The village of Ballycomaisy was as pleasant a little place as one
might wish to see of a summer’s day. To be sure, like all other Irish
villages, it was remarkable for a superfluity of “pigs, praties, and
childre,” which being the stock in trade of an Irish cabin, it is to be
presumed that very few villages either in Ireland or elsewhere could go
on properly without them. It consisted principally of one long street,
which you entered from the north-west side by one of those old-fashioned
bridges, the arches of which were much more akin to the Gothic than the
Roman. Most of the houses were of mud, a few of stone, one or two of
which had the honour of being slated on the front side of the roof, and
rustically thatched on the back, where ostentation was not necessary.
There were two or three shops, a liberal sprinkling of public-houses, a
chapel a little out of the town, and an old dilapidated market-house
near the centre. A few little bye-streets projected in a lateral
direction from the main one, which was terminated on the side opposite to
the north-west by a pound, through which, as usual, ran a shallow stream,
that was gathered into a little gutter as it crossed the road. A crazy
antiquated mill, all covered and cobwebbed with grey mealy dust, stood
about a couple of hundred yards out of the town, to which two straggling
rows of houses, that looked like an abortive street, led you. This mill
was surrounded by a green common, which was again hemmed in by a fine
river, that ran round in a curving line from under the hunchbacked arch
of the bridge we mentioned at the beginning. Now, a little behind, or
rather above this mill, on the skirt of the aforesaid common, stood a
rather neat-looking whitish cabin, with about half a rood of garden
behind it. It was but small, and consisted merely of a sleeping-room
and kitchen. On one side of the door there was a window, opening on
hinges; and on the outside, to the right as you entered the house, there
was placed a large stone, about four feet high, backed by a sloping
mound of earth, so graduated as to allow a person to ascend the stone
without any difficulty. In this cabin lived Rose Moan, the Midwife; and
we need scarcely inform our readers that the stone in question was her
mounting-stone, by which she was enabled to place herself on pillion or
crupper, as the case happened, when called out upon her usual avocation.
Rose was what might be called a _flahoolagh_, or portly woman, with a
good-humoured set of Milesian features; that is to say, a pair of red,
broad checks, a well-set nose, allowing for the disposition to turn up,
and two black twinkling eyes, with a mellow expression that betokened
good nature, and a peculiar description of knowing _professional_ humour
that is never to be met with in any _but_ a Midwife. Rose was dressed
in a red flannel petticoat, a warm cotton sack or wrapper, which pinned
easily over a large bust, and a comfortable woollen shawl. She always
wore a long-bordered morning cap, over which, while travelling, she
pinned a second shawl of Scotch plaid; and to protect her from the cold
night air, she enfolded her precious person in a deep blue cloak of the
true indigo tint. On her head, over cloak and shawl and morning cap, was
fixed a black “splush hat,” with the leaf strapped down by her ears on
each side, so that in point of fact she cared little how it blew, and
never once dreamed that such a process as that of Raper or Mackintosh was
necessary to keep the liege subjects of these realms warm and waterproof,
nor that two systems should exist in Ireland so strongly antithetical to
each other as those of Raper and Father Mathew.
Having thus given a brief sketch of her local habitation and personal
appearance, we shall transfer our readers to the house of a young
new-married farmer named Keho, who lived in a distant part of the parish.
Keho was a comfortable fellow, full of good nature and credulity; but his
wife happened to be one of the sharpest, meanest, most suspicious, and
miserable devils that ever was raised in good-humoured Ireland. Her voice
was as sharp and her heart as cold as an icicle; and as for her tongue,
it was incessant and interminable. Were it not that her husband, who,
though good-natured, was fiery and resolute when provoked, exercised a
firm and salutary control over her, she would have starved both him and
her servants into perfect skeletons. And what was still worse, with a
temper that was vindictive and tyrannical, she affected to be religious,
and upon those who did not know her, actually attempted to pass herself
off as a saint.
