William Carleton.
Paddy Corcoran's wife was for several years afflicted with a kind of
complaint which nobody could properly understand. She was sick, and she
was not sick; she was well, and she was not well; she was as ladies wish
to be who love their lords, and she was not as such ladies wish to be.
In fact nobody could tell what the matter with her was. She had a
gnawing at the heart which came heavily upon her husband; for, with the
help of God, a keener appetite than the same gnawing amounted to could
not be met with of a summer's day. The poor woman was delicate beyond
belief, and had no appetite at all, so she hadn't, barring a little
relish for a mutton-chop, or a "staik," or a bit o' mait, anyway; for
sure, God help her! she hadn't the laist inclination for the dhry
pratie, or the dhrop o' sour buttermilk along wid it, especially as she
was so poorly; and, indeed, for a woman in her condition--for, sick as
she was, poor Paddy always was made to believe her in _that_
condition--but God's will be done! she didn't care. A pratie an' a grain
o' salt was a welcome to her--glory be to his name!--as the best roast
an' boiled that ever was dressed; and why not? There was one comfort:
she wouldn't be long wid him--long troublin' him; it matthered little
what she got; but sure she knew herself, that from the gnawin' at her
heart, she could never do good widout the little bit o' mait now and
then; an', sure, if her own husband begridged it to her, who else had
she a better right to expect it from?
Well, as we have said, she lay a bedridden invalid for long enough,
trying doctors and quacks of all sorts, sexes, and sizes, and all
without a farthing's benefit, until, at the long run, poor Paddy was
nearly brought to the last pass, in striving to keep her in "the bit
o' mait." The seventh year was now on the point of closing, when, one
harvest day, as she lay bemoaning her hard condition, on her bed
beyond the kitchen fire, a little weeshy woman, dressed in a neat red
cloak, comes in, and, sitting down by the hearth, says:--
"Well, Kitty Corcoran, you've had a long lair of it there on the broad
o' yer back for seven years, an' you're jist as far from bein' cured
as ever."
"Mavrone, ay," said the other; "in throth that's what I was this
minnit thinkin' ov, and a sorrowful thought it's to me."
"It's yer own fau't, thin," says the little woman; "an', indeed, for
that matter, it's yer fau't that ever you wor there at all."
"Arra, how is that?" asked Kitty; "sure I wouldn't be here if I could
help it? Do you think it's a comfort or a pleasure to me to be sick
and bedridden?"
"No," said the other, "I do not; but I'll tell you the truth: for the
last seven years you have been annoying us. I am one o' the good
people; an' as I have a regard for you, I'm come to let you know the
raison why you've been sick so long as you are. For all the time
you've been ill, if you'll take the thrubble to remimber, your
childhre threwn out yer dirty wather afther dusk an' before sunrise,
at the very time we're passin' yer door, which we pass twice a-day.
Now, if you avoid this, if you throw it out in a different place, an'
at a different time, the complaint you have will lave you: so will the
gnawin' at the heart; an' you'll be as well as ever you wor. If you
don't follow this advice, why, remain as you are, an' all the art o'
man can't cure you." She then bade her good-bye, and disappeared.
Kitty, who was glad to be cured on such easy terms, immediately
complied with the injunction of the fairy; and the consequence was,
that the next day she found herself in as good health as ever she
enjoyed during her life.