Oh, dear! O, dear! what headstrong crathers the womankind is! The more
you want them to do any thing that’s right, the surer they are not to
do it, unless the advice is given to a young girl by a gay deludher of
a young man something above her station, or to a mistress of a family
by some tay-dhrinking, gossiping, cabin-hunting, idle sthra that does
nothing but go about pretending to knit a stocking, and she does knit
it at the rate of four rounds in the day. It reminds me of the tailor
and his wife that were not satisfied without bringing trouble into
their cabin, when it pleased Providence not to be sending any. The poor
man was sitting contentedly on his board stitching away (I’m sure I
wish I knew how a tailor manages to keep his thraneens of legs the way
he does for so long), and his wife that was cabin-hunting may be,
bawled out, just as she was darkening the door, “Ah, you idle
sthronshuch! there you are sitting at your aise, and a hundred geese
trampling down our little oats; get up, you lazy drone, and drive them
away.” “Musha, I think,” says he, “you’re more at leisure yourself; but
rather than have a scolding match, here we go.” So getting up, he went
out, and when he looked to the field, “Arrah, woman,” says he, “what’s
on your eyes at all? I see but two geese.” “Two geese, inagh! purshuin’
to the goose less than fifty there, any way.” “Fifty? I wish I was as
sure of fifty guineas as that there is only two in it.” “Ah! goodness
help poor creatures of women with their tyrants of husbands! I tell you
up to your teeth, there is forty geese there destroying the oats, as
sure as there is one.” “Well, well, two, or forty, or a hundred, I had
better drive them off.”
When dinner came she poured out the potatoes, and laid his noggin of
milk and plate of butter out for him; but went and sat in the corner
herself, and threw her apron over her head, and began to sob. “Arrah,
Judy acushla,” says he, “what’s this for? come over and take your
dinner, and let us be thankful, instead of flying in God’s face.”
“N-n-n-no indeed, I w-w-w-will not. To say such a thing as that there
was only two ge-ge-ge-geese there when I reckoned a whole score!” “Oh!
to Halifax with them for geese: let them go and be shot, woman, and
come over to the table.” “Indeed and I will not till you own to the
truth.” Well not a bit did she eat; and when night came, she make a
shake down for herself, and would not gratify the poor tailor by
sleeping in her own good high-standing bed. Next morning she did not
rise; but when her husband spoke kindly, and brought some breakfast to
the bedside, she asked him to go for her mother and relations till
she’d take leave of them before she’d die, as there was no use living
any more, when all love was gone from him. “But, Judy dear, why do you
go on in this way? what have I done?” “Don’t you say there was only two
geese there, and at the very lowest there could not be less than a
dozen. Can’t you acknowledge the truth, you obstinate pig of a man, and
let us be at peace again?”
Instead of making any answer, he walked over to her mother’s house, and
brought her over, with two or three of her family; and they laid siege
to the wife, but they might as well be preachin’ to a stone wall; and
she almost persuaded them that her husband was to blame. “Now call
him,” says she, “and I’ll insense you who is wrong. Darby, on the nick
of your soul, and if you don’t intend to send me to my grave, speak the
truth like a Christian, and don’t be heapin’ sins on your miserable
head. I’ll leave you no back door, for I’ll only insist on three geese,
though I’m sure there was six at the very least; wasn’t there three
geese in the field when I called you out!” “Och, Judy asthore? never
mind: let there be three-and-thirty if you like, but don’t let us be
idlin’ and tormentin’ our people here. Get up in the name of goodness
and eat a bit.” “But wasn’t there three geese there, I say, Darby?”
“Ah, dickens a one but two if you go to that.” “Oh, Vuya, Vuya! isn’t
this a purty story? Go home, go home, all of yez, and bid Tommy
Mulligan prepare my coffin, and bring it over about sun-down, and just
give me one night’s dacent waking: [14] I won’t ax the two, for I don’t
wish to give so much trouble to the neighbours, and indeed I think I
couldn’t stand the ungratitude and conthrāriness of them that ought to
know better, and feel for a body; and after all that I done and slaved
for him, and gave up Neddy Brophy for him, that was six inches taller,
and a carpenter besides.”
Well, thinking it might give her a fright, they went and brought a
coffin that was ready made at the time, and some fresh shavings in the
bottom; and the women of the town, that gathered as soon as the coffin
came, ordered out the men till they’d wash the corpse.
She said nothing till the men were outside; but then she gave tongue,
and asked how dare they think that she wanted washing! It might do well
enough for a real dead body, but she was thankful it hadn’t come to
that with her yet, and if she chose to die it was no concern of theirs;
and if any one attempted to lay a drop of water on her skin, she’d lay
the marks of her ten nails on their face. Well, she was got some way
into the coffin, and a clean cap and frill put round her face; and, as
she was not pale enough, a little girl shook some flour on her cheeks.
Before the men and boys were let in, she asked for a looking glass, and
when she saw what a fright she looked with the flour, she got a towel
and rubbed every bit of it off again.
She bid her husband be called in, and gave her sister and mother
charge, in his hearing, to be kind and attentive to the poor angashore
after she was gone: at any rate till he’d get a new wife, which she
supposed would not be very far off; for though he was unkind and
conthrāry, thank goodness she knew her duty, and she supposed he could
not help his nature, and it was better as it was, before they’d grow
old, and she might get peevish and lose her temper, and they might
become a gazabo to the neighbours by fightin’ and scoldin’. “I’ll
engage now, after all is said and done, he won’t give way an inch, nor
acknowledge the three geese.” Well, the moment the geese were
mentioned, he put on his hat without a word, and walked out.
So evenin’ came, and the candles were lighted, and the tobacco and
pipes were all laid out, and the poor dead woman had to listen to a
good deal of discourse not at all to her liking; and the talk went on
in this way. “Musha, neighbour, doesn’t the corpse look mighty well?
When did she die, poor woman? What ailed her, did you hear?” “Indeed I
believe it was Gusopathy, as Tom K. the schoolmaster called it just
now; something with ‘goose’ in it any way: you know the way the skin
does be in a sudden cold, with little white risings on it, they call it
a goose’s skin. May be she had it very bad, and her husband could not
bear it, and so she died of grief.” “Poor man, he’ll feel her loss for
a week or two, she was a careful woman.” “Ah, but hadn’t she a bitter
tongue of her own?” “Troth I think Darby will bear her loss with
Christian patience. He is a young man for his years; he doesn’t look
forty, he’ll be getting his choice of wives. I think poor Judy was
careful and laid by a few guineas; won’t the new wife feel comfortable,
and may be soon put wind under the money!” “To my notion, Judy was in
too great a hurry to die. From her looks there, she might bury two
tailors yet, and may be get a big bodagh of a farmer for her third
husband. Well, it can’t be helped, but I would not like to be warming a
bed for the best woman in the townland if I was Judy. She is at peace
at last, poor woman; and mighty hard she found it to keep the peace
with her neighbours while she was alive. Who is that you said used to
be walking with Darby of odd Sunday evenings before his marriage? If
ghosts are allowed to take the air on Sunday evenings, poor Judy’s will
have something to fret her in a few weeks.”
Well, all this time, the poor dead woman’s blood was rushing like mad
through her veins; and something was swelling in her throat as if she
was going to be choked, but still the divel was so strong in her that
she never opened her eyes nor her mouth. The poor broken-hearted
husband came up after some time, and leaning over her face he
whispered, “Judy, acushla, isn’t it time to be done with this foolery?
Say but one reasonable word, and I’ll send all these people about their
business.” “Ah, you little-good-for crather, you havn’t the spirit of a
man, or you would never bear all they have been saying of your poor
neglected wife these two hours past. Are the three geese there?” “Not a
goose but two if you were to be waked for a twelvemonth;” and off he
went and sat in a dark part of the room till daylight.
He made another offer next morning, just as the led was puttin’ on the
coffin, and the men were goin’ to hoise it on their shoulders; but not
a foot she’d move unless he’d give in to the three geese.
So they came to the churchyard, and the coffin was let down in the
grave, and just as they were preparing to fill all up, poor Darby went
down, and stooping to where he had left some auger holes in the lid, he
begged of her even after the holy show she made of himself and herself,
to give up the point, and come home. “Is the three geese there?” was
all he could get out of her, and this time his patience got so
thread-bare, and he was so bothered by want of sleep, and torment of
mind, that he got beside himself, and jumped up, and began to shovel
the clay like mad, down on the coffin.
The first rattle it made, however, had like to frighten the life out of
the buried woman, and she shouted out, “Oh, let me up! I’m not dead at
all: let there be only two geese, Darby asthore, if you like.” “Oh, be
this and be that,” said Darby, “it is too late: people have come far
and near to the funeral, and we can’t let them lose their day for
nothing: so for the credit of the family, don’t stir,” and down went
the clay in showers, for the tailor had lost his senses. Of course the
by-standers would not let the poor woman be buried against her own
will; so they seized on Darby and his shovel, and when his short
madness was checked, he fell in a slump on the sod. When poor Judy was
brought to life, the first sight she beheld was her husband lyin’
without a kick in him, and a wag of a neighbour proposed to her to let
Darby be put down in her place, and not give so many people a
disappointment after coming far and near. The dead woman, by way of
thanks, gave him a slap across the face that he felt for two days; and
not minding the figure she cut in her grave-clothes, fell on poor
Darby, and roared and bawled for him to come to life, and she’d never
say a conthrāry word to him again while she lived. So, some way or
other they brought the tailor round; but how her and him could bear to
look each other in the face for a while, I don’t know. May be as there
was a good deal of love under all the crossness, they found a way to
get into their old habits again, and whenever she felt a tart answer
coming to her tongue, she thought of the rattling of the clay on the
coffin, and of the three geese that were only two after all; and if
they didn’t live happy——but that’s the end they put to lying fairy
stories, and as this one is so true and moral, it can afford to do
without a tail.
When the applause and remarks occasioned by this story had somewhat
subsided, our hostess spoke a few words in her husband’s ear; she might
have meant to whisper, but the guest asked what she said about trouble.
“That she and the rest,” replied our host, “wed beg and pray for ’e to
tell them another story, but they were afraid to trouble ’e.”
“It will give me much pleasure,” said the Irish gentleman, “to tell
another, of quite a different sort,” and he presently told the
following story of a brave Irish boy’s luck.