Stories From IrelandTHE FOUR WHITE SWANSIn the days of long ago there lived in the Green Isle of Erin a race of brave men and fair women—the race of the Dedannans. North, south, east, and west did this noble people dwell, doing homage to many chiefs.But one blue morning after a great battle the Dedannans met on a wide plain to choose a king. “Let us,” they said, “have one king over all. Let us no longer have many rulers.”Forth from among the princes rose five well fitted to wield a scepter and to wear a crown, yet most royal stood Bove Derg and Lir. And forth did the five chiefs wander, that the Dedannan folk might freely say to whom they would most gladly do homage as king.Not far did they roam, for soon there arose a great cry, “Bove Derg is King! Bove Derg is King!” And all were glad, save Lir.But Lir was angry, and he left the plain where the Dedannan people were, taking leave of none, and doing Bove Derg no reverence. For jealousy filled the heart of Lir.Then were the Dedannans wroth, and a hundred swords were unsheathed and flashed in the sunlight on the plain. “We go to slay Lir who doeth not homage to our King and regardeth not the choice of the people.”But wise and generous was Bove Derg, and he bade the warriors do no hurt to the offended prince.For long years did Lir live in discontent, yielding obedience to none. But at length a great sorrow fell upon him, for his wife, who was dear unto him, died, and she had been ill but three days. Loudly did he lament her death, and heavy was his heart with sorrow.When tidings of Lir’s grief reached Bove Derg, he was surrounded by his mightiest chiefs. “Go forth,” he said, “in fifty chariots go forth. Tell Lir I am his friend as ever, and ask that he come with you hither. Three fair foster-children are mine, and one may he yet have to wife, will he but bow to the will of the people, who have chosen me their King.”When these words were told to Lir, his heart was glad. Speedily he called around him his train, and in fifty chariots set forth. Nor did they slacken speed until they reached the palace of Bove Derg by the Great Lake. And there at the still close of day, as the setting rays of the sun fell athwart the silver waters, did Lir do homage to Bove Derg. And Bove Derg kissed Lir and vowed to be his friend forever.And when it was known throughout the Dedannan host that peace reigned between these mighty chiefs, brave men and fair women and little children rejoiced, and nowhere were there happier hearts than in the Green Isle of Erin.Time passed, and Lir still dwelt with Bove Derg in his palace by the Great Lake. One morning the King said: “Full well thou knowest my three fair foster-daughters, nor have I forgotten my promise that one thou shouldst have to wife. Choose her whom thou wilt.”Then Lir answered: “All are indeed fair, and choice is hard. But give unto me the eldest, if it be that she be willing to wed.”And Eve, the eldest of the fair maidens, was glad, and that day was she married to Lir, and after two weeks she left the palace by the Great Lake and drove with her husband to her new home.Happily dwelt Lir’s household and merrily sped the months. Then were born unto Lir twin babes. The girl they called Finola, and her brother did they name Aed.Yet another year passed and again twins were born, but before the infant boys knew their mother, she died. So sorely did Lir grieve for his beautiful wife that he would have died of sorrow, but for the great love he bore his motherless children.When news of Eve’s death reached the palace of Bove Derg by the Great Lake all mourned aloud, for love of Eve and sore pity for Lir andhis four babes. And Bove Derg said to his mighty chiefs: “Great, indeed is our grief, but in this dark hour shall Lir know our friendship. Ride forth, make known to him that Eva, my second fair foster-child, shall in time become his wedded wife and shall cherish his lone babies.”So messengers rode forth to carry these tidings to Lir, and in time Lir came again to the palace of Bove Derg by the Great Lake, and he married the beautiful Eva and took her back with him to his little daughter, Finola, and to her three brothers, Aed and Fiacra and Conn.Four lovely and gentle children they were, and with tenderness did Eva care for the little ones who were their father’s joy and the pride of the Dedannans.As for Lir, so great was the love he bore them, that at early dawn he would