water, an' he brought the child with him as it was cryin' fit to lift
the roof off the house, an' what do you think but when he was stoopin'
to lift the water didn't he lose his footin' an' fall into the well,
child an' all, an' only it wasn't too deep, Dickey's housekeepin' days
were over. He was all wet anyway, an' the child was wet an' bawlin',
which was no wonder, an' the water was runnin' out o' the two o' them
an' they goin' back to the house.
"When he got to the door there was a stream o' fresh buttermilk runnin'
out to meet him, an' nice little lumps o' butter floatin' on it, an'
there was the churn upset in the middle o' the floor, an' the black pig
drinkin' away at her ease, an' givin' a grunt o' contentment every now
an' then, as much as to say, 'that's the stuff for puttin' a red neck
on a pig.'
"For one full minute Dickey didn't know what to do he was that mad an'
wet an' disappointed an' tired all at the one time, but when the minute
was up he threw the wet child--an' it roarin' all the time, the poor
thing--into the cradle, an' grabbed a new spade that was standin' at
the cross-wall, an' made one lunge at the black pig as she darted out
on the door, knowin' well there was trouble comin'. It caught her just
at the back o' the ear, an' with one yell she staggered an' stretched
out on the yard as dead as a door-nail.
"An' that's the way things were when Peggy came up from the far field
a few minutes later--Dickey nearly dead with fright, an' the child on
the borders of a fit, the churnin' all through the house, the gallon
can all battered up an' not a drop o' new milk to be seen, the fire
out an' no sign of a dinner, the cow in the byre an' she ragin' with
the hunger, one pig dead an' the other rootin' up the winter cabbage in
the garden, an' the whole place like a slaughterhouse or a battlefield,
with milk an' pig's blood an' well-water flowin' in all directions; an'
to crown it all, Dickey sat down in the corner an' began to cry.
"Well, it was a nice how-d'ye-do sure enough, but Peggy was a sensible
woman, an' she just figured it all out there in a second or two, an'
she said to herself that peace was cheap at the price, an' she knew by
the look o' Dickey that there was goin' to be peace, an' she just held
her tongue, an' set about fixin' up the child an' Dickey an' the place
as best she could. An' then she went for Andy Mahon, the herd over in
Moyvore, an' got him to scrape the pig, an' salt the bacon an' pack
it, an' before night you'd never know that anythin' strange was after
takin' place about the house at all, at all. An' Dickey was as mute as
a mouse.
"From that day out there was peace an' quietness an' comfort in that
house, an' Dickey Moran was as kind an' cheerful a man as you'd meet in
a day's walk. An' the only thing Peggy regretted was her darlin' cup
that belonged at one time to her mother's aunt's great-grandmother.
"Boys, O boys, it's eleven o'clock!"
ON ELECTIONS
Ned M'Grane was reading the paper as Denis Monaghan came into the
forge, with a hearty, "God save all here."
"God save you kindly, Denis," said Ned, "an' keep you from ever
aspirin' to be a candidate at an election."
"What's your raison for sayin' such a thing as that, Ned?"
"Well, Denis, I was just turnin' over in me mind all the lies that
does be scattered around an' all the trickery an' deceit an' humbug
that comes into the world durin' election times, an' I was just sayin'
to meself, 'I hope an' pray, Ned M'Grane, that neither you nor any of
your friends or relations or dacint neighbours 'll ever be tempted be
the divil to go up as candidate for election, either as a Poor Law
Guardian, District Councillor, County Councillor, Mimber o' Parliament,
or anythin' else that has to be voted for, because as sure as ever you
do you'll have to turn on the tap o' the keg where every man keeps his
store o' lies in case the truth ever fails him, an' let it flow like
the Falls o' Niagara after a flood.' An' that's the raison, Denis, I
put that tail on to 'God save you kindly,' because I don't want to see
an old friend like yourself ever fallin' as low as that."
"I don't think there's much fear o' me, Ned."
"You never can tell, Denis; you never can tell. I seen sensibler men
than Denis Monaghan--because, as you are well aware, you have a streak
o' th' amadán in you, the same as meself--an' you'd think they'd never
set the few brains they had trottin' an' twistin' about election
honours, as they're called, an' then some fine day or another when
th' Ould Boy finds it too hot to be at home an' takes to prowlin' an'
meandrin' about the world he comes along an' shouts in a whisper into
me honest man's brain box that it'd be a grand thing for him to have
his name in the papers an' on big strips o' paper as wide as a quilt on
every old wall an' gate post, an' to be elected as a councillor or a
guardian an' be able to gabble round a table every week an' have people
lookin' up to him an' thinkin' him a great fella, an' expectin' him
to make the country a plot out o' the Garden of Eden, the same as is
promised in every election address, and so me poor man, bein' maybe not
on his guard, an' a bit seedy or sick or somethin' finds th' Ould Boy's
palaver sweeter than the screechin' o' three hungry pigs, an' with his
teeth waterin' he makes up his mind to go forward as a candidate. An'
that's how the whole thing happens, Denis.
