Niamh Goldy-Head was a native of Dublin. A lady that came to Gortmore
learning Irish promised before leaving that she’d send some valuable to
Brideen. And, sure, she did. One day, about a week after her departure,
Bartly the Postman walked in into the middle of the kitchen and laid a
big box on the floor.
“For you, young woman,” says he to Brideen.
“_Ara_, what’s in it, Bartly?”
“How do I know? A fairy, maybe.”
“_O bhó!_ Where did you get it?”
“From a little green maneen, with a long blue beard on him, a red cap on
his nob, and he riding a hare.”
“_Ora_, daddy! And what did he say to you, Bartly?”
“Devil a thing did he say only, ‘Give this to Brideen, and my blessing,’
and off with him while you’d be winking.”
I am doubtful if this story of Bartly’s was all true, but Brideen
believed every word of it. She called to her mother, where she was
inside in the room tidying the place after the breakfast.
“Mama, mama, a big box for Brideen! A little green maneen, with a long
blue beard on him, that gave it to Bartly the Postman!”
The mother came out and Bartly gathered off.
“Mameen, mameen, open the box quick! Bartly thinks it’s maybe a fairy is
in it! Hurry, mameen, or how do we know he won’t be smothered inside in
the box?”
The mother cut the string. She tore the paper from the box. She lifted
the lid. What should be in it, lying nice and comfortably in the box,
like a child would be in a cradle, but the grandest and the
beautifullest doll that eye ever saw! There was yellow-golden hair on
it, and it falling in ringleted tresses over its breast and over its
shoulders. There was the blush of the rose on its cheek. It’s the
likeness I’d compare its little mouth to--two rowanberries; and ’twas
like pearls its teeth were. Its eyes were closed. There was a bright
suit of silk covering its body, and a red mantle of satin over that
outside. There was a glittering necklace of noble stones about its
throat, and, as a top on all the wonders, there was a royal crown on its
head.
“A Queen!” says Brideen in a whisper, for there was a kind of dread on
her before this glorious fairy. “A Queen from Tir-na-nOg! Look, mama,
she’s asleep. Do you think will she waken?”
“Take her in your hand,” says the mother.
The little girl stretched out her two hands timidly, laid them
reverently on the wonderful doll, and at last lifted it out of the box.
No sooner did she take it than the doll opened its eyes, and said in a
sweet, weeny voice:
“Mam--a!”
“God bless us!” says the mother, making the sign of the cross on
herself, “she can talk!”
There was a queer edge in Brideen’s eyes, and there was a queer light in
her features. But I don’t think she was half as scared as the mother
was. Children do be expecting wonders always, and when a wonderful thing
happens it doesn’t put as much astonishment on them as it does on grown
people.
“Why wouldn’t she talk?” says Brideen. “Can’t Barbara talk? But it’s
sweeter entirely this voice than Barbara’s voice.”
My grief, you are, Barbara! Where were you all this time? Lying on the
floor where you fell from Brideen’s hand when Bartly came in. I don’t
know did you hear these words from your friend’s mouth. If you did, it’s
surely they’d go like a stitch through your heart.
Brideen continued speaking. She spoke quickly, her two eyes dancing in
her head:
“A Queen this is,” says she. “A fairy Queen! Look at the fine suit she’s
wearing! Look at the mantle of satin is on her! Look at the beautiful
crown she has! She’s like yon Queen that Stephen of the Stories was
discoursing about the other night,--the Queen that came over sea from
Tir-na-nOg riding on the white steed. What’s the name that was on that
Queen, mama?”
“Niamh of the Golden Head.”
“This is Niamh Goldy-Head!” says the little girl. “I’ll show her to
Stephen the first other time he comes! Isn’t it he will be glad to see
her, mama? He was angry the other night when my daddy said there are no
fairies at all in it. I knew my daddy was only joking.”
I wouldn’t like to say that Niamh Goldy-Head was a fairy, as Brideen
thought, but I’m sure there was some magic to do with her; and I’m
full-sure that Brideen herself was under a spell from the moment she
came into the house. If she weren’t, she wouldn’t leave Barbara lying by
herself on the floor through the evening, without saying a word to her,
or even remembering her, till sleep-time; nor would she go to sleep
without bringing Barbara into the bed with her, as was her habit. It’s
with trouble you’d believe it, but it’s the young Queen that slept along
with Brideen that night, instead of the faithful little companion that
used sleep with her every night for a year.
Barbara remained lying on the floor, till Brideen’s mother found her,
and lifted and put her on top of the dresser where her own little
parlour was. Barbara spent that night on the top of the dresser. I
didn’t hear that Brideen or her mother or her father noticed any
lamenting from the kitchen in the middle of the night, and, to say
truth, I don’t think that Barbara shed a tear. But it’s certain she was
sad enough, lying up yonder by herself, without her friend’s arm about
her, without the heat of her friend’s body warming her, without man or
mortal near her, without hearing a sound but the faint, truly-lonesome
sounds that do be heard in a house in the dead time of the night.
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