an' silver on to his white overcoat, an' himself an' his partner began
payin' away as fast as they could hand out the money. Jimmy was kept
till the last, but the neighbours all waited because they knew that my
boyo was up to some mischief or other. Anyway, when all was paid that
was due the jobber turned round an' called over Jimmy, an' says he:
"'Here's a man that sold me two fine pigs to-day for a grain o' corn,
an' all he asked was that he might be let double it for half-an-hour,
an' that that 'd be the price o' the pigs. Start now, my good man, an'
double your grain of oats, because the train 'll be goin' in forty
minutes, an' there's no time to lose.'
"The people crowded in closer an' cocked their ears. Jimmy walked in
quietly in front o' them an' faced the jobber. There was no sign o' the
amadán on him by this time, but there was a bit of a smile comin' an'
goin' round his mouth, an' a sparkle in his eye.
"'A grain an' a grain,' says he, 'that's two grains, four grains, eight
grains, sixteen grains, thirty-two grains--that's a pinch. A pinch
an' a pinch, that's two pinches, four pinches, eight pinches, sixteen
pinches, thirty-two pinches--that's a fistful.'
"'A fine price for two pigs,' says the jobber. An' the people round
about began to laugh, but Jimmy never let on he heard them, and off he
started again:
"'A fistful an' a fistful, that's two fistfuls, four fistfuls, eight
fistfuls, sixteen fistfuls, thirty-two fistfuls--that's a sheaf. A
sheaf an' a sheaf, that's two sheaves, four sheaves, eight sheaves,
sixteen sheaves, thirty-two sheaves--that's a stook.'
"'A fine big one 'twould be,' says the jobber, 'bigger nor ever I saw
in a cornfield.' And he began to laugh an' to jingle money in his
pocket. Jimmy made him no answer.
"'A stook an' a stook,' says he, 'that's two stooks, four stooks, eight
stooks, sixteen stooks, thirty-two stooks--that's a stack.'
"Faith, the neighbours began to give up grinnin' at Jimmy, an' they
gathered in closer to him, an' nodded their heads at one another, but
the sorra word they had to say; an' the smile was fadin' out o' the
jobber's face. Jimmy kept on countin':
"'A stack an' a stack, that's two stacks, four stacks, eight stacks,
sixteen stacks, thirty-two stacks--that's a haggard.'
"The jobber began to look uneasy, but Jimmy saw nothin' or nobody.
"'A haggard an' a haggard,' says he, 'that's two haggards, four
haggards, eight haggards, sixteen haggards--that's a townland.'
"You could hear the people breathin', an' the jobber was gettin' pale,
but Jimmy kept on:
"'A townland an' a townland, that's two townlands, four townlands,
eight townlands, sixteen townlands, thirty-two townlands--that's a
barony.'
"'A barony----'
"'Eh! hold on, my good man,' says the jobber, 'I'm afraid I'll be late
for my train. I was only jokin'. I'll give you five pound apiece for
the pigs.'
"'The time isn't half up yet,' says Jimmy, 'stay where you are,' an' on
he went.
"'A barony an' a barony, that's two baronies, four baronies, eight
baronies, sixteen baronies, thirty-two baronies--that's a county.'
"'Listen here!' says the jobber; but Jimmy wouldn't listen.
"'A county an' a county, that's two counties, four counties, eight
counties, sixteen counties, thirty-two counties--_that's Ireland!_'
says Jimmy, with a shout, an' he gave the jobber a slap on the back
that made him jump.
"'You owe me all the oats in Ireland, my fine clever fellow, an' not
more than half the time's up yet. If I kep' on countin' it's the oats
o' the whole world you'd have to be givin' me at the end of half an
hour. You met a fool last year, but he isn't at all, at all as soft as
he looks. When are you goin' to pay me?'
"The poor jobber was shakin' an' shiverin' like a man in a fit. He was
afraid, I think, that the neighbours 'd back up Jimmy, an' give him a
taste o' their sticks if he failed to pay.
