was hardly a man, woman, or child in the country but was in the town
that day, watchin' an' waitin' for the case against Maire Lanigan, an'
when the time for the case came on the courthouse was packed with
people. Mickey Flanagan had a lawyer down from Dublin, an' everyone was
sure he'd win the case, because Maire had no one at all to speak for
her.
"When the case was brought on, an' when Maire stepped up to be
examined, you'd think 'twas a circus or somethin' was in the courthouse
with the way the people laughed, an' the old judge himself had to
laugh, too, when he saw the get-up of her. Everyone was laughin' only
Mickey Flanagan an' his lawyer.
"Maire's old grey, greasy-lookin' hair was all hangin' down about her
face, an' there was little red an' yalla ribbons tied on it here an'
there, like what you'd see on girshas o' ten or twelve; an' her cloak
was turned inside out an' she was wearin' it upside down, with the tail
of it round her shoulders an' the hood streelin' at her heels; an'
there she was, grinnin' an' caperin', an' puttin' out her tongue at
everyone. I never saw anythin' like her in my life, an' I laughed after
the judge commanded silence. I thought he'd tell some one to put me out.
"The lawyer from Dublin got up to question Maire, an' he fixed his
specs on him, an' frowned an' put on a grand air, an' says he:
"'Are you the person who sold a calf to this man, my client, Michael
Flanagan?'
"Maire grinned at him, an' put out her tongue, an' all the answer she
gave him was:
"'Bow-wow!'
"You could hear the laughin' o' the people all over the town, but
the judge said in a loud voice--though I think he was laughin' to
himself--that he'd clear out the court if there was any more noise,
an' the lawyer put a blacker frown on him, an' says he:
"'Remember, madam,' says he, 'that you're in her Majesty's Court o'
Justice, an' give me a straightforward, honest answer, or learn the
consequences. Did you, or did you not, sell a calf to this man?'
"'Bow-wow,' says Maire again, an' she puttin' out her tongue at him,
an' you'd think she didn't know a word he was sayin'. Everyone laughed
again, except Mickey an' his lawyer, an' the judge gave a pull to his
wig an' snuffled, an' says he:
"'This woman is a fool! Put her down,' says he; 'I dismiss the case.
It's only makin' a humbug o' the court.'
"'She has it,' says Larry Boylan to my father--God rest him!--an' out
we all went to the street after Maire, an' sure everyone in the whole
place was round her, laughin' an' talkin' an' goin' on.
"Larry wanted to show himself off as the great man o' the day, an' says
he, goin' over an' shakin' Maire's hand:
"'You done it the best I ever saw! There's not the beatin' o' you on
Ireland's ground. Have you the pound, Mrs. Lanigan?' says he, in a
lower tone o' voice, but plenty of us heard him all the same.
"Maire shook his hand, an' Larry was feelin' proud of himself, when she
just looked him straight in the face, an' grinned like a monkey an' put
out her tongue down to her chin, an' says she, at the top of her voice:
"'Bow-wow, Larry Boylan! Bow-wow!'
"An' with that she made a run through the crowd, an' away home with
her, an' Charley after her as fast as he could trot, an' the poor man
ashamed of his life. If ever any man got laughed at that man was Larry
Boylan. He couldn't go out anywhere, to fair or market or meetin' for
long an' long after, but every gossoon in the country'd shout 'Bow-wow'
at him till they'd have him ragin'. An' that's what old Maire said to
him to-day, that Andy Murtagh was tellin' us about, an' it's thinkin'
o' the law case made Larry so mad."
And as Ned M'Grane closed the door of the forge after we had left we
heard him laugh softly to himself.