One night, about ten or twelve months after his marriage, honest Corny
Keho came out to the barn, where slept his two farm servants, named Phil
Hannigan and Barny Casey. He had been sitting by himself, composing his
mind for a calm night’s sleep, or probably for a curtain lecture, by
taking a contemplative whiff of the pipe, when the servant wench, with a
certain air of hurry, importance, and authority, entered the kitchen, and
informed him that Rose Moan must immediately be sent for.
“The misthress isn’t well, Masther, an’ the sooner she’s sint for, the
betther. So mind my words, sir, if you plaise, an’ pack aff either Phil
or Barny for Rose Moan, an’ I hope I won’t have to ax it again--hem!”
Dandy Keho--for so Corny was called, as being remarkable for his
slovenliness--started up hastily, and having taken the pipe out of his
mouth, was about to place it on the hob; but reflecting that the whiff
could not much retard him in the delivery of his orders, he sallied out
to the barn, and knocked.
“Who’s there? Lave that, wid you, unless you wish to be shotted.” This
was followed by a loud laugh from within.
“Boys, get up wid all haste: it’s the misthress. Phil, saddle Hollowback
and fly--(puff)--fly in a jiffy for Rose Moan; an’ do you, Barny, clap
a back-sugaun--(puff)--an Sobersides, an’ be aff for the Misthress’s
mother--(puff.)”
Both were dressing themselves before he had concluded, and in a very few
minutes were off in different directions, each according to the orders
he had received. With Barny we have nothing to do, unless to say that he
lost little time in bringing Mrs Keho’s mother to her aid; but as Phil is
gone for a much more important character, we beg our readers to return
with us to the cabin of Rose Moan, who is now fast asleep; for it is
twelve o’clock of a beautiful moonlight night, in the pleasant month of
August. Tap-tap. “Is Mrs Moan at home?” In about half a minute her warm
good-looking face, enveloped in flannel, is protruded from the window.
“Who’s that, _in God’s name_?” The words in italics were added, lest the
message might be one from the fairies.
“I’m Dandy Keho’s servant--one of them, at any rate--an’ my Misthress has
got a stitch in her side--ha! ha! ha!”
“Aisy, avick--so, she’s _down_, thin--aisy--I’ll be wid you like a bow
out of an arrow. Put your horse over to ‘the stone,’ an’ have him ready.
The Lord bring her over her difficulties, any way, amin!”
She then pulled in her head, and in about three or four minutes sallied
out, dressed as we have described her; and having placed herself on the
crupper, coolly put her right arm round Phil’s body, and desired him to
ride on with all possible haste.
“Push an, avouchal, push an--time’s precious at all times, but on
business like this every minute is worth a life. But there’s always one
comfort, that God is marciful. Push forrid, avick.”
“Never fear, Mrs Moan. If it’s in Hollowback, bedad I’m the babe that’ll
take it out of him. Come, ould Hack-ball, trot out--you don’t know the
message you’re an, nor who you’re carryin’.”
“Isn’t your misthress--manin’ the Dandy’s wife--a daughter of ould Fitzy
Finnegan’s, the schrew of Glendhu?”
“Faith, you may say that, Rose, as we all know to our cost. Be me song,
she does have us sometimes that you might see through us; an’ only for
the masther----but, dang it, no matther--she’s down now, poor woman, an’
it’s not just the time to be rakin’ up her failins.”
“It is not, an’ God mark you to grace for sayin’ so. At a time like
this we must forget every thing, only to do the best we can for our
fellow-creatures. What are you lookin’ at, avick?”
Now, this question naturally arose from the fact that honest Phil had
been, during their short conversation, peering keenly on each side of
him, as if he expected an apparition to rise from every furze-bush on
the common. The truth is, he was almost proverbial for his terror of
ghosts and fairies, and all supernatural visitants whatever; but upon
this occasion his fears arose to a painful height, in consequence of the
popular belief, that, when a midwife is sent for, the Good People throw
every possible obstruction in her way, either by laming the horse, if she
rides, or by disqualifying the guide from performing his duty as such.