"You know yourself the blathers an' the humbugs dacint men make o'
themselves when they set out on the road to a Council seat or to be
a chip o' the Board o' Guardians or an M.P., or anythin' else that
has to be voted for, an' you know all the lies an' tomfoolery that's
pelted about like clods at such a time. One fella says that he'll cut
the taxes across in the middle, the same as if you got a splash-hook
at them, an' another fella promises to mend all the broken backed
bridges in the barony, an' another is goin' to get a pound a week an'
a two story house an' a farm o' land for every labourin' man that he's
fond of, an' another is goin' to revive th' old ancient language of
Ireland, although he doesn't know a word of it himself, an' another
playboy 'll make it his business to see that every child gets a vote as
soon as he's in short clothes an' weaned off the bottle, an' they go on
romancin' out o' them an' makin' up lies that'd lift the skin off your
head, let alone the hair, if you started to consider an' ponder over
them, and there you have quiet, honest next-door neighbours callin'
each other names an' tryin' to clip th' ears off each other with their
ash poles for sake o' puttin' one or th' other o' the tricks I was
talkin' about at the head o' the list on the day the election is on.
An' when they get in the bridges may mend themselves an' the houses
for the labourers may grow like mushrooms or daisies, an' the fairies
may bring back th' old ancient language an' the women may go about
breakin' the world up into little bits lookin' for votes, but the boyo
that was goin' to do everythin' takes a sudden fit of forgettin' an'
never gets over it until the next election whistles to say it's comin'.
Every time I see an election, Denis, I can't help thinkin' that there's
a terrible lot o' knaves an' goms in the world still, in spite o' the
free libraries an' everythin'.
"Did I ever tell you about the election that was over in the West--I
think it was in Galway--a few years ago? It showed that there was one
sensible man left in the world. There was a lot o' fellas up for
election an' 'twas goin' to be a close fight, as close as a circus
tumbler's shirt. One boyo hit on a plan of advertisin' himself, so
he got up a big competition, as he called it, an' offered a ham to
be won be the man that could give the best raison why he was to vote
for this candidate above all th' others. Well, there was a terrible
hub-bub an' hullabuloo over it, an' the night came to decide about
the ham, an' every man for five miles around was packed into the town
hall, an' everyone o' them wantin' to get his lie in first, an' the
teeth waterin' with everyone o' them an' they lookin' up at the ham
that was hangin' over the platform. An' when th' examination started
every mother's son o' them had a raison as long as your arm, an' some
o' them wrote down on paper--one fella said it was because he knew the
country 'd be the better of it, an' another because he had a longin'
after truth an' honesty, an' another because his conscience said it
was the right thing to do, and so on, till it came to a little man
that was that tight squeezed against the door at the far end o' the
hall that his tongue was out, an' his face red, an' he twistin' like
an eel in a cleeve. When it came to his turn: 'Well, me friend,' says
the candidate, 'what's your raison for sayin' I ought to be elected?'
'Because I want that ham,' the little man squeaked out of him, an' it's
all he was able to say on account o' bein' jammed so tight. But he got
the ham."
NED'S TRIP TO DUBLIN
"Well, Ned, how d' you feel after your visit to Dublin, an' how did you
like the city?"
"I feel very thankful that I'm alive at all," said Ned M'Grane, "that's
how I feel; an' I may as well tell you straight out, 'ithout puttin' a
gum in it--because I haven't a tooth--that I didn't like the city at
all, good, bad or indifferent, an' I didn't feel aisy in me mind from
the first minute I set foot in it, until the train whistled leavin'
Amiens Street on the way back."
"An' how is that, Ned?"