"'Oh, sir!' says he, 'don't be too hard on me. Sure I haven't the price
of one haggard let alone all the haggards in Ireland. There's all I
have in the world--fifty pound--an' you can have it an' welcome for
your two pigs.'
"'Well,' says Jimmy, 'as it's Christmas times an' I'm a soft-hearted
man, I'll let you off easier than you deserve. Give me a twenty pound
note, an' I'll forget that you owe me the rest!'
"The jobber was glad to get off so cheap, an' from that day to this he
was never seen at the fair o' Castletown.
"An' that's how Jimmy the Thrick doubled the grain of oats."
WHEN DENIS TURNED TO THE TAY
_Adapted from the Irish of "An Seabhac" in "An Baile Seo 'Gainn-ne."_
"Bad cess to it for tay," said Ned M'Grane, as he came into the forge,
wiping his lips after his evening meal, in which the much-abused
beverage in question had been, and always was, a potent factor. "The
people were healthier an' hardier, an' the country was better off when
the good wholesome food was goin' an' there was little talk o' tay. Now
we can't do without it for more than half-a-day, bad cess to it!"
He took a piece of tobacco from his capacious vest pocket and proceeded
to fill his pipe, while we eagerly and anxiously scanned his face in
the hope of reading there indications that would lead us to expect a
story, for we always knew by a close but seemingly careless scrutiny of
Ned's face whether we might venture to suggest his drawing upon that
wonderful store of yarns for the possession of which he was famous
throughout the length and breadth of the three parishes.
"I wonder how was it people took to the tay at all at first," said
Bartle Nolan, carelessly, as he fingered a couple of horse-shoe nails
and looked thoughtfully away into the shadows; "you'd think they were
wise enough in them times to know what was good for them."
It was a fine bait, that innocent remark of Bartle's, and we waited
with drawn breath to see what its result would be on Ned.
"Well," said the latter, as he teased the tobacco between his fingers,
while a far-away look that was hopeful came over his face and into his
eyes, "there was many a reason, Bartle. The praties began to get bad,
an' bad seasons left the meal for the stirabout sour an' heavy an'
ugly, an' then people goin' to Dublin an' places like that began to get
notions, an' the women began to think they weren't able for the strong
food an' that tay would put more heart in them. But maybe the men, or
most o' them, were like Denis M'Cann--God be good to him!--an' took the
tay because they couldn't stand the other thing any longer."
"Is it Denis o' the Hill that died last year?" said Joe Clinton, his
voice trembling with eagerness, and before Bartle Nolan could give us a
warning sign four or five of us had blurted out:
"What about Denis, Ned?"
"The very man," said Ned, in reply to Joe's question, and apparently
paying no attention to us. "It wasn't any wonder poor Denis took to the
tay after all the heart-scald he got from the stirabout--not a wonder
in the world."
We sat silent, hardly daring to breathe.
"When I was a gossoon about the size o' Jimmy Tully there, in all the
three parishes there wasn't a harder-workin' family than the M'Canns,
an' the best woman in the barony was Peg M'Cann herself. She was a
good wife to Denis an' a good mother to Patsy an' Molly an' Nell, an'
she never stopped workin' from daylight till dark; but there was one
thing Denis was always grumblin' about, an' that was the stirabout.
Poor Peg, no matter how many warnin's or threats or reminders she got,
could never think o' puttin' salt on the stirabout, an' on that account
there never came a mornin' or a night--except once in a blue moon now
an' again when Peg 'd think o' the salt--that there wasn't a shindy in
the house over the same thing, an' no amount o' jawin' an' ragin' an'
warnin' from Denis could make poor Peg think o' puttin' salt in the
pot every time she started to make the stirabout. An' whenever a thing
wasn't to anybody's likin' from one end o' the parish to the other end
the word was 'That's like Denis McCann's stirabout.'