rise, and, pulling aside the deerskin that separated his sleeping-room from theirs, would fondle and frolic with the children until morning broke.And Bove Derg loved them well-nigh as did Lir himself. Ofttimes would he come to see them and ofttimes were they brought to his palace by the Great Lake.And through all the Green Isle, where dwelt the Dedannan people, there also was spread the fame of the beauty of the children of Lir.Time crept on, and Finola was a maid of twelve summers. Then did a wicked jealousy find root in Eva’s heart, and so did it grow that it strangled the love which she had borne her sister’s children. In bitterness she cried: “Lir careth not for me; to Finola and her brothers hath he given all his love.”And for weeks and months Eva lay in bed planning how she might do hurt to the children of Lir.At length, one midsummer morn, she ordered forth her chariot, that with the four children she might come to the palace of Bove Derg.When Finola heard it, her fair face grew pale, for in a dream had it been revealed unto her that Eva, her stepmother, should that day do a dark deed among those of her own household. Therefore was Finola sore afraid, but only her large eyes and pale cheeks spake her woe, as she and her brothers drove along with Eva and her train.On they drove, the boys laughing merrily, heedless alike of the black shadow resting on their stepmother’s brow, and of the pale, trembling lips of their sister. As they reached a gloomy pass, Eva whispered to her attendants: “Kill, I pray you, these children of Lir, for their father careth not for me, because of his great love for them. Kill them, and great wealth shall be yours.”But the attendants answered in horror: “We will not kill them. Fearful, O Eva, were the deed, and great is the evil that will befall thee, for having it in thine heart to do this thing.”Then Eva, filled with rage, drew forth her sword to slay them with her own hand, but too weak for the monstrous deed, she sank back in the chariot.Onward they drove, out of the gloomy pass into the bright sunlight of the white road. Daisies with wide-open eyes looked up into the blue sky overhead. Golden glistened the buttercups among the shamrock. From the ditches peeped forget-me-not. Honeysuckle scented the hedgerows. Around, above, and afar, caroled the linnet, the lark, and the thrush. All was color and sunshine, scent and song, as the children of Lir drove onward to their doom.Not until they reached a still lake were the horses unyoked for rest. There Eva bade the children undress and go bathe in the waters. And when the children of Lir reached the water’s edge, Eva was there behind them, holding in her hand a fairy wand. And with the wand she touched the shoulder of each. And, lo! as she touched Finola, the maiden was changed into a snow-white swan, and behold! as she touched Aed, Fiacra, and Conn, the three brothers were as the maid. Four snow-white swans floated on the blue lake, and to them the wicked Eva chanted a song of doom.As she finished, the swans turned toward her, and Finola spake:“Evil is the deed thy magic wand hath wrought, O Eva, on us the children of Lir, but greater evil shall befall thee, because of the hardness and jealousy of thine heart.” And Finola’s white swan-breast heaved as she sang of their pitiless doom.The song ended, again spake the swan-maiden: “Tell us, O Eva, when death shall set us free.”And Eva made answer: “Three hundred years shall your home be on the smooth waters of this lone lake. Three hundred years shall ye pass on the stormy waters of the sea betwixt Erin and Alba, and three hundred years shall ye be tempest-tossed on the wild Western Sea. Until Decca be the Queen of Largnen, and the good saint come to Erin, and ye hear the chime of the Christ-bell, neither your plaints nor prayers, neither the love of your father Lir, nor the might of your King, Bove Derg, shall have power to deliver you from your doom. But lone white swans though ye be, ye shall keep forever your own sweet Gaelic speech, and ye shall sing, with plaintive voices, songs so haunting that yourmusic will bring peace to the souls of those who hear. And still beneath your snowy plumage shall beat the hearts of Finola, Aed, Fiacra and Conn, and still forever shall ye be the children of Lir.”four snow-white swans floated on the blue lakeThen did Eva order the horses to be yoked to the chariot, and away westward did she