"It's the quarest place you ever seen in your life, Denis, an' if
you're wise you'll never see it. I can't make out why people are
always trippin' over other runnin' up to Dublin an' half o' them 'd
be better off at home if they 'd only work hard an' keep sober an'
let other people's business alone. What they can see in the city to
get fond of passes my understandin'. You'd want to keep one hand on
your nose nearly all the time an' th' other in the pocket you had the
few shillin's in, because the smell o' cabbage an' fish an' oranges
an' things like that, that's qualified for th' old age pension, 'd
nearly bid you the time o' day it's that strong, an' there's a lot o'
professional pocket cleaners goin' about from mornin' till night, an'
as soon as they get to know you're from the country--I don't know how
they guess at it--they remember all of a sudden that they're sixth
cousin to your mother-in-law's step-uncle, or some other relation that
you never seen or heard about, an' if you open your mouth to spake to
them they'll know your past history from cover to cover in five minutes
an' your business an' all about you, an' if you once make friends with
them the dickens a shillin' you'll have in your pocket when they get a
sudden call to see a man on business outside in the street. Oh, I can
tell you, 'shut your eyes and open your mouth' would not be much use to
a man in Dublin.
"They don't walk at all up there--it 'd hurt their corns an' wear out
their boots; but they're always runnin' after trams, an' then payin'
money to be let sit in them to draw their breath. I didn't know what
they were at the first time I seen them doin' it. I was walkin' down
from me cousin's house to the chapel one mornin', an' not payin' much
heed to anythin', when a fella darted out of a gate an' nearly knocked
me down with the bump he gave into me. I was just goin' to grab hould
of him or give him a kick when he muttered somethin' about bein' sorry,
an' off he wint like forked lightnin' an' his hat in his hand an' he
wavin' his arms like a tumblin' rake, an' he wasn't three perch runnin'
when a lassie in a hobble skirt started to take buck jumps after him,
like a lad in a sack race, an' then an old fat woman an' a middle-aged
lad with a rheumatic hop joined in the race an' five or six more made
after them as fast as they could leg it, an' they all flingin' their
arms about the same as the first fella. 'Is it for a wager'? says I
to a man that was walkin' in the same direction as meself. 'Is what
for a wager?' says he. 'The race,' says I, pointin' to the crowd that
was runnin'. He began to laugh an' looked at me in a way that said as
plain as could be, 'You're a softy, anyway,' an' says he: 'Oh, they're
only runnin' to catch the tram.' 'An' why wouldn't they wait for this
other one that's comin' up now?' says I. 'They never wait for a tram
in Dublin,' says he; 'they always run after the one that's ahead o'
them, an' then if they can't catch it they spend the rest o' the day
writin' letters to all the papers complainin' o' the rudeness o' the
tram boys that wouldn't wait for them.' An' some o' the same people,
when they were at home in the country two or three year ago wouldn't
think a traneen about walkin' five mile to a football match an' five
back, or trampin' into the town on a fair day or a market day, an' the
dickens a bunion or a corn or a welt on their feet they had that time
no more than there'd be on the leg of a creepy stool or on the spout
of a kettle. I suppose if there were trams down here the women 'd want
to go in them to milk or to cut nettles for the ducks an' the men 'd
be runnin' after them on their way to the bog or to the hay field, an'
they 'd be all writin' letters to the papers if the tram man wouldn't
wait for them till they 'd be after aitin' their dinner or gettin' a
drink o' buttermilk.
"You won't get a hand's turn done in Dublin 'ithout payin' for it.
If you send a lad for a farthin' box o' matches you must give him a
ha'penny for goin' an' maybe his tay when he comes back, an' if you
haven't any change till the next day he'll charge you interest on
it, an' if you don't pay him he'll make it hot for you the next time
you go out, unless you ask a peeler to go along with you an' give him
half-a-crown for mindin' you.
"Quare is no name for it. It bates out all that ever came across me,
an' I seen some strange holes an' corners in me day. Why, the town over
there, the biggest fair day ever it seen, or the finest day of a races
'd be no more to Dublin any day in the week than a tin whistle 'd be
to the double-barrelled bugle of a brass band! You'd think that every
man, woman an' child in Dublin took a pledge every mornin' to make
somebody bothered before night with the fair dint o' noise, or die in
the attempt. Such screechin' an' yellin' an' creakin' an' groanin' from
old women an' young childre an' dogs an' cats an' drays an' fowls an'
motors an' trams an' everythin' was never heard this side o' London or
the place beyond it, where Ould Nick keeps his furnace in full blast
night an' day. Why, a whisper in Dublin 'd call a man home from the
bog to his dinner down here, it has to be that loud, an' if you don't
screech for anythin' you want you won't get it at all. I don't wonder
that the half of them up there is hoarse, an' th' other half bothered
in both ears, an' that not one in every hundred has an inch o' win'
to blow out a candle with. I suppose that's why they have the gas an'
electric light an' keep the win' for blowin' them out under tap. I
think if a man in Dublin had to quench six candles every night he'd die
of heart disease in less than a week.
"The looks o' the peelers that they have for keepin' up the corners o'
the streets in Dublin 'd make you laugh only you wouldn't like to be
seen makin' a fool o' yourself in a crowd. They're for all the world
like packs o' wool tied in the middle, an' whenever they have to run
after a bould gossoon or a mad dog or a flyin' machine or anythin'
like that, you'd see them shakin' like a movin' bog or a dish o' that
flip-flop stuff they do have at weddin's an' dinners an' parties an'
places like that--I think it's jelly they call it. I suppose the poor
fellas never get anythin' to eat an' less to drink, an' the win' comin'
round the corners gets into them an' blows them out like the bladder
of a football. If a man was comin' to after sickness it'd put him to
the pin of his collar to walk round one o' them. I'd like to see them
wheelin' turf on a bog one o' these hot days. You could catch as much
ile as 'd grease your brogues an' the' axle o' th' ass's dray for a
twelve-month. It must take a quare lot o' stuff to make a suit o'
clothes for one o' them.
"If you seen the houses that some o' the swanks o' lads live in on th'
edge o' the city you'd have nightmares for a week. When one o' them
goes idle there's a notice about it in the papers to catch th' eye o'
some lad that wants to change out o' the place he's in, an' you'd think
by readin' it that it wasn't a house but a mansion that was waitin'
for a tenant. You'll always read in the notices that there's a 'garden
front an' rere,' but you'd want a telescope or somethin' like that to
see the gardens. You could lift the front one on a good wide shovel,
an' a goat couldn't turn round in the big one at the back 'ithout
puttin' her feet up on the wall! An' then if you were to see the size
o' the rooms in the houseen that you'd have to pay the rent of a farm
o' land for. If you were sittin' in the middle o' the kitchen eatin'
a pig's crubeen, an' if you came to a rale grizzly bit that wanted a
good chuck to get it away from the bone, you'd soon get a whack o' the
wall that 'd show you a beautiful movin' picture o' the whole sky on
a starry night. An' it wouldn't do to have a dream about tumblin' the
wild-cat an' you in bed in any o' them rooms, as they call them, or the
same thing 'd happen you, or maybe you'd be out on top o' your head
through the French winda with the Venetian blind and the Manchester
curtains. An' then they call rows o' huts like that Prince o' Wales'
Terrace, or Dreadnought Villa, or Empire Avenue, or somethin' like
that, an' the poor foolish lads that has plenty o' room to walk an'
sit an' sleep down here in the country think they'll never get away
quick enough to Dublin to live in villas or terraces or avenues, and be
swanks, God bless the mark!
"I could tell you a lot more about Dublin, boys, an' maybe I would,
too, sometime, but you're after hearin' enough to know that it's the
dickens own quare an' comical place out an' out."
THE LAWYER FOR THE DEFENCE
_Adapted from the Irish of "An Seabhac" in "An Baile Seo 'Gainn-ne."_
One St. Patrick's Night the Gaels were gathered together in their own
special corner of Heaven (Ned McGrane told us on a certain evening in
the Forge), and were having a glorious time of it. They were there in
tens of thousands--Fionn and the Fianna, Brian Boru, the O'Neills and
O'Donnells and O'Sullivans and MacCarthys, and every other O and Mac
who ever looked upon Ireland as the one and only small nationality that
claimed his heart and hand.
They were all clustered round a fine-looking, white-haired old man,
who was nearly worn out acknowledging their congratulations and
felicitations and hearty words of cheer and greeting. It was because
of him the diversion had been set on foot, for he was none other than
Padraig, the Patron Saint and Apostle of Ireland, but the poor man
looked as if he hoped it would soon be at an end. For no sooner had he
recovered from the shock given to his nerves by the handshake of some
big, tall chieftain of the North than his limp arm was wrung almost to
wrenching point by a towering Gael from some of the other provinces,
until in the end he didn't know whether he was in Heaven or on the
summit of Cruach Padraig.
At last, to his great relief, a bout of dancing was arranged for
between Goll MacMorna, one of the famous Fianna of Fionn, and a
celebrated Feis prize-winner, who had only arrived from Ireland a few
days previously. Fifty fiddlers and fifty pipers played for them and it
was a surprise to the new arrival to see that all the musicians were in
perfect agreement, and that all had the same version of the tune. There
was terrific excitement as the dance progressed, and Goll MacMorna,
carried away by the enthusiasm, finished up with such a jump and a
clatter that he broke a piece out of the floor, and sent it hurtling
down among the stars. He nearly went after it himself, and was only
just saved by being gripped in time by the Blacksmith of Limerick, who
was nearest to him at the moment.