"Well, everythin' comes to an end some day or other, an' Peg M'Cann's
stirabout pot got a rest at last. An' this is the way it happened out.
"One day Denis an' Patsy an' the girshas were out in the long field
plantin' praties, an' when it was comin' on to the evenin' time Peg
took the stirabout pot an' scoured it an' wiped it an' put it on the
fire with water enough in it to make the stirabout. When the water came
to the boil she put in the meal, an' then for a wonder, whatever struck
into her head, she put a good handful o' salt in the pot, an' says she
to herself: 'He can't be sayin' anythin' about it to-night,' says she.
"The stirabout was simmerin' an' singin' away when Denis an' the
childre came home, an' when Peg saw them comin' up the boreen she went
out to the byre to milk the cow, an' she was smilin' to herself at the
surprise Denis 'd get, an' the quietness there 'd be in the house on
account o' the salt bein' in the stirabout.
"Denis left Patsy an' the girshas to take the harness off the jennet
an' put up the spades an' shovels an' things, an' he went into the
house himself with a couple o' stone o' the seed that was left over
after the day's work. He spied the pot on the fire, an' over he went to
the salt-box an' took up a good big fistful o' the salt an' put it in
the stirabout, an' gave it a stir or two, an' says he an' he lickin'
his lips:
"'It'll be right to-night, anyway,' says he, an' down he goes to shut
the gate at the end o' the boreen.
"In a few minutes in comes Molly an' goes over to the fire to warm her
hands, an' the sound o' the stirabout in the pot reminded her o' the
ructions there used to be every night, an' 'I'm sure she didn't think
of it to-night, no more than any other night,' says Molly, an' up she
jumps an' rams her hand into the salt-box an' takes out a big fistful
an' puts it in the pot an' gives it a couple o' stirs an' goes out to
see what was keepin' her mother.
"Denis wanted the lantern to look after the young lambs, and Patsy went
into the house to get it for him. The smell o' the stirabout brought
him to the fire, an' the sight o' the pot made him think o' the shindy
every night an' 'For fear o' the worst,' says he an' took as much as he
could lift in his hand of salt an' put it in the pot. Then he gave it a
stir an' darted out with the lantern, for Denis was callin' to him to
hurry.
"Peg was in the byre, milkin' away at her ease, an' says she to Nell,
when she saw her passin' the door: 'Nell,' says she, 'run in quick an'
stir the pot or the stirabout'll be burned to nothin'. I'll be in in a
minute myself,' says she.
"Nell went in an' gave a rousin' fine stirrin' to the supper, and she
was just goin' out again to see was Molly ready when she stopped. 'As
sure as I'm alive,' says she, 'my mother never put a grain o' salt in
it,' an' of course when she thought o' that she went to the salt-box
an' done what the rest o' them were after doin' an' says she: 'My
father won't have anythin' to say about it to-night,' an' she lightin'
the candle.
"Then Peg came in an' put milk in the noggins an' lifted the pot off
the fire an' gave it the last stir, an' Denis came in, an' Patsy an'
Molly, an' they all as hungry as huntsmen, an' each o' them thinkin' o'
the fine, tasty stirabout there was for the supper that night anyway.
"Denis sat down in his own place in the corner an' spread out his hands
over the fire an' says he:
"'Give us a noggin o' that, Peg. I'm as hungry as Callaghan's cow when
she ate the hay rope off Tom the Tramp's leg an' he asleep.' An' Peg
filled up the noggin an' handed it over to him. 'That's the stuff for
a hungry man,' says Denis, an' he dug his spoon into the noggin an'
lifted a spoonful out of it that would nearly make a meal for a man
nowadays, an' stuffed it into his mouth, an'----
"'Ugh! Ach! O Lord, I'm pisened!' yelled poor Denis springin' to his
feet, an' he tryin' to get rid o' the stirabout, an' as soon as he
could get his tongue into shape for talk he did talk, an' the abuse he
gave poor Peg was terrible. He never said anythin' half as strong in
his life before, an' that's sayin' a lot.
