GOOD ST. PATRICK
Grandmother Barry heard the song, and went to the door to see who was
singing it so heartily. When she saw the peddler with the children she
hurried to put an extra bowl and plate on the table, and bustled about
the room setting out the simple meal.
The potatoes were baking in the embers, the kettle was boiling
cheerfully over the burning peat, and a big dish of oaten stirabout was
already steaming on the table.
"I'll make a good cup of tay, and well have a supper fit for the king,"
Grandmother Barry said aloud to herself, as she measured out the tea
carefully and poured the boiling water over it. Then she went again to
the door to give the stranger a hearty welcome.
Kathleen rang the bell to call her father down from his work-bench,
Danny milked the little cow, and "in just no time at all" they were
ready for supper.
"'Tis a sin and a shame that Kathleen is not wearing her green dress
for St. Patrick," said Grandmother Barry, as she saw the knot of green
ribbon in the peddler's coat. "I put it on her to wear to Mass, but
'tis her best and not to be worn common when she's here at home. 'Twas
a grand morning, and Father Burke gave the children a good talk about
St. Patrick."
"A fine morning it was, woman dear," said the peddler, "and a grand day
for the best saint that ever lived in ould Ireland.
"Tell us what Father Burke said about him," he added, turning to
Kathleen.
Poor Kathleen flushed and hung her head. "Sure, I know he stood on
Croagh Patrick, over in County Mayo, and drove all the snakes out of
the whole country into the sea," she said, wishing she could remember
some of the stories the good priest had told them.
"I'm not so sure about that," said the peddler; "but it is true that
there is not one to be found in the whole island. Some say there was
never a snake here, and some say the good saint drove them all out with
one stroke of his big stick. However it is, he is the best saint that
ever lived, and a glory to Ireland, praise be to him!"
"Father Burke says he was only a lad when he was stolen away from his
father and mother in Scotland, and brought to Ireland to tend swine
for one of the chiefs," said Mary Ellen shyly.
"He was sixteen years old, and as straight and handsome a lad as ever
lived," said the peddler.
"Was he a saint then?" asked Kathleen.
"Whist, child," exclaimed Grandmother Barry, "would a saint tend wild
pigs on the mountains for any man, chief or no chief?"
"He was a brave lad," repeated the peddler. "It should be told oftener
how he served one of the chiefs for six long years, and served him
well. He set a good example to the flighty gossoons nowadays that can't
stick to one thing for as long as a month at a time."
"Danny has worked for Farmer Flynn ten years," said Mary Ellen, fearing
the peddler might think her brother a "flighty gossoon."
"Father Burke said that St. Patrick went all over Ireland, ringing his
bell and preaching to the people," said Kathleen, beginning to remember
some of the story.
"So he did; he was a wonderful preacher," said Grandmother Barry, "and
he was Bishop of all Ireland for many years."
"Was that when Great-grandmother Connell was a little girl?" asked Mary
Ellen, who thought her great-grandmother very old.
"Whist, jewel; it was nearly fifteen hundred years ago that St.
Patrick died," her father told her, "and your great-grandmother's only
ninety."
"Tell us the story of St. Patrick," begged Kathleen. "I'll remember it
this time, for sure."
"Well, now," the peddler began, "when Patrick was a lad of sixteen he
was brought to Ireland and sold as a slave to one of the rich chiefs,
who sent him to tend swine on the mountains. At first he was no doubt
sad and lonely, but he bore his troubles bravely and thought often of
the good Father in Heaven."
Kathleen's father rose quickly, and going to a box in the corner of the
room, he took out a book and brought it back to the fire.
"This is what the good saint himself wrote about those lonely days in
the mountains," he said, and turning the page he began to read slowly:
"I was daily employed tending flocks; and I prayed frequently during
the day, and the love of God was more and more enkindled in my heart,
my fear and faith were increased, and my spirit was stirred; so much so
that in a single day I poured out my prayers a hundred times and nearly
as often in the night. Nay, even in the woods and mountains I remained,
and rose before the dawn to my prayer, in frost and snow and rain;
neither did I suffer any injury from it; for the spirit of the Lord was
fervent within me."