Phil, however, felt ashamed to avow his fears on these points, but still
could not help unconsciously turning the conversation to the very topic
he ought to have avoided.
“What war you looking at, avick?”
“Why, bedad, there appeared something there beyant, like a man, only it
was darker. But be this and be that--hem, ehem!--if I could get my hands
on him, whatsomever he”----
“Hushth, boy, hould your tongue: you don’t know but it’s the very word
you war goin’ to say might do us harm.”
“--Whatsomever he is, that I’d give him a lift on Hollowback if he
happened to be any poor fellow that stood in need of it. Oh! the sorra
word I was goin’ to say against any thing or any body.”
“You’re right, dear. If you knew as much as I could tell you--push
an--you’d have a dhrop o’ sweat at the ind of every hair on your head.”
“Be my song, I’m tould you know a power o’ quare things, Mrs Moan; an’ if
all that’s said is thrue, you sartinly do.”
Now, had Mrs Moan and her heroic guide passed through the village of
Ballycomaisy, the latter would not have felt his fears so strong upon
him. The road, however, along which they were now going was a grass-grown
_bohreen_, that led them from behind her cabin through a waste and lonely
part of the country; and as it was a saving of better than two miles
in point of distance, Mrs Moan would not hear of their proceeding by
any other direction. The tenor of her conversation, however, was fast
bringing Phil to the state she so graphically and pithily described.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Phil Hannigan, a son of fat Phil’s of Balnasaggart, an’ a cousin to
Paddy who lost a finger in the Gansy (Guernsey) wars.”
“I know. Well, Phil, in throth the hairs ’ud stand like stalks o’ barley
upon your head, if you heard all I could mintion.”
Phil instinctively put his hand up and pressed down his hat, as if it had
been disposed to fly from off his head.
“Hem! ahem! Why, I’m tould it’s wonderful. But is it thrue, Mrs Moan,
that you have been brought _on business_ to some o’ the”--here Phil
looked about him cautiously, and lowered his voice to a whisper--“to some
o’ the fairy women?”
“Husth, man alive--what the sorra timpted you to call them anything but
the Good People? This day’s Thursday--God stand betune us an’ harm. No,
Phil, I name nobody. But there was a woman, a midwife--mind, avick, that
I don’t say _who_ she was--may be I know why too, an’ may be it would be
as much as my life is worth”----
“Aisey, Mrs. Moan! God presarve us! what is that tall thing there to the
right!”--and he commenced the Lord’s Prayer in Irish as fast as he could
get out the words.
“Why, don’t you see, boy, its a fir-tree, but sorra movin’ it’s movin.”
“Ay, faix, an’ so it is; bedad I thought it was gettin’ taller an’
taller. Ay!--hut! it _is_ only a tree.”
“Well, dear, there was a woman, an’ she was called away one night by
a little gentleman dressed in green. I’ll tell you the story some
time--only this, that havin’ done her _duty_, an’ tuck no payment, she
was called out the same night to a neighbour’s wife, an’ a purtier boy
you couldn’t see than she left behind her. But it seems she happened to
touch one of his eyes wid a hand that had a taste of _their_ panado an
it; an’ as the child grew up, every one wondhered to hear him speak of
the multitudes o’ thim that he seen in all directions. Well, my dear,
he kept never sayin’ anything to them until one day when he was in the
fair of Ballycomaisy, that he saw them whippin’ away meal and cotton and
butther, an’ everything that they thought serviceable to them; so you see
he could hould in no longer, an’ says he to a little fellow that was very
active an’ thievish among them, ‘Why duv you take what doesn’t belong to
you?’ says he. The little fellow looked up at him”--“God be about us,
Rose, what is that white thing goin’ along the ditch to the left of us?”
“It’s a sheep, don’t you see? Faix, I believe you’re cowardly at night.”
“Ay, faix, an’ so it is, but it looked very quare somehow.”
“--An’ says he, ‘How do you know that?’ ‘Bekase I see you all,’ says the
other. ‘An’ which eye do you see us all wid?’ says he again. ‘Why, wid
the left,’ says the boy. Wid that he gave a short whiff of a blast up
into the eye, an’ from that day not a stime the poor boy was never able
to see wid it. No, Phil, I didn’t say it was _myself_--I named _nobody_.”
“An’, Mrs Moan, is it thrue that you can put the dughaughs upon them that
trate their wives badly?”
“Whisht, Phil. When you marry, keep your timper--that’s all.--You knew
long Ned Donnelly?”
“Ay, bedad, sure enough; there was quare things said about”----“Push an,
avick, push an; for who knows how some of us is wanted? You have a good
masther, I believe, Phil? It’s poison the same Ned would give me if he
could. Push an, dear.”
Phil felt that he had got his answer. The abrupt mystery of her manner
and her curt allusions left him little indeed to guess at. In this
way did the conversation continue, Phil feloniously filching, as he
thought, from her own lips, a corroboration of the various knowledge
and extraordinary powers which she was believed to possess, and she
ingeniously feeding his credulity, merely by enigmatical hints and
masked allusions; for although she took care to affirm nothing directly
or personally of herself, yet did she contrive to answer him in such a
manner as to confirm every report that had gone abroad of the strange
purposes she could effect.
“Phil, wasn’t there an uncle o’ yours up in the Mountain Bar that didn’t
live happily for some time wid his wife?”
“I believe so, Rose; but it was before my time, or any way when I was
only a young shaver.”
“An’ did you ever hear how the reconcilement came betune them?”
“No, bedad,” replied Phil, “I never did; an’ that’s no wondher, for it
was a thing they never liked to spake of.”
“Throth, it’s thrue for you, boy. Well, I brought about----Push an, dear,
push an.--They’re as happy a couple now as breaks bread, any way, and
that’s all they wanted.
“I’d wager a thirteen it was you did that, Rose.”
“Hut, gorsoon, hould your tongue. Sure they’re happy now, I say,
whosomever did it. I named nobody, nor I take no pride to myself, Phil,
out o’ sich things. Some people’s gifted above others, an’ that’s all.
But, Phil?”
“Well, ma’am?”
“How does the Dandy an’ his scald of a wife agree? for, throth, I’m tould
she’s nothing else.”
“Faix, but middlin’ itself. As I tould you, she often has us as empty as
a paper lanthern, wid divil a thing but the light of a good conscience
inside of us. If we _pray_ ourselves, begorra she’ll take care we’ll have
the _fastin’_ at first cost; so that you see, ma’am, we hould a devout
situation undher her.”
“An’ so that’s the way wid you?”
“Ay, the downright thruth, an’ no mistake. Why, the stirabout she makes
would run nine miles along a deal boord, an’ scald a man at the far end
of it.”
“Throth, Phil, I never like to go next or near sich women or sich places,
but for the sake o’ the innocent we must forget the guilty. So push an,
avick, push an. Who knows but it’s life an’ death wid us? Have you ne’er
a spur on?”
“The divil a spur I tuck time to wait for.”
“Well, afther all, it’s not right to let a messager come for a woman like
me, widout what is called the Midwife’s Spur--a spur in the head--for it
has long been said that one in the head is worth two in the heel, an’ so
indeed it is,--on business like this, any way.”
“Mrs Moan, do you know the Moriartys of Ballaghmore, ma’am?”
“Which o’ them, honey?”
“Mick o’ the Esker Beg.”
“To be sure I do. A well-favoured dacent family they are, an’ full o’ the
world too, the Lord spare it to them.”
“Bedad, they are, ma’am, a well-favoured[1] family. Well, ma’am, isn’t it
odd, but somehow there’s neither man, woman, nor child in the parish but
gives you the good word above all the women in it; but as for a midwife,
why, I heard my aunt say that if ever mother an’ child owended their
lives to another, she did her and the babby’s to you.”
The reader may here perceive that Phil’s flattery must have had some
peculiar design in it, in connection with the Moriartys, and such indeed
was the fact. But we had better allow him to explain matters himself.
“Well, honey, sure that was but my duty; but God be praised for all, for
every thing depinds on the Man above. She should call in one o’ those
newfangled women who take out their Dispatches from the Lying-in College
in Dublin below; for you see, Phil, there is sich a place there--an’ it
stands to raison that there should be a Fondlin’ Hospital beside it,
which there is too, they say; but, honey, what are these poor ignorant
cratures but _new lights_, every one o’ them, that a dacent woman’s life
isn’t safe wid?”
“To be sure, Mrs Moan; an’ everyone knows they’re not to be put in
comparishment wid a woman like you, that knows sich a power. But how does
it happen, ma’am, that the Moriartys does be spakin’ but middlin’ of you?”
“Of me, avick?”
“Ay, faix; I’m tould they spread the mouth at you sometimes, espishily
when the people does be talkin’ about all the quare things you can do.”
“Well, well, dear, let them have their laugh--they may laugh that win,
you know. Still one doesn’t like to be provoked--no indeed.”
“Faix, an’ Mick Moriarty has a purty daughther, Mrs Moan, an’ a purty
penny he can give her, by all accounts. The nerra one o’ myself but
would be glad to put my comedher on her, if I knew how. I hope you find
yourself aisey on your sate, ma’am?”
“I do, honey. Let them talk, Phil, let them talk; it may come their turn
yet--only I didn’t expect it from _them_. You! but, avick, what chance
would _you_ have with Mick Moriarty’s daughther?”
“Ay, every chance an’ sartinty too, if some one that I know, and that
every one that knows her, respects, would only give me a lift. There’s
no use in comin’ about the bush, Mrs Moan--bedad it’s yourself I mane.
You could do it. An’, whisper, betune you and me it would be only sarvin’
them right, in regard of the way they spake of you--sayin’, indeed, an’
galivantin’ to the world that you know no more than another woman, an’
that ould Pol Doolin of Ballymagowan knows oceans more than you do.”
This was perhaps as artful a plot as could be laid for engaging the
assistance of Mrs Moan in Phil’s design upon Moriarty’s daughter. He
knew perfectly well that she would not, unless strongly influenced, lend
herself to any thing of the kind between two persons whose circumstances
in life differed so widely as those of a respectable farmer’s daughter
with a good portion, and a penniless labouring boy. With great
adroitness, therefore, he contrived to excite her prejudices against
them by the most successful arguments he could possibly use, namely, a
contempt for her imputed knowledge, and praise of her rival. Still she
was in the habit of acting coolly, and less from impulse than from a
shrewd knowledge of the best way to sustain her own reputation, without
undertaking too much.
“Well, honey, an’ so you wish me to assist you? Maybe I could do it, and
maybe--But push an, dear, move him an; we’ll think of it, an’ spake more
about it some other time. I must think of what’s afore me now--so move,
move, acushla; push an.”
Much conversation of the same nature took place between them, in which
each bore a somewhat characteristic part; for to say truth, Phil was as
knowing a “boy” as you might wish to become acquainted with. In Rose,
however, he had a woman of no ordinary shrewdness to encounter; and the
consequence was, that each after a little more chat began to understand
the other a little too well to render the topic of the Moriartys, to
which Phil again reverted, so interesting as it had been. Rose soon saw
that Phil was only a _plasthey_, or sweetener, and only “soothered” her
for his own purposes; and Phil perceived that Rose understood his tactics
too well to render any further tampering with her vanity either safe or
successful.
At length they arrived at Dandy Keho’s house, and in a moment the Dandy
himself took her in his arms, and, placing her gently on the ground,
shook hands with and cordially welcomed her. It is very singular, but no
less true, that the moment a midwife enters the house of her patient, she
always uses the plural number, whether speaking in her own person or in
that of the former.
“You’re welcome, Rose, an’ I’m proud an’ happy to see you here, an’ it’ll
make poor Bridget strong, an’ give her courage, to know you’re near her.”
“How are we, Dandy? how are we, avick?”
“Oh, bedad, middlin’, wishin’ very much for you of coorse, as I hear”----
“Well, honey, go away now. I have some words to say afore I go in,
that’ll sarve us, maybe--a charm it is that has great vartue in it.”
The Dandy then withdrew to the barn, where the male portion of the family
were staying until the _ultimatum_ should be known. A good bottle of
potteen, however, was circulating among them, for every one knows that
occasions of this nature usually generate a festive and hospitable spirit.
Rose now went round the house in the direction from east to west,
stopping for a short time at each of the windows, which she marked with
the sign of the cross five times; that is to say, once at each corner
and once in the middle. At each corner also of the house she signed the
cross, and repeated the following words or charm:--
The four Evangels and the four Divines,
God bless the moon an us when it shines.
New moon,[2] true moon, God bless me,
God bless this house an’ this family.
Matthew, Mark, Luke, an’ John,
God bless the bed that she lies on.
God bless the manger where Christ was born,
An’ lave Joy an’ comfort here in the morn.
St Bridget an’ St Patrick, an’ the holy spouse,
Keep the fairies for ever far from this house. Amen.
Glora yea, Glora yea, Glora yea yeelish,
Glora n’ahir, Glora n’vac, Glora n’spirid neev. Amen.
These are the veritable words of the charm, which she uttered in the
manner and with the forms aforesaid. Having concluded them, she then
entered into the house, where we leave her for a time with our best
wishes.
In the barn the company were very merry, Dandy himself being as pleasant
as any of them, unless when his brow became shaded by the very natural
anxiety for the welfare of his wife and child, which from time to time
returned upon him. Stories were told, songs sung, and jokes passed, all
full of good nature and not a little fun, some of it at the expense
of the Dandy himself, who laughed at and took it all in good part. An
occasional _bulletin_ came out through a servant maid, that matters were
just the same way; a piece of intelligence which damped Keho’s mirth
considerably. At length he himself was sent for by the Midwife, who
wished to speak with him at the door.
“I hope there’s nothing like danger, Rose?”
“Not at all, honey; but the truth is, we want a seventh son who isn’t
left-handed.”
“A seventh son! Why, what do you want him for?”
“Why, dear, just to give her three shakes in his arms;--it never fails.”
“Bedad, an’ that’s fortunate; for there’s Mickey M’Sorley of the Broad
Bog’s a seventh son, an’ he’s not two gunshots from this.”
“Well, aroon, hurry off one or two o’ the boys for him, and tell Phil,
if he makes haste, that I’ll have a word to say to him afore I go.” This
intimation to Phil put feathers to his heels; for from the moment that
he and Barny started, he did not once cease to go at the top of his
speed. It followed as a matter of course that honest Mickey M’Sorley
dressed himself and was back at Keho’s house before the family believed
it possible the parties could have been there. This ceremony of getting a
seventh son to shake the sick woman, in cases where difficulty or danger
may be apprehended, is one which frequently occurs in remote parts of the
country. To be sure, it is only a form, the man merely taking her in his
arms, and moving her gently three times. The writer of this, when young,
saw it performed with his own eyes, as the saying is; but in his case the
man was not a seventh son, for no such person could be procured. When
this difficulty arises, any man who has the character of being lucky,
provided he is not married to a red-haired wife, may be called in to
give the three shakes. In other and more dangerous cases Rose would send
out persons to gather half a dozen heads of blasted barley; and having
stripped them of the black fine powder with which they were covered, she
would administer it in a little new milk, and this was always attended by
the best effects. It is somewhat surprising that the whole Faculty should
have adopted this singular medicine in cases of similar difficulty, for
in truth it is that which is now administered under the more scientific
name of _Ergot of rye_.