HOW JOHNNIE GOT HIS DEGREE
The forge in Balnagore was a sort of library of reference to all the
young fellows of the district. No matter what information was sought
for regarding events of importance that had occurred in Ireland during
the past couple of hundred years (we had not much access to books down
there) the one and only thought of the seeker after knowledge was to
repair at once, or as soon as his work was finished, to the smithy in
which Ned M'Grane reigned, and to ask the same Ned a few questions on
the matter which puzzled himself; and Ned, to his credit let me say it,
was never, in my recollection, found wanting on any such occasion. His
mind was a well-stocked storehouse of local and national history, as
well as of humour, which he was ever willing to impart to "the risin'
generation," as he called us.
He could remember every droll occurrence that had taken place in the
parish for at least forty years, and every stirring event of national
importance that had taken place in the country during the same period,
and along with all this he had, in his young days, set himself the task
of acquiring knowledge of events of an earlier period from the people
who were old when he was a boy, so that when I state that he could
bring us back over the happenings of a couple of hundred years I do not
by any means overstep the mark. He often told us that in his young days
he had a veritable thirst for old stories and for knowledge of every
kind, and he used to make a round of the neighbours' houses night after
night to hear the tales the old people told about the "ould times" and
the "good people," and of the far-off days in an Ireland that was free.
And if the news was conveyed to him that a "poor scholar" was staying
at any farmer's house within a radius of seven miles, he used tramp
across the country to hear the learned man talk about his travels, and
to hear him read out of the books which he carried with him on his
journeys.
"From all the goin' about I used to have, an' the way I used to be
askin' questions o' the old people, an' the way I used to have the wits
worried out o' Master Sweeney o' Kilfane," said Ned to us more than
once, "what do you think but some o' the playboys put the nick-name o'
'the poor scholar' on myself, an' every one o' the youngsters used to
be jibin' at me about it. I didn't care tuppence as long as I was a
gossoon, but it was stickin' so tight to me an' I growin' up a big lad
that I gave over my stravagin' a good bit, an' they forgot it after a
while. I didn't mind at that time, because the old people were gettin'
feeble an' bothered, an' a lot of them dyin' away, too, an' them that
came after them didn't care a wisp o' straw for the stories or anythin'
only cattle, an' money, an' land. An' signs on it, they're all old men
an' women at fifty, with their worryin' over grass land and con-acres,
an' calves, an' things you'd think they could bring to the grave with
them. God be with the old times! when the people knew somethin' about
Ireland, an' had life an' spirit in them, an' weren't always breakin'
their necks runnin' after the world, an' never catchin' up with it,
like them we see round us every day. Aye! God be with the old times,
when it's not backbitin' each other they'd be round the fire at night,
or makin' up law cases against each other. I wish it was the old times
again!"
I reproduce the above speech of Ned's, which was delivered partly to
us and partly to himself many a time when the retrospective mood held
possession of him--I reproduce it, I say, to show that Ned M'Grane's
outlook on life was neither narrow nor sordid, but that there was in
his mind and heart a great deal of the old-world philosophy of life,
viz., that it was better to be rich intellectually than materially;
that was Ned's firm opinion and belief, and he was never done
impressing upon us the foolishness of seeking after wealth and worldly
emoluments, and of neglecting at the same time to enrich and beautify
the mind with the lore of the years gone by. Whether he was right or
wrong I leave to my readers to decide.
There were in the forge, now and then, what I may call "impromptu"
evenings--that is, there were times when Ned, reminded of past episodes
through hearing some name casually mentioned in our conversation,
drew at random from his well-filled storehouse of stories one of
the delightfully droll occurrences which he himself remembered to
have happened in the neighbourhood long years before, and told it
to us while he worked, without calling upon any of the aids, such
as a well-filled pipe and a comfortable seat, which he called into
requisition when relating one of the longer tales to which he treated
us now and then. On such occasions, too, he often gave out riddles to
us that set our brains hard at work, and sang for us some of the fine
songs he had learned from the old people and from the "poor scholars"
in the happy evenings of the past, which he designated the "old times."
