Strange that such faculties as his should command so little general
admiration! Upon his final manifestation, which occurred after the fox
had gone to ground, I heard the Master say brutally:
"How the devil did you get here?"
The Master had given his horse two bad cuts.
The Mahatma maintained a Druid silence; it was not for him to comment on
the eternal supremacy of Mind over Matter.
*A PATRICK'S DAY HUNT*
I wash meself every Sathurday morning, whether I want it or no and 'twas
washing my face I was when William Sheehan came in the door, and it no
more than ten o'clock in the morning.
[Illustration: "I WASH MESELF EVERY SATHURDAY MORNING"]
That's the way I remember 'twas a Sathurday, and Pathrick's Day was
Monday.
"God bless the work!" says he.
"You too," says I.
"Would ye lend me the loan of a harness," says he, "to drive Anne
Roche"--(that's his wife)--"to town on Pathrick's Day?"
The dear knows, says I to meself, if I walked two mile asking a harness
it isn't to drive that one I'd ask it!
"I will to be sure," says I, "and welcome, but is it to town you're
going on Pathrick's Day in place of going to Kyleranny? Sure you know
yourself there's the fun of Cork in Kyleranny when the Hunt's in it on a
Holy-day!"
"I believe so indeed," says he.
"Faith you do believe it," says I. "D'ye remember one time," I says,
"when the Hunt was in it, Stephen's Day it was, you comin down
Knockranny Hill hoppin' a quarther of a mile on your one leg, and the
other foot fasht in the stirrup, and the owld mare you had that time
throttin' on always. The Smith said it was the pleasantest thing ever he
seen!"
"God be with the owld days!" says William, "that was long ago times,
before I was married," says he.
"Thrue for you!" says I.
"Will ye lend me the harness?" says he to me again.
"Come here now William," says I, "you an' me is friends this many a
year. There isn't one in the counthry I have as much wish for as
yourself. The Divil sweep ye!" says I. "Sure it's follying the Hunt
you should be, in place of goin' drivin' a side-car to town like a
servant boy!" says I, "and you that was careing a puppy all the winter
for the Hunt, the same as meself!"
"Ah, that was the grand pup!" says he. "'Twas a pity he died, and God
knows," says he, "I dunno in the world what killed him, if it wasn't a
bottle of varnish he dhrank one morning."
Faith, says I to meself, it's aisy known what killed the poor pup. It
isn't long ourselves'd live if we didn't get our victuals!