drive.And swimming on the lone lake were four white swans.When Eva reached the palace of Bove Derg alone, greatly was he troubled lest evil had befallen the children of Lir.But the attendants, because of their great fear of Eva, dared not to tell the King of the magic spell she had wrought by the way. Therefore Bove Derg asked, “Wherefore, O Eva, come not Finola and her brothers to the palace this day?”And Eva answered: “Because, O King, Lir no longer trusteth thee, therefore would he not let the children come hither.”But Bove Derg believed not his foster-daughter, and that night he secretly sent messengers across the hills to the dwelling of Lir.When the messengers came there, and told their errand, great was the grief of the father. And in the morning with a heavy heart he summoned a company of the Dedannans, and together they set out for the palace of Bove Derg. And it was not until sunset as they reached the lone shore of Lake Darvra, that they slackened speed.Lir alighted from his chariot and stood spellbound. What was that plaintive sound? The Gaelic words, his dear daughter’s voice more enchanting even than of old, and yet, before and around, only the lone blue lake. The haunting music rang clearer, and as the last words died away, four snow-white swans glided from behind the sedges, and with a wild flap of wings flew toward the eastern shore. There, stricken with wonder, stood Lir.“Know, O Lir,” said Finola, “that we are thy children, changed by the wicked magic of our stepmother into four white swans.” When Lir and the Dedannan people heard these words, they wept aloud.Still spake the swan-maiden: “Three hundred years must we float on this lone lake, three hundred years shall we be storm-tossed on the waters between Erin and Alba, and three hundred years on the wild Western Sea. Not until Decca be the Queen of Largnen, not until the good saint come to Erin and the chime of the Christ-bell be heard in the land, not until then shall we be saved from our doom.”Then great cries of sorrow went up from the Dedannans, and again Lir sobbed aloud. But at the last silence fell upon his grief, and Finola told how she and her brothers would keep forever their own sweet Gaelic speech, how they would sing songs so haunting that their music would bring peace to the souls of all who heard. She told how, beneath their snowy plumage, the human hearts of Finola, Aed, Fiacra, and Conn should still beat—the hearts of the children of Lir. “Stay with us to-night by the lone lake,” she ended, “and our music will steal to you across its moonlit waters and lull you into peaceful slumber. Stay, stay with us.”And Lir and his people stayed on the shore that night and until the morning glimmered. Then, with the dim dawn, silence stole over the lake.Speedily did Lir rise, and in haste did he bid farewell to his children, that he might seek Eva and see her tremble before him.Swiftly did he drive and straight, until he came to the palace of Bove Derg, and there by the waters of the Great Lake did Bove Derg meet him. “Oh, Lir, wherefore have thy children come not hither?” And Eva stood by the King.Stern and sad rang the answer of Lir: “Alas! Eva, your foster-child, hath by her wicked magic changed them into four snow-white swans. On the blue waters of Lake Darvra dwell Finola, Aed, Fiacra, and Conn, and thence come I that I may avenge their doom.”A silence as the silence of death fell upon the three, and all was still save that Eva trembled greatly. But ere long Bove Derg spake. Fierce and angry did he look, as, high above his foster-daughter, he held his magic wand. Awful was his voice as he pronounced her doom: “Wretched woman, henceforth shalt thou no longer darken this fair earth, but as a demon of the air shalt thou dwell in misery till the end of time.” And of a sudden from out her shoulders grew black, shadowy wings, and, with a piercing scream, she swirled upward, until the awe-stricken Dedannans saw nought save a black speck vanish among the lowering clouds. And as a demon of the air do Eva’s black wings swirl her through space to this day.But great and good was Bove Derg. He laid aside his magic wand and so spake: “Let us, my people, leave the Great Lake, and let us pitch our tents on the shores of Lake Darvra. Exceeding dear unto us are the children of Lir, and I, Bove Derg, and Lir, their father, have vowed henceforth to make our home forever by the lone waters