In the case before us, the seventh son sustained his reputation for good
luck. In about three quarters of an hour Dandy was called in “to kiss a
strange young gintleman that wanted to see him.” This was an agreeable
ceremony to Dandy, as it always is, to catch the first glimpse of one’s
own first-born. On entering he found Rose sitting beside the bed in all
the pomp of authority and pride of success, bearing the infant in her
arms, and dandling it up and down, more from habit than any necessity
that then existed for doing so.
“Well,” said she, “here we are all safe and sound, God willin’; an’ if
you’re not the father of as purty a young man as ever I laid eyes on, I’m
not here. Corny Keho, come an’ kiss your son, I say.”
Corny advanced, somewhat puzzled whether to laugh or cry, and taking
the child up with a smile, he kissed it five times--for that is the
mystic number--and as he placed it once more in Rose’s arms, there was a
solitary tear on its cheek.
“Arra, go an’ kiss your wife, man alive, an’ tell her to have a good
heart, an’ to be as kind to all her fellow-creatures as God has been to
her this night. It isn’t upon this world the heart ought to be fixed, for
we see how small a thing an’ how short a time can take us out of it.”
“Oh, bedad,” said Dandy, who had now recovered the touch of feeling
excited by the child, “it would be too bad if I’d grudge her a smack.”
He accordingly stooped, and kissed her; but, truth to confess, he did it
with a very cool and business-like air. “I know,” he proceeded, “that
she’ll have a heart like a jyant, now that the son is come.”
“To be sure she will, an’ she must; or if not, _I’ll_ play the sorra,
an’ break things. Well, well, let her get strength a bit first, an’
rest and quiet; an’ in the mean time get the groanin’-malt ready, until
every one in the house drinks the health of the stranger. My sowl to
happiness, but he’s a born beauty. The nerra Keho of you all ever was the
aiquails of what he’ll be yet, plaise God. Troth, Corny, he has daddy’s
nose upon him, any how. Ay, you may laugh; but, faix, it’s thrue. You
may take with him, you may own to him, any where. Arra, look at that! My
soul to happiness, if one egg’s liker another! Eh, my posey! Where was
it, alanna? Ay, you’re there, my duck o’ diamonds! Troth, you’ll be the
flower o’ the flock, so you will. An’ now, Mrs Keho, honey, we’ll lave
you to yourself awhile, till we thrate these poor cratures of sarvints;
the likes o’ them oughtn’t to be overlooked; an’ indeed they did feel
a great dale itself, poor things, about you; an’ moreover they’ll be
longin’ of coorse to see the darlin’ here.”
Mrs Keho’s mother and Rose superintended the birth-treat between them. It
is unnecessary to say that the young men and girls had their own sly fun
upon the occasion; and now that Dandy’s apprehension of danger was over,
he joined in their mirth with as much glee as any of them. This being
over, they all retired to rest; and honest Mickey M’Sorley went home
very _hearty_,[3] in consequence of Dandy’s grateful sense of the aid he
had rendered his wife. The next morning Rose, after dressing the infant
and performing all the usual duties that one expected from her, took her
leave in these words:--
“Now, Mrs Keho, God bless you an’ yours, and take care of yourself. I’ll
see you agin on Sunday next, when it’s to be christened. Until then,
throw out no dirty wather before sunrise or afther sunset; an’ when
Father Molloy is goin’ to christen it, let Corny tell him not to forget
to christen it _against the fairies_, an’ thin it’ll be safe. Good bye,
ma’am; an’ look you to her, Mrs Finnegan,” said she, addressing her
patient’s mother, “an’ _banaght lath_ till I see all again.”
[1] This term in Ireland means “handsome”--“good-looking.”
[2] If it did not happen to be new moon, the words were “good moon,” &c.
[3] Tipsy.