"'Musha! sorrow's on it for stirabout!' says poor Peg, an' she cryin'
like the rain, 'it has my heart broke in two, so it has. When I don't
put salt on it nobody can eat it, an' this evenin' when I put salt on
it an' thought I had it right, it's worse than ever. Bad cess to it for
stirabout!' An' indeed 'twas no wonder the poor woman 'd cry!
"'Arrah! don't be botherin' us with your cryin' an' wailin', an' you
after makin' the stirabout like, like;---- An' then Denis thought o'
the fistful o' salt he put in the pot himself an' he stopped. 'As true
as I'm a livin' man,' says he, in his own mind, ''twas myself that made
a lad o' the stirabout. But, sure, one fistful would never pisen it
like that!' But he cooled down an' sat lookin' into the fire.
"Patsy thought it was himself that ruined the supper an' Molly thought
'twas she that settled it, an' Nell said to herself she was the rascal
that was after doin' it, but they were all afraid to speak, an' they
were so troubled an' knocked about, that they didn't even think of
askin' for anythin' else to eat. Denis was thinkin' an' thinkin' for a
long time, an' he lookin' into the fire an' at last says he:
"'There's no use in talkin', says he, 'there's some misfortune or bad
luck on this house above every house in the parish. The stirabout is
never the same with us as it is with any o' the neighbours no matter
how it's made. Let us have done with it, once an' for all, an' have
peace an' quietness in the house--what never was in it yet!'
"An', indeed, Peg was only too glad to hear him talkin' like that, for
the same stirabout had her heart nearly broke. She bought two ounces
o' tay in the shop the next mornin', an' from that day out there never
was a bit o' stirabout made under Denis McCann's roof. An', sure, maybe
that's the way the tay got into many another house as well, though I
suppose if you said so to the women they wouldn't be over thankful to
you.
"Bad cess to it for tay!"
A GLORIOUS VICTORY
_Adapted from the Irish of "An Seabhac" in "An Baile Seo 'Gainn-ne."_
There had been a big week's work in the forge, and Ned M'Grane, the
blacksmith, had got a present of a whole pound of tobacco from his
nephew in Dublin, and on account of these two happenings he was in the
very best of humour, so we decided that the time was ripe for a story.
We hadn't had such a treat from Ned for weeks past, so there was an
edge on our appetite for one of his unrivalled stories that pleasant
evening as we sat and smoked in the smithy.
"The like of it was never known in history before," said Joe Clinton,
suddenly, with a challenging glance towards Bartle Nolan, who started
as if he didn't expect the statement, and as if it hadn't been
carefully planned beforehand at the Milking Field gate!
"Ach, nonsense, man!" said Bartle, with a withering look at Joe. "D'ye
mean to say that there ever was an age or a century or a period o'
history that women weren't kickin' up their heels about somethin' or
other an' wantin' to boss the whole show. Why, the thing is out of all
reason!" finished Bartle, with a fine show of indignation.
"All the same I think Joe is right," said Tom M'Donnell. "I don't
believe they ever carried things as far as to want to have votes an'
seats on public boards, an' to be equal to the men in everythin'. I
don't think anyone ever heard before of a woman goin' that far with the
game."
"What's that, Tom?" said Ned, who had just thrust about two ounces of
his store of tobacco into old Phil Callaghan's hand in a covert sort of
way, and was now quietly teasing a pipeful for himself. "What is it you
were talkin' about?"
"O, we were just discoursin', Ned, about them suffragettes an' the row
they're makin' about gettin' votes an' the like o' that. Joe was sayin'
that such a thing as a rumpus about equal rights between man an' woman
was never known of in history before in any country in the world, an'
some of us didn't agree with him. What do you say yourself, Ned?"
Ned teased the tobacco for a few moments in a dreamy manner that seemed
hopeful, and then he looked thoughtfully at Joe Clinton.
"Would it surprise you to hear, Joe," he said at last, "that such
a rumpus an' such a row as you speak about took place in this very
townland o' Balnagore?"
We all laughed at Joe's confusion as he said sheepishly, "It would,
indeed, Ned," and then Ned's eyes twinkled triumphantly.
Then we knew that we had carried our little scheme to success, and we
waited as patiently and as quietly as we could while Ned filled and
lighted his pipe. At last he spoke:
"It's forty year ago an' more since it happened, Joe, an' indeed it
wasn't the woman was to blame at all, but the crankiest, contrariest,
crossest old codger of a man that ever sat on a stool, and that was
Dickey Moran that lived there below in the hollow, where Jimmy Kearney
is livin' now. An' if every woman conducted her fight for a vote as
cleverly as Peggy Moran conducted hers for peace an' quietness there 'd
be a lot more respect an' support for them than there is. But what 'd
be the use of advisin' a woman? You might as well be tryin' to catch
eels with a mousetrap.
"Dickey an' Peggy were only a couple o' years married when she began
to find out that he wasn't altogether as sweet as he used to be, an'
from that time on until she played her trump card she never had an
easy day with him. This wasn't done right, an' that was all wrong, an'
who showed her how to boil a pig's pot, an' where did she learn to
make stirabout, an' forty other growls that nearly put the poor woman
out of her wits. An' what used to annoy her the most of all was that
Dickey (he was fifteen years older than her) never stopped complainin'
about all he had to do in the fields an' on the bog, an' about the
little Peggy had to do in the house--a child buildin' a babby-house 'd
have more to do, he used to say, an' then he'd put a whinin' rigmarole
out of him about the way men had themselves wore to nothin' to keep a
bit an' a sup with lazy women, an' so on, an' so on, until poor Peggy
couldn't stand it any longer, an' she'd turn on him an' say things
that 'd make Dickey twist like an eel an' feel when the shindy 'd be
over that he was after gettin' more than he bargained for, an' a few
rattlin' fine sharp wallops o' Peggy's tongue thrown in for luck.
"Well, it had to get worse or stop altogether, and the surprisin' part
was that the two things happened at the same time.
"It happened one mornin' that Dickey was in an odious bad humour
entirely, an' he goin' about the house with a face on him as long as a
late breakfast an' as sharp as a razor, an' every growl out of him like
a dog over a bone or a fox in a trap. He was tryin' to light the fire,
but the turf was too wet, an' the draught was comin' the wrong way, an'
accordin' as his temper got strong his tongue turned on poor Peggy,
who was givin' a bottle to the child in the cradle--it was only seven
months old at the time--an' she was sayin' nothin' at all, but there
was a quare sort of a look in her eye that all as one as said that her
mind was made up. Dickey was gettin' worse an' worse with his growlin'
about all that men had to do an' the lazy ways of women an' what not,
but all of a sudden, when he wasn't mindin', Peggy caught a grip of his
arm in a way that made him jump, an' says she, in the voice of a County
Court Judge givin' sentence, says she:
"'Let there be an end to this comparin' an' growlin' an' grumblin' once
an' for all, Dickey Moran! You say men are run off their feet an' that
women have nothin' to do. Well, here's the way to settle that. You stay
here in the house an' do what's to be done in it, an' I'll look after
the turf an' the praties an' oats an' things out in the fields, an'
we'll soon see who has the most to do. That's the only way to put an
end to your aggravatin' talk forever an' a day.'
"An' Dickey bein' in the temper he was in, agreed on the minute, an'
they took their bit o' breakfast without another word, an' when it was
down, Peggy tied her shawl round her shoulders an' gripped hold of an
old reapin' hook that was hangin' on the wall an' started off to cut
the bit of oats in the far field, an' Dickey sat down at the fire to
have a pull o' the pipe before startin' the child's play, as he called
the work that had to be done in the house.
"When Peggy was gone a couple o' minutes she came back an' put her head
in at the door, an' says she in a quiet an' easy way, as if she was
only biddin' her man good mornin':
"'Listen here,' says she, 'the cow is in the byre still, an' it's time
she was milked. An' don't forget to take every drop from her or it's
milk fever she'll be havin' one o' these days. An' put a few handfuls
o' poreens on the fire for the pigs an' give them to them soon because
they're screechin' with the hunger. An' keep an eye to that black hen
for fear she'd lay out, because if she does the dickens an egg you'll
get to-morrow mornin'. Scald that churn well an' do the churnin' as
soon as you can, because there's not a bit o' butter in the house an'
this is Friday. An' make a cake o' bread, too, for if you don't there
won't be a pick to eat with the colcannon; an' mind that you don't burn
it. An' spin that pound o' wool over there that I have to make your
socks out of for the winter, an' mind that you don't have it too thick
or lumpy. An' wash up the delph, an' put a drop o' milk on the fire
in that black saucepan for the child, an' give it to him at eleven
o'clock. An' don't make it too hot for him, or you'll hear about it.
An' sweep the floor, an' make the bed, an' get a couple o' cans o'
water from the well, an' peel the praties for the dinner,' says Peggy,
and she out o' breath, an' off she went to the far field.
"'Troth, then, I'll do that an' more, an' it won't trouble me much,'
says Dickey, with a grunt, an' he fillin' the pipe for a good smoke,
'it's easier than breakin' one's back bendin' over a reapin' hook.' An'
he reddened the pipe an' pulled away at his ease.
"The first thing he started into was the washin' o' the delph, an' he
got along middlin' well till he caught hold o' Peggy's darlin' cup that
belonged to her mother's aunt's great-grandmother, an' was as precious
to her as gold. There was a crack in it down one side, an' half-way
round the bottom, an' whatever the dickens happened Dickey, his fingers
were too clumsy or somethin', he never felt till he had a piece o'
the cup in each hand, an' there was another bit on the floor. He just
looked at it an' said nothin', but he thought a lot.
"It couldn't be helped anyway, so he took the gallon can an' out with
him to the byre to milk the cow. You'd think Peggy an' the cow had it
made up between them, with the look that was in her eye when she saw
Dickey comin' with the can, but she stood as quiet as you please an'
chewed the cud, an' seemed to be terrible pleased with the song Dickey
sang while he milked. An' the work was goin' on so grand that he forgot
all about the cup he broke an' was wonderin' to himself was Peggy
repentin' yet, an' was givin' a chuckle or two an' he drawin' the
last drop o' milk into the can, when all of a sudden, without 'by your
leave' or 'here's at you,' the rogue of a cow lifted her right hind leg
an' gave one kick that sent Dickey an' the can o' milk sprawlin' all
over the place. The milk was spilled over him, of course, an' the can
was made a pancake of, an' he had a pain in his chest like lumbago, but
what could he do only curse the cow an' go into the house without can
or milk, an' I may tell you he wasn't chucklin'.
"Well, the pigs were yellin' like mad lions, an' nearly breakin' down
the sty with the hunger, an' Dickey put the pot on the fire an' boiled
a feed for them as fast as he could. An' when it was ready he went to
the sty with it, but whatever misfortune was on him that mornin', an'
the place bein' purty dark where the pigs were, he bumped his nose
against the sharp corner of a board an' the blood began to come like
as if there was somebody after it, an' Dickey flung the feed, bucket
an' all to the pigs, an' ran into the house an' lay on the broad of
his back tryin' to stop the blood an' it runnin' down his neck an'
everywhere.
"He got it stopped at last, but he was as weak as a cat, an' then he
thought o' the churnin', an' he started to do it as best he could,
which wasn't much of a best. It's no joke to do a churnin' without help
an' keep a child from cryin' at the same time, an' when Dickey was
finished, I tell you, he didn't feel like runnin' a race or jumpin'
over a stone wall. He was sweatin' like a fat pig at a fair on a
summer's day.