The skelp out of the floor kept falling and falling until it vanished
from sight altogether. And you'll be surprised to hear where it landed.
Just at that very moment a young son of Belzebub--I forget what the
little devil's name was, but it doesn't matter--was playing with a
heap of recruiting posters down on the floor of--of--the other place,
you know. The nurse was talking to a peeler at the gate and was just
telling him about the latest novelette when the yelling and roaring and
the noise were heard inside. In she dashed and found the young master
flattened out like a pancake on the floor, and a big lump of a rock
resting itself on top of him. Then the row started, and the talk that
went about and the curses that careered around in column formation
would make this book smell of brimstone if I were to set them down.
"Who threw the stone?" asked Belzebub for the twentieth time, "that's
the question."
"It was down it came," says a man standing near him. He had no horns
and no hoof, but he was well scorched.
"How do you know?" says Belzebub.
"I have a way of knowing all such things," says the man. "As you may
remember, I used to be a Crown witness in Ireland before I came here."
"This stone," says another man exactly like the last speaker, "this
stone came a long way. It came as far as it could come. It didn't grow
in this country or near it--the heat is too great. I know the sort of
stone it is, because I used to be a Department expert in Ireland long
ago. It grew in no other place than in Heav--I mean where the goo--I
beg your pardon, I mean the--the--the place where people go who don't
come here."
"It was Peter killed my child!" shouted Belzebub, as he switched his
tail and blew clouds of brimstone smoke from his nostrils.
"Wait a moment," says another well-scorched man--a sleek-looking fellow
with a rogue's eye and a hangdog appearance, "I know who the culprits
are. I used to be a felon-setter in Ireland before my services were
transferred here, and I ought to know. This is St. Patrick's Night.
The Irish crowd up in the other place are always allowed to hold
demonstrations on this night--a most illegal and seditious gathering
it usually is, too--and it's their unruly conduct that has sent this
missile flying down here. If you get into communication with the
_Freeman_ over the private wire, you'll find----"
"But it's in Peter's place they are," shouted Belzebub, "and Peter is
responsible for their actions. Will you bear witness to it?"
"We will, certainly," they all shouted, "but to what?"
"To the fact that Peter is responsible for my son's death."
"We're ready to take twenty oaths on it."
"Is there any lawyer here who is willing to take up the case?" asked
Belzebub.
"There is!" came the shout from thousands of throats, and every corner
in the place echoed back the roar of it.
"Count them," said Belzebub to his confidential clerk, who had once
been Chief Secretary in Ireland, and was well up in figures. The clerk
began, but when he had used up all the paper in the place and all the
figures he knew, he came to Belzebub and said there were still ten
divisions and a battalion of lawyers to be counted.
"Shut your eyes and pick out any one at all," says Belzebub, "they're
all the same. Is there a bailiff here?"
There came an immense crowd of them.
"Go," says Belzebub to one fellow, "and serve a writ on Peter."
The bailiff did as he was ordered, and when the writ reached poor St.
Peter he was perturbed. He brought it to St. Patrick.
"See the mess you people have landed me in," he said, "the night you
had the ceilidh--your feast night--the piece that your champion dancer
knocked out of the floor fell on Belzebub's son and killed him." The
Gaels weren't the least bit sorry. The only comment was made by Conan
Maol.
"Pity it wasn't on the father it fell," says he.
"O dear, O dear," says St. Peter, with a sigh, and off he went to look
for legal advice.
Everybody noticed that for the next few days he was terribly troubled,
that he was searching for something or somebody, high up and low down,
going here, there and everywhere.
The court day came. Belzebub and his big staff of lawyers and witnesses
were in attendance, but St. Peter wasn't up to time.
They waited for him a long time. They were impatient. Then came a
messenger.
"He'll be here shortly," says the messenger. "He seems to be looking
for something. He has the whole place above nearly turned upside down."
They waited on and waited on, but there was no sign of St. Peter. The
judge was getting vexed. At last they saw somebody coming, running,
perspiration dropping from him, his face and figure showing signs of
haste and worry. It was St. Peter. He only put his head in at the door.
"Wait a few minutes longer, if you please," says he to the judge, "I
may be able to do it yet." And away he raced again.