"He was a good lad," said Grandmother Barry, wiping a tear from her
wrinkled cheek, and taking up her knitting again.
"That he was, praise be to him," the peddler agreed. "He tended the
swine for six years, and then he escaped and made his way back to his
home in Scotland; but he could not forget the Irish people and he
longed to go back and teach them to be Christians. He studied for many
years in France and other countries, but all the time his thoughts
turned back to Ireland and he had dreams and visions about it.
"At last the Pope gave his permission, and Patrick set out for Ireland,
landing on the north coast, in what is now County Down. Dicho, the
chief of the district, thought that Patrick and his companions were
pirates, and went to meet them and drive them out of the country; but
when he saw their calm and peaceful ways he saluted them and invited
them to his castle.
"Here Patrick told the chief his story and explained his belief in God,
and Dicho and his whole family became Christians and were baptized."
"He was a wonderful preacher," repeated Grandmother Barry, with a nod
of her head.
"Father Burke says that no missionary, since the time of the apostles,
ever preached the gospel with more success than St. Patrick," said
Danny.
"That was because he cared nothing for riches and honor," said the
peddler. "He loved the people of Ireland and longed to make them all
good Christians.
"After living with Dicho for some time and converting all the people
roundabout, he bade good-bye to his friends and sailed down to the
mouth of the river Boyne. From there he walked to the Hill of Tara,
where the high-king of all Ireland lived in a great palace.
"He arrived at the palace on Easter morning, and presented himself
before the king and his court. Patrick was robed in white, as were also
his companions, and he wore his mitre and carried his crosier in his
hand. He converted many of the king's followers, and preached to the
people throughout all the king's dominions.
"'Twas so all over Ireland,—wherever Patrick went he turned pagans to
Christians and built churches.
"He died in the very place where he first preached to Dicho, on the
seventeenth day of March, about the year 465."
"Is that why we call the seventeenth of March St. Patrick's Day?" asked
Mary Ellen.
"Yes," replied her father, "it is the day that he died. We don't
rightly know just what day he was born."
"How do you know so many things about St. Patrick, then, if he lived so
many hundred years ago?" asked Kathleen.
"The old books tell us," her father said. "Patrick, himself, wrote
about his wanderings, and the monks copied these books and many others,
painting pictures on the pages to illustrate them. It is from these
ancient Gaelic books that we learn much about the life and customs of
the people."
"There were books of laws for the kings and the people, too," said the
peddler.
"Did the kings have to obey laws?" asked Kathleen, who supposed kings
did just as they chose.
"That they did," replied the peddler. "There was a law that no man
could rule at Tara who was not perfect in his looks; so when Cormac mac
Art lost an eye he had to give up being king."
"'Twas a shame, too, for he was a good king," said the father.
"It was also against the law for the sun to rise while the king was
lying in bed at Tara," said the peddler.
The children laughed merrily, and Danny asked, "How could they keep the
sun from rising till the king was out of his bed?"
"Faith, they made the king get up before the sun did," the peddler
answered.
While the children were laughing over his joke, Grandmother Barry put
down her knitting and went to the cupboard for a plate of oat-cakes and
her precious pound of honey.
Everyone was quiet for a few minutes over the feast, and little Mary
Ellen was the first to break the silence. "Father told us a story
about St. Columbkille one day," she said. "He was born here in our own
Donegal and he had little cakes baked for him with the letters of the
alphabet on them. I'm thinkin' if I had cakes like that I could learn
the letters with my fingers."
"Faith, he must have had a fine time picnicking on his letters," said
the peddler.
"There was St. Bridget, too," said Grandmother Barry; "she was a fine
woman and took great pride in learning and teaching. And I doubt not
her fingers had magic in them to turn wool into yarn and yarn into
stockings, like any colleen of Donegal," she added, with a look at
Kathleen.
But Kathleen was sound asleep in her chair and had forgotten all about
the stocking she was going to finish knitting that very day.
"The child is tired out with our stories," said her father.
"I mind we should all be in our beds," said Grandmother Barry, and soon
they were tucked away comfortably for the night.