I remember one of those impromptu evenings in particular, because I
thought, and think so still, that the story he told us about Johnnie
Finnegan's "Degree" was as good as I had ever heard. He had just
finished singing a favourite song of ours about a young Wexfordman who
escaped from the Yeos in '98, and we were bestowing upon him our hearty
praise and applause, when an old grumpy farmer from Knockbride, called
Johnnie Finnegan, but who was best known by the nick-name of "Johnnie
the Doctor," came to the forge door and asked Ned to tighten one of
the hind shoes on his mare, as he was afraid 'twould fall off before
he should reach home. Ned performed the task, and when he returned to
the work which he had in hand before Johnnie appeared upon the scene,
some of us asked him the reason why "Johnnie the Doctor" was the name
everybody had for Johnnie Finnegan.
"Did I never tell you how Johnnie got his degree?" asked Ned, with a
merry twinkle in his eye.
"No, you never told us that, Ned; but now's the time for it," a couple
of us answered, and the eager faces of the others signified their
whole-hearted approval of our suggestion.
"Troth, you'll hear it, boys, an' welcome," said Ned, as he went on
with his work. "An' it doesn't take long in the tellin', though if I
told it to you while Johnnie was here you'd see him in a flarin' fine
temper an' the dickens a nail I'd ever get the chance o' drivin' in
a shoe, or a sock I'd put on a plough for Johnnie again, because you
might as well roll him in a heap o' nettles an' his clothes tore, as
mention 'Johnnie the Doctor' an' he listenin'.
"The way it was is this. Old Jimmy Finnegan, his father, was as poor as
a rat in an empty barn, an' so were all his people before him, but one
day--Johnnie was the only child, an' he was no more than nine years old
at the time--up comes a postman from Castletown to Jimmy Finnegan's and
hands in a letter, an' when they got Master Sweeney up to read it, they
found out that it was from a lawyer in America to say that a brother
o' Jimmy's--Phil Finnegan--was after dyin'--a rich man--in Boston, an'
that he left all his money to Jimmy, an' the letter went on to say
that after the cost o' settlin' up the will 'd be took out of it, the
legacy'd amount to somethin' like four thousand pounds.
"They could hardly believe the story was true, because they were nearly
on the road for rent, but sure enough a cheque came to Jimmy for that
whole four thousand pounds in a couple o' months after that. Well,
you never saw anythin' in your life like the way Jimmy and the wife
made fools o' themselves. They began to try to talk grand, an' dressed
themselves up like gentry, an' bought a car like Father Fagan's, an'
wouldn't talk to the people that knew them all their lives, an' that
often gave them a helpin' hand when they wanted it an' they in debt.
"Everyone, of course, was laughin' at them, an' some o' the playboys
used to salute Jimmy for fun when they'd meet him on the road, an'
Jimmy used to think they were in earnest, an' he used to put up his
hand to his hat, the same as Father Fagan 'd do, an' the lads puttin'
out their tongues at him behind his back. He wouldn't let Johnnie go to
school the same as other gossoons, but paid Master Sweeney ten pound a
year to come up an' teach him at the house, an' sure if the Master--God
rest him--was alive still an' goin' up to teach Johnnie every day
since, he wouldn't be a bit better nor he was when the poor Master gave
him up in despair; because Johnnie was as thick as the post of a gate,
every day ever, an' he's that yet.
"Well what do you think but when Johnnie was a big, soft lump of a lad
of seventeen or eighteen, didn't Jimmy bring him over to old Doctor
Dempsey that lived beyond near the chapel o' Kilfane, an' asked him to
make a doctor o' the bucko, an' offered the doctor a fee o' so much a
year while Johnnie 'd be learnin' the trade. Doctor Dempsey knew be
the look o' the lad that he'd never be a doctor as long as there was a
bill on a crow, but he was hard up for money at the time, an' didn't
he take Johnnie; an' old Jimmy went home as proud as a peacock an' he
boastin' an' blowin' out of him to everybody that the next doctor for
the district 'd be no other than 'Doctor John Finnegan.' He used to
drive over on the car every mornin' to Doctor Dempsey's an' call for
him again in the evenin', an' he havin' him dressed up like a young
lord or somethin'. An' sure the whole country was laughin' at them more
than ever.
"Johnnie was with Doctor Dempsey for a few years, anyway, an' sure he
knew as much then as he did the first day; the doctor used to bring
him about the country with him on some of his visits, to give him
experience, he used to tell Jimmy, but I think 'twas mostly for holdin'
the horse he had him.
"One day they went to see a rich old lady that lived beyond in
Moylough, an' when Doctor Dempsey was after lookin' at her tongue for
awhile, an' feelin' her pulse, says he:
"'You ate oranges, ma'am,' says he.
"'I did then, sure enough, doctor,' says she.
"'Well, don't eat them again,' says he, 'an' you'll be in the best o'
health.'
"Johnnie was listenin', an' his mouth opened wide with wonder, an' when
they were comin' home says he to Doctor Dempsey:
"'How did you know, sir,' says he, 'that Miss Hamilton was after eatin'
oranges?'
"'Oh, 'twas easy enough to know that, John,' says the doctor to him,
'because,' says he, 'when I was feelin' her pulse I looked under the
bed, an' I saw the heap o' skins.'
"Johnnie kep' wonderin' all the way home at the cleverness o' the
doctor, an' wonderin', too, if he'd ever get a case all to himself,
so that he could show his father an' mother an' the whole country how
clever he was.
"Well, anyway, in a couple o' weeks after that a gossoon came up to
Doctor Dempsey's one mornin' to tell him that old Peadar Mullen o'
the Bog was bad with the pains, an' wanted him to call over an' see
him. Peadar used to get pains about every fortnight, an' he was on the
point o' dyin' with them--accordin' to his own opinion--about twenty
times, an' he had the poor old doctor plagued sendin' for him every
other week. Doctor Dempsey was a big-hearted sort of a man that was
never hard on the poor, an' Peadar was that cranky an' conceited that
he thought the doctor ought to be always runnin' over to see him, no
matter about anyone else in the district. That was the sort o' Peadar.
"The doctor wasn't on for goin' near him this day, anyway, an' what do
you think but he sends Johnnie, an' never said a word to him about what
complaint Peadar had or anythin' only left him to find out for himself.
Johnnie starts off an' the doctor's boy along with him on the car, an'
it's him that was proud to think that he had a case all to himself at
last, an' that he could be boastin' about it to his father an' mother
that evenin' when he'd go home.
"They went down the old boreen to Peadar's house--'twas a long way in
in the bog by itself, an' not a soul he had livin' with him--an' when
they got over to it, Johnnie left the servant boy mindin' the horse,
an' in he goes, an' sure dickens a much he could see with all the smoke
that was in the house. Old Peadar was lyin' in bed in the room, an' he
groanin' an' moanin' as hard as he could when he heard the doctor's car
comin', because Doctor Dempsey used to give him a couple o' shillin's
now an' again.
"'Doctor Dempsey can't come to-day, my good man,' says Johnnie, when he
went into the room, an' he lookin' very grand an' severe an' solemn.
'He's not extra well, an' he sent me in his place to see what's the
matter with you.'
"'Musha, may God bless your honour for comin', Doctor Finnegan,' says
Peadar, thinkin' he'd knock a few shillin's out o' Johnnie, 'an' sure
maybe he sent a gentleman every bit as good as himself.'
"Johnnie didn't know what to do, but he asked Peadar to put out his
tongue, an' then he felt his pulse, an' all the time he was tryin' to
get a peep under the bed, the same as he saw the doctor doin' with
the lady that was after eatin' the oranges. At long last he spied
the straddle an' winkers belongin' to old Peadar's ass, an' says he,
shakin' his head an' lookin' at Peadar as much as to say, 'You're done
for':
"'My good man,' says he, 'my good man, you ate an ass!'
"'What's that you're after sayin'?' says Peadar, lettin' a shout out
o' him, an' he jumpin' up out o' the bed. 'What's that you're after
sayin'?'
"'You--ate--an--ass,' says Johnnie, again, an' he shakin', when he saw
the way Peadar made a grab at the big crookey stick that was lyin'
across the bed.
"'G'long! you upstartin' imp o' the divil,' says Peadar, with a roar,
an' he jumpin' out o' the bed. 'Is it a son o' Shameen Finnegan's to
come into my own house an' tell me I'm a cannaball? I'll soon give you
a chance o' curin' yourself instead o' comin' in to make a fool o'
me an' I lyin' helpless on my bed with the pains! There's a doctor's
degree for you!' an' old Peadar drew a whack o' the stick at Johnnie
that made him roar an' run for the door as fast as his legs 'd carry
him.
"Out went Peadar after him an' not a fligget on him only his shirt an'
breeches, an' across the bog with them as hard as they could run until
Johnnie tripped an' fell, an' old Peadar on top of him, into a dry
drain. Peadar began flailin' him, an' with every thump o' the stick
he'd give to poor Johnnie he'd shout, 'There's a doctor's degree for
you! There's a doctor's degree for you!' an' only for Doctor Dempsey's
boy tied the horse to a bush an' came runnin' over, it's Johnnie that
'd be bad with the pains, an' not Peadar.
"He was bad enough, in troth, when they brought him home, an' he didn't
stir out o' the house for three months, but everyone said 'twas shame
was on him more than the pains after Peadar's stick. That was the end
of his doctorin' anyway; he never went back to Doctor Dempsey, an' the
flailin' he got in the bog knocked a lot o' the nonsense out o' him
an' put sense in its place, because he gave up the foolish ways, an'
settled down to workin' and lookin' after the bit o' land old Jimmy
was after buyin'. But from that day to this if you wanted to set him
tearin' mad all you'd have to say is 'doctor,' and he'd roar like a
ragin' bull.
"An' that's the way Johnnie Finnegan got his 'doctor's degree' from
Peadar Mullen o' the Bog."
THE BEST OF A BARGAIN
'Twas the evening of the Christmas Fair of Castletown, and the forge
in Balnagore was almost full of men and boys. A fine, frosty night it
promised to be, and the roads getting every moment more slippery, some
of the men who had made long journeys were waiting for their turn to
get their horses' shoes sharpened, as a precaution against accidents.
The majority, though, of those who stood or sat around the fire, where
Ned M'Grane was working at his best, were the young fellows of the
neighbourhood, who, as usual, had dropped in to smoke or chat, and
mayhap, if their lucky star happened to be in the ascendant, to hear
one of his entertaining stories from Ned o' the Forge.
Well, one by one those who had far to travel were attended to and took
their departure and then, with a big sigh of relief, Ned threw down the
hammer, drew on his coat and took his pipe from his pocket.
"What sort was the fair, boys?" he asked, when the first wreath of
smoke from his pipe had ascended towards the ceiling.
"'Twas good, Ned," answered Joe Clinton; "but, indeed, everybody was
sayin' on the way home that Castletown Christmas Fair is nothin' now to
what it used to be."
"I remember the time," said Ned, "when the whole town, from where the
new Post Office is now to the railway gates, used to be so full o'
people an' cattle an' trick-o'-the-loops an' everythin', that you'd
have to fight your way through them."
"I heard my father sayin' to James Clancy an' we waitin' to be paid by
the jobber," said Bartle Nolan, "that bacon isn't as dear now as the
day Jimmy the Thrick doubled the grain of oats on the Belfast jobber,
an' they were laughin' over it. What was that about, Ned?"
We became as mute as mice after this last question of Bartle's, and
Ned M'Grane was silent also for a moment or two. Then when we saw him
folding his arms and leaning back against the bellows we knew that a
story was coming, and that Bartle had played a trump card.
"It's many's the trick Jimmy played in his day," said Ned, with a
smile, "but the doublin' o' the grain of oats was one of his best, an'
one that brought him a bit o' money, too. The way it happened was this:
"It was a plan o' Jimmy's sometimes at fairs an' markets to let on
that he was a bit of an amadán, an' he'd talk so simple an' queer an'
foolish that strange jobbers that didn't know him or his ways used to
take great delight in talkin' to him, an' havin' a laugh at him, an' in
the heel o' the hunt Jimmy used to knock out the best penny in the fair
for whatever he'd be sellin'. But he was caught nappin' one day, an' in
revenge for that he doubled the grain of oats.
"He was at the Christmas Fair o' Castletown (it's well over twenty year
ago now) tryin' to sell two pigs--a white one an' a black one--an',
of course, as usual, he was playin' the fool an' crackin' jokes with
every jobber that came the way, an' seemed in no hurry to sell the pigs
at all. At last up comes a quiet, tidy bit of a man, an' says he, nice
an' easy, an' seemin' to care little whether he got an answer or not:
"'What do you want for the white pig there along with the black one?'
says he.
"'Troth then, the sorra much, sir,' says Jimmy; 'all I'm askin' is
three pound.'
"'All right, you can have that,' says the jobber, as quick as you
please, an' he pullin' out his knife, an before Jimmy had time to say a
word the two pigs were marked as plain as if there was a label on them.
"'Take your time there, my good man,' says Jimmy, throwin' off his
fool's face, when he saw the jobber walkin' away, 'take your time
there,' says he, 'you're only after buyin' the white pig.'
"'Oh, I beg your pardon,' says the jobber, mighty polite, 'I'm after
buyin' the white pig _along with the black one_ for three pounds. A
bargain is a bargain. Am I right or wrong?' says he to Bartle Nolan's
father an' a few more o' the neighbours that were listenin' to the
whole thing.
"There wasn't a man among them could deny that he was after buyin' the
two pigs, an' they told Jimmy that he might as well give in at once,
that the bargain was made, an' that the law 'd be again him if he
brought the jobber into court. So my brave Jimmy had to leave his two
darlin' pigs go for next to nothin', an' see himself made a fool of in
real earnest, but he swore that if it was to be in twenty years he'd
have revenge on the boyo from Belfast.
"Well, a year went by and the big Christmas Fair came round again,
an' Jimmy had two fine pigs to sell, the same as usual, for he was a
great man for the pigs. He was about an hour in the fair when who does
he see comin' towards him but the same Belfast jobber that diddled
him the year before. Jimmy never pretended he knew him at all, an'
began leerin' an' lookin' more like a fool than he looked that day
twelvemonths. The jobber let on he didn't know Jimmy either, an', says
he, very nice an' quiet:
"'What do you want for the pigs, my good man?'
"'Och, the sorra much then, sir,' says Jimmy, an' the amadán's laugh
with him. 'All I ask is one grain of oats, only the doublin' of it to
be left to myself for half an hour.'
"The jobber laughed, an' winked at the men standin' round; an' says he,
'I'll take them at the price, an' maybe I'd give you a pound or two for
yourself as well, because you're a decent-lookin' man. The sorra much
doublin' you can do on a grain of oats in half an hour,' says he.
"'Maybe not, maybe not,' says Jimmy, an' a twinkle in his eye; 'but
we'll see,' says he.
"'Bring them to the railway station,' says the jobber, an' he markin'
the pigs, 'an' I'll pay you along with the rest at one o'clock.' An'
off he went, chucklin' an' laughin' to himself.
"Well, there was a big crowd waitin' in a shed in the railway yard to
be paid at one o'clock, an' my brave Jimmy was there, movin' about
among the neighbours, tellin' them he was goin' to have his revenge on
the Belfast jobber, an' they to be all near by to hear an' see the fun.