” Meaning, of course, the bud of the potato he was after
cutting. “Och, begorra! there’s the knife after slipping on me....”
“There now!” says Rosy, “didn’t I tell you!” and with that she turns
gashly pale, at the sight of the blood. So it was the mother that had
to see to Art’s wound. She stopped the wheel, and came over to look at
it.
“Phoo! what at all!” she says; “sure, that’s a thing of nothing! It
will be well afore you’re twice marrit!”
“I dunno about that!” says Art, not wanting to be done out of Rosy’s
commiseration; “there’s an imminse pain in it at this present.”
“Think as little of that as I do, and there won’t be a bother on ye!”
says the Widdah; “and what’s this you’re after giving me to bandage it
with, Rosy? Sure it’s not your good silk hankercher that I bought for
you, off of Tommy the Crab, only last Easter was a twelvemonth! Pshat!
girl dear, won’t any old polthogue do well enough for that cut thumb of
Art’s!”
At this word, Rosy whips the purty little scarf into her pocket, and
she with cheeks upon her as red as scarlet. Well! to see the look Art
gave her! If Rosy was a Queen, and she after offering to bestow her
crown upon him, he couldn’t have appeared more thankful and delighted.
And sure, may be after all, a Queen would have one crown for using
every day, and a good one laid by for Sundays as well; whereas, all the
neckerchers that Rosy had in this wide world was just that pink one the
mother had bought her out of Tommy the Crab’s basket.
Well, that all passed off, and when the mother was back at her wheel,
and Rosy beginning on the praties again, says she to Art, Rosy I mean,
“You’ll cut no more seed here to-night,” she says, “and you may’s well
be making the road back to Heffernan’s short now as you’re no more use
here,” says she.
“Is that all you want wid me?” says Art; “if so, it’s as good for me to
be off at wanst, as to be staying here, and wearing out me welcome!”
“What a hurry you’re in!” says Rosy then to him, and she looking up
at him with a laugh in her eyes that would coax the birds off of the
bushes; “but sure maybe it’s what you’d liefer, to be back with Mr.
Heffernan beyant....”
“Is it him?” says Art; “troth, it’s him that’s the quare ould company
to spend an evening wid! and no more diversion in him, nor there’s fur
on a frog....”
Art was at this time picking the praties out of the sack, and handing
them to Rosy according as she’d be ready to cut them. And this was to
help on with the work, by the way of; but every time he done that,
wouldn’t he double his big fist over her little fingers and hold them
tight, the way he’d get her to look up at him; and then they’d both
take to go laugh.
“Look at that, for a Murphy!” says Art, holding up a big potato; queer
and lumpy and long-shaped it was; “isn’t that the very livin’ image
of ould Mickey himself! See here; the big nose ... and the weeny slit
eyes, like pig’s eyes ... and the mouth, like nothing so much as a
burst slipper ...” and that was all true enough.
“You’ll see likenesses that-a-way often,” says the Widdah Rafferty,
checking the wheel to join in the chat; “I remimber to see a head of
cabbage wanst, flat Dutch it was, and it as like ould Father Mulhall as
could be, the heavens be his bed, I pray! very round-about and fat in
the body he was. And that kittle there, hasn’t it the very appearance
upon it of ould Tommy the Crab? wid the quare pintey little nose of
him? And that puts me in mind ... it’s time to be wettin’ the sup of
tay. Off to the well wid the two of yiz....”
Heffernan outside the door heard this, and waited for no more, only
slipped off, quiet and easy, afore any of them had put a stir upon
themselves. And that gave him no trouble; for Art and Rosy were that
taken up with one another, that the Widdah had to chastise them more
than once, afore she could get them to go. So Heffernan was able to
quit, without being seen by any of them.
He had heard all he wanted; ay, and more than he liked! But divil’s
cure to him! what call had he to take and go listen to what wasn’t
meant for him! He was all in a flutter and he going off home with
himself. He didn’t like being made fun of; and faith! there’s few of
us does! But that was the least part of what was working in his mind,
like the wind on a field of ripe oats, twisting and turning it hither
and over. And the storm that was stirring Heffernan’s thoughts was, the
look of Rosy and she sitting there smiling up at Art. That was what had
him upset.
Young boys and girls are a bit too ready to forget that a man’s
courting days doesn’t be always over, when the grey begins to show in
his beard. No, in troth! and so by Heffernan. There was a warm stir
about his heart and he stepping along up the boreen, back to his own
place, and a feel like the spring sunshine came over him, and he tried
to sing a bit of “The Bunch of Green Rushes,” but sure he hadn’t it
right, nor couldn’t remember it, he hadn’t heard it those years past.
When he got back to his own place, what should he do, only root out a
little cracked looking-glass that had been thrown by since God knows
when! He took it down off of the top of the dresser, and he rubbed the
dust from it with the sleeve of his old coat, and then he went over to
the door with it in his hand, to get the last of the daylight on it,
the way he’d see did he look as old all out as he knew himself that he
was.
Well, what he seen there was noways encouraging; so he flings the glass
back again, and goes over to the chimney-corner, and sits down. It was
just the end of the day, as I said; the light was beginning to fail,
and still there was too much of it for him to want to shut up the house
or go light a candle, or that. And it was too cold for a body to care
for being outside, unless they had some business to attend to.
So Mickey just sat there, with no one only himself, in the dusky
kitchen; and all the cheerfulness he thought to see before was gone.
The place seemed to him to have a desolate appearance upon it, that
he had never noticed before. But the sorra change was on it, no more
than the night will have got any darker really, when you go out into
it after you being for a while in a room that was full up of light. It
was himself that was different, after seeing into Rafferty’s, where
the fire was small enough, God knows! but the hearth was swep’ up tidy
and nice. The table was old and shaky there, but it was scoured as
white as the snow. And the wheel was singing its own little song of
cheerful work, and there was talk and laughing going on; and, above
all, the gay shining little head of Rosy, that lit it up, like a bit
of sunshine come down out of the skies. Whereas Heffernan’s kitchen
was all through-other, just as they had got up after their dinners ...
plates and pots and praty-skins all lying hither and over. The fire was
nigh-hand out, and it all as silent as the grave.
“And not a sod of turf left in!” says Heffernan to himself; “that’s a
nice way for Art to be leaving the place, and he ped to mind it!”
Out with him to the clamp, to get an armful of turf; and didn’t the two
pigs meet him full, and they coming back from the garden, after they
rooting there to their heart’s content.
“There’s more of it, now!” he thinks to himself; “and a nice job I’ll
have of it, striving to get them back to their sty! Bad scran to
Art! I never seen such work! Cock him up, indeed! going off to his
_randy-voos_, instead of minding his business!”
But it was really himself that Mickey ought to have blamed in regard
to the pigs, with his fidgeting about and not fastening the door of
the pigsty right, that had a loose hinge and required humouring, and
had a right to be mended, along with all. But to the day of his death,
Heffernan blamed them pigs on Art. And, still, he never let on a word
to him of what was after happening about them. He was too angry,
besides having a slow tongue. It was only in to himself he’d talk and
argue.
“I wondher, now, what else Art neglected here,” he thought, “to make
off wid himself to Rafferty’s! How anshis he is, about the Widdah’s
work! In troth, it’s kissin’ the child for the sake of the nurse he
is! Coortin’, are ye? Maybe there’ll be more nor one word to be said
about that! I might manage to clip yer wings for ye, me boyo, as sure
as there’s a leg in a pot! And of all the chat he was having out of
him...! But sure Art could talk down a hedgeful of sparrows, anny day
of the year!”
There’s the way he kept thinking over the thing, and there’s how he
began first having a bad suspicion of Art, that the poor boy never
earned. But just because he never spoke of what was in his mind, it
kept rolling over and over there, till there was nothing so bad but
what he thought Art was capable of it.
Art never minded. Heffernan was always a bit dark in himself. So Art
never got the chance of saying a word for himself, nor knew he was
being watched and blamed and he going on the one way, off wid himself
every evening to Rafferty’s, and would come back that happy and smiling
that Mickey would be madder nor a wet hen, looking at him.
So there’s the way it went on with the two of them; Heffernan sour and
silent and miserable in himself; and Art noways put about, only quite
gay and satisfied from morning till night.
At last Heffernan made up his mind what he’d do. There came an evening
... a summer’s evening it was, more betoken ... and when Art walked
into Rafferty’s as usual, he found Rosy drowned in grief, and she
crying down the tears as if she was after losing all belonging to her.
“Ora, what’s a trouble to ye, Rosheen acushla!” says Art; but it was a
while afore he could get an answer out of her she was that fretted and
put about. But at long last she told him. Mr. Heffernan, she said, that
was wanting to marry her.
“What!” says Art, bursting out into a big laugh; “ould Heffernan
to think to marry _you_! he that might be your father! ay, or your
grandfather to the back of that, ready!”
But Art was wrong about that. Heffernan wasn’t that far on at all.
“That’s a nice joke to be putting out upon a body!” he says, “for of
coorse it’s only nonsense ...” and he looks hard at her; “say it’s only
joking y’are, Rosy!”
“The sorra joke!” says poor Rosy, and she looking at him most pitiful,
and her cheeks and eyes wet with the tears; so much so that Art thought
well of doing his best to dry them for her; and Rosy went on, “He was
down here this morning, talking to me mother....”
“Well?”
“Well, sure, what was I to do, only say that I wouldn’t agree to him;
and then he got vexed, and says he to me mother, ‘Go off,’ he says, ‘to
Father Connellan, and let him at her, to see to bring her to raison!’
And och! Art, jewel, what will I do, at all at all!”
“Sure, never heed them!” says Art, very stout.
“That’s all very fine! but they’ll all be agin me! Too sure I am that
Father Connellan will be for Mickey, on account of the good wedding ...
all the money he has! And he has promised me mother to bring her to the
Furry Farm, as well as me, and to give her every comfort. He says he’s
after getting word of some one that is going to marry his sister beyant
there in England. So then, there wouldn’t be Julia on the flure, to
contind wid. And me mother is to have a side-car to drive to Mass of a
Sundah; and a slip of a sarvint-girl to be ordhering about, and every
comfort, if only I’ll agree to take him. And of coorse she’s getting
middling ould and wakely in herself ... so there it is now!”
“Well, don’t you cry any more, annyhow, Rosy!” says Art;
“look-at-here, if he wants a wife so terrible bad, and is so anshis to
have your mother at the Furry Farm, why wouldn’t he take her there, and
l’ave the two of us in p’ace and qui’tness?”
“That’s only foolishness!” says Rosy.
Still, the notion started her off to laugh, and that was what Art
wanted. But sure, when people is young, it’s easy diverting their minds
from whatever has them annoyed. So Rosy and Art began talking and going
on, and before very long they had clean forgotten old Heffernan and
everything else, only theirselves.
That was all well enough, for that turn. But soon it became well known
to them both, that it was apt to turn out no laughing matter for them.
For, as Rosy had said, they were all against Art and for Heffernan. And
the mother, in particular, gave Rosy neither ease nor rest, morning,
noon, and night, only fighting the girl to take a man that, as she
said, had a good means, and could keep her like a Princess.
A woman like the Widdah Rafferty is not to be blamed for doing the like
of that. She couldn’t but be a bit cowardly in herself, and she left
the way she was, without one to come between her and the world. Gay
and pleasant as she was mostly, she knew enough of hardship to think a
power of the offer Heffernan was after making, saying he would do for
her as well as for Rosy. And the thoughts of the Furry Farm! All the
stock upon it, and the kitchen with full and plenty in it; sides of
bacon, and lashins and lavins of milk and turf and praties and meal ...
well, sure she couldn’t but be tempted with all that, for herself as
well as for Rosy. Indeed she was of the opinion that she was doing the
best she could for her child, as often as she’d begin argufying with
her; abusing poor Art, and puffing up Heffernan.
But all she done by that was, to make poor Rosy fret; and what else did
she expect?
Through it, not a word ever passed between the two men upon the
business. Heffernan, as I said, was always a good warrant to hold his
tongue. He thought now he had the thing so sure that he need only wait
a bit. He knew how poor the Raffertys were. He didn’t want any upset or
unpleasantness with Art, that maybe the boy would take and quit off,
and leave him there wid himself, and not as much as one about the place
to do a hand’s turn there.
Heffernan was a slow-going sort of a man. The people all had it that
he was a bit thick. But, anyway, he knew well enough what he was able
for, and what he ought to let alone. He had no wish in life for getting
shut of Art, till he’d have some one in his place, in on the ways of
the Furry Farm. And he wanted to make sure of Rosy and the mother
there, afore his own sister would be maybe hearing about it, and he
knew her to be that conthrary, that he wouldn’t put it past her to come
off home at once, to spoil all his plans. He scarce ever heard a word
from her, only there was a sketch going round Ardenoo of some talk of
a match being made for her, what Rosy had mentioned to Art. Mickey was
beginning to have good hopes out of that, thinking she might get some
man to marry her there that wouldn’t know the differ. So he was doing
his endeavours to hurry the thing up with Rosy, or at least with the
mother; and sorra word out of his head to Art; and Art the same with
him.
But Art would be nigh-hand mad betimes, with the way old Heffernan
would look at him, as much as to say, “I have ye now, me boyo!” But
he never axed to pass any remarks, good or bad. Why would he? He was
sure of Rosy, so there would be neither use nor sense in having words
with Mickey, that could do you a bad turn, as soon as look at you. And
Art then took the notion that the Widdah Rafferty wasn’t all out as
agreeable and pleasant-spoken to him as she had a right to be; not that
she was to be blemt in that! So he and Rosy took to meeting with one
another outside the house; at the well, maybe, or gathering sprigs for
the fire, or the like of that; and it wasn’t their fault if they did it
secretly.
It was in this way that Rosy was coming from the Chapel one evening,
when Art met up with her, by the purest of accidents, of course. They
had plenty to talk about, as is always the way with the likes of them.
And if it was mostly about themselves, sure, that’s what most of us
finds very interesting and agreeable.
“I’m in dread,” says Rosy, “this while back, that it’s what Mr.
Heffernan has some iday of coming at me mother soon now for the
rent....”
“Sure, what’s that, only a flea-bite!” says Art.
“Ah, but isn’t there four years owing? and how is that going to be ped?
unless we can get to pacify him someways. And we behindhand at the
Shop ... and do you mind how the young turkeys died ‘on’ us last year?
and that has left us very short ever since. And now the praties isn’t
looking any too well....”
“In spite of you telling me to mind me eye, and we cutting the seed!”
says Art; and then the both of them had to laugh, thinking how simple
he near cut the thumb off of himself that evening. It’s a small thing
will amuse a boy and girl like Rosy and Art. God knows they’ll have
whips to fret and worry over, before their day is done here! So why
wouldn’t they laugh as long as they can?
Well, and so Art would laugh right enough while he’d be in company
with Rosy. But all the whole time he’d keep thinking and planning; and
when the next fair-day of Clough-na-Rinka came round, and he had to be
up and off before daylight with stock of Heffernan’s to sell there,
didn’t he bring his own bullock amongst them! Grass for him was in
Art’s agreement with Mickey, and I needn’t say that that animal hadn’t
the worst spot of the farm, neither was there any fear of he to be
overlooked at foddering-time, as long as there was a wad of hay left.
But sure that’s only human nature, to look after your own. No matter
how kind you are to others, you’ll always have the most heart for
yourself.
Art’s bullock was that fine a beast, that he was sold at top price,
and the money was in Art’s pocket, long before Mickey Heffernan came
bowling up to the fair-green, on the side-car, in time for the regular
business of the day. And how he got on there, and what price he got for
his stores, is neither here nor there now. Art passed no remarks to him
in regard to his own sale; sure, why would he? And as soon as he had
done with Heffernan’s cattle, he slipped off with himself, and Mickey
went home without seeing him again.
The next morning, when Heffernan went to go to get up, behould ye!
sight nor light of Art there wasn’t to be got about the whole town.
“And it’s too sure I am,” thinks Mickey to himself, “that he wasn’t in
till late, whatever divilmint he was at! for I’d have heard him, up
to nine o’clock, annyway! Nice conduction it is for he to be having,
stopping out that-a-way, and neglecting his business, that he’s ped
to do here for me! And now, where at all should he be, and isn’t here
seeing about things this morning, only leaving all to me! But I’ll not
fau’t him; sure it’s not long he’ll be in it. I can bid him to go, in
another little while, anny day I like! Only, where the mischief is he
now! Maybe it’s what he’s taking to go to Rafferty’s, airly as well
as late. Sure it’s only losing his time he is, and making a laugh of
himself he is as well; but divil mend him! standing up wid impidence he
is, this minute!”
Off with Heffernan then to Rafferty’s, without even waiting to break
his fast. When he got there, who should he see, only Tommy the Crab,
airly and all as it was; and he with his pack upon the ground and
talking away to the Widdah Rafferty.
She that gave the lepp when she seen Heffernan! the same as if she was
half afraid of he hearing what Tommy had to say. But Mickey never said
a word, only made a kind of a bow of the head when she passed him the
time of day, and stood there.
“Good mornin’, Mr. Heffernan,” says Tommy, that had a tongue in his
head like the clapper of a bell; “I hope I see you as well as I’d
wish you and all belonging to ye! and that you may never be sick till
I’m doctor enough to cure ye! and that won’t happen, till you’re that
small, that you’ll have to stand up upon a sod of turf, to look into a
naggin! Well, sure, you’re just in time here to get the news that I’m
about telling to Mrs. Rafferty.”
Heffernan never said one word, not even to ax, “What is it?” and so
Tommy goes on, “I slep’ out last night, under the big furzy bush there
below at the cross-roads, bekase I was a bit late and I coming from
the fair. And along wid all, I had no great command of meself, after
me day there, you persave. So, as I was a-loath to disturb any dacint
house, knocking the people up to ax a bed from them, I just laid
meself down there, where I had the best of shelter. Ay, and slep’ the
best, too, till this morning, bright and airly, when I wakened hearing
voices. And what should it be, only young Art, from beyant at your
place, Mr. Heffernan, and little Rosy Rafferty, and they coming along
the road to’arst me!”
“The Lord save us!” says the Widdah; “sure it’s not in airnest you are!
and I having it laid out that it was what she was just a piece off from
me in the fields, and she gethering a few sprigs for kindling....”
“Well, sure, you should know! and maybe that’s what she _was_ at; and
that Art was helping her. I couldn’t rightly say. Only, if they were
at that, they must have changed their minds, and have left the sprigs
in the gaps they were stopping ...” and as he said the word, Heffernan
gave a kind of a snort, for there was nothing he had more enmity to,
than the fashion women does have, of pulling the bushes out of holes in
the fences that he’d be after getting filled up. The weight of them
would liefer do that, nor to pick up what little kindling-wood they’d
want off the ground, and mostly always there’s plenty lying loose to
their hand.
Tommy went on with his story, and a smirk on his face when he saw the
way he had Mickey annoyed about the sprigs.
“Ay indeed! Nobody else in this earthly world, only their two selves!
There they were, and they coming along, looking half proud of
themselves, and half afraid; and their eyes round over their shoulders
every minute, as if they were afraid of some one coming after them. And
the big hurry there appeared to be on them!
“When they seen me, they stopped short.
“‘In the name of God,’ says I to them, ‘where are yiz off to, at this
hour,’ says I, ‘and the stars not out of the sky yet?’
“Art laughed, but Rosy blushed up.
“‘Oho!’ says I, ‘what colour’s red? and is this what yiz are up to?’
“But they said nothing, only Art whips a whole big handful of money out
of his pocket carelesslike, as if it was just that much dirt.
“‘What have you there?’ says he; and begins turning over every ha’porth
in the pack on the ground beside me, the mouth of it being open; and
his hands shaking as if he was all of a thrimble; and Rosy watching him
with her eyes dancing, and still not asking to touch annything herself.
“‘I have all soarts here,’ says I to him, making answer, ‘but sure
it’s what I’m thinking it should some kind of a ring yous will be
wanting....’
“‘You just got it!’ he says; ‘but I doubt have you one good enough for
us ... ah! there’s a nice neckercher ... we’ll take that, at anny rate
... do you remimber, Rosy? Is this as good as the one you offered to
tie up that cut of mine...?’ and they both laughed out.
“‘I’d wish it a taste brighter,’ he says.
“‘Sure, isn’t it grand!’ says she ... ‘but Art! look at them for
pickthers!’ and couldn’t stop herself, only taking up first one and
then another....
“‘Would you wish e’er a one of them?’ he says.
“‘They’d be aisy carrit,’ says I; ‘and more betoken, yous wouldn’t be
getting them so raisonable as I can sell them, from them that has shops
and rent to pay....’
“‘They’d look pleasant and homely, annywhere we’d be!’ says Rosy.
“So they chose out a half-dozen or so; the Death of Lord Edward; and
Emmet in the Dock, and so and so on; and they bid me to bring this one
to you, and I was to say how that they were off to the Big Smoke[5] to
have the wedding there, at your sister’s....”
“Ay, she’s there in Dublin, this linth of time,” says the Widdah, quite
composed now, and she smiling all over with joy.
For there’s the way it is wid women. When they get a daughter marrit,
no matter to who, they’ll be that proud, the weight of them, that they
wouldn’t call the King their cousin. And along with all, of course, Art
Heffernan was known to be a very choice boy, only for he being poor.
But, as it was often said at Ardenoo, why need that stop him in the
getting of a wife? Why mightn’t he as well be a poor man as a poor boy?
“And to think of them sending me a keepsake!” says the mother; “dear,
but that pickther is beautiful, the way it’s drew out!”
“There’s a crack across the face of it,” says Mickey; and there’s the
only word he had out of them.
“So there is! and I never to observe it till you spoke!” says the
Widdah, and she looking ready to go cry.
“Sure it will never be noticed!” says Tommy, “and moreover, I took a
pinny off of the price, in compliment to that little defect,” and I’m
not saying but he did. “Here!” says Tommy, “I’ll give you a nail into
the bargain to hang it up by; and there’s a brave lump of a stone, to
drive it in, and make it all safe upon the wall. Where will you wish to
have it, mam?”
“Here, where I can be seeing it, and I sitting at the wheel,” says she.
So Tommy hammered in the nail.
“What’s the name of the pickther?” says the Widdah, and she standing
back a piece off, the way she could get a good look at it.
“It’s called ‘The Flight of the Wild Geese,’” says Tommy, with a grin.
And Heffernan just gave one laugh out of him; like the cough of a sick
sheep it was, and turned about and went home.