where they dwell.”And when it was told throughout the Green Island of Erin of the fate of the children of Lirand of the vow that Bove Derg had vowed, from north, south, east, and west did the Dedannans flock to the lake, until a mighty host dwelt by its shores.And by day Finola and her brothers knew not loneliness, for in the sweet Gaelic speech they told of their joys and fears; and by night the mighty Dedannans knew no sorrowful memories, for by haunting songs were they lulled to sleep, and the music brought peace to their souls.Slowly did the years go by, and upon the shoulders of Bove Derg and Lir fell the long white hair. Fearful grew the four swans, for the time was not far off when they must wing their flight north to the wild sea of Moyle.And when at length the sad day dawned, Finola told her brothers how their three hundred happy years on Lake Darvra were at an end, and how they must now leave the peace of its lone waters for evermore.Then, slowly and sadly, did the four swans glide to the margin of the lake. Never had the snowy whiteness of their plumage so dazzled the beholders, never had music so sweet and sorrowful floated to Lake Darvra’s sunlit shores. As the swans reached the water’s edge, silent were the three brothers, and alone Finola chanted a farewell song.With bowed white heads did the Dedannan host listen to Finola’s chant, and when the music ceased and only sobs broke the stillness, the four swans spread their wings, and, soaring high, paused but for one short moment to gaze on the kneeling forms of Lir and Bove Derg. Then, stretching their graceful necks toward the north, they winged their flight to the waters of the stormy sea that separates the blue Alba from the Green Island of Erin.And when it was known throughout the Green Isle that the four white swans had flown, so great was the sorrow of the people that they made a law that no swan should be killed in Erin from that day forth.With hearts that burned with longing for their father and their friends, did Finola and her brothers reach the sea of Moyle. Cold were its wintry waters, black and fearful were the steep rocks overhanging Alba’s far-stretching coasts. From hunger, too, the swans suffered. Dark indeed was all, and darker yet as the children of Lir remembered the still waters of Lake Darvra and the fond Dedannan host on its peaceful shores. Here the sighing of the wind among the reeds no longer soothed their sorrow, but the roar of the breaking surf struck fresh terror in their souls. In misery and terror did their days pass, until one night the black, lowering clouds overhead told that a great tempest was nigh. Then did Finola call to her Aed, Fiacra, and Conn. “Beloved brothers, a great fear is at my heart, for, in the fury of the coming gale, we may be driven the one from the other. Therefore, let us say where we may hope to meet when the storm is spent.”And Aed answered: “Wise art thou, dear, gentle sister. If we be driven apart, may it be to meet again on the rocky isle that has ofttimes been our haven, for well known is it to us all, and from far can it be seen.”Darker grew the night, louder raged the wind, as the four swans dived and rose again on the giant billows. Yet fiercer blew the gale, until at midnight loud bursts of thunder mingled with the roaring wind, but, in the glare of the blue lightning’s flashes, the children of Lir beheld each the snowy form of the other. The mad fury of the hurricane yet increased, and the force of it lifted one swan from its wild home on the billows, and swept it through the blackness of the night. Another blue lightning-flash, and each swan saw its loneliness, and uttered a great cry of desolation. Tossed hither and thither by wind and wave, the white birds were well-nigh dead when dawn broke. And with the dawn fell calm.Swift as her tired wings would bear her, Finola sailed to the rocky isle, where she hoped to find her brothers. But alas! no sign was there of one of them. Then to the highest summit of the rocks she flew. North, south, east, and west did she look, yet nought saw she save a watery wilderness. Now did her heart fail her, and she sang the saddest song she had yet sung.As the last notes died Finola raised her eyes, and lo! Conn came slowly swimming toward her with drenched plumage and head that drooped. And as she looked, behold! Fiacra appeared, but it was as though his strength failed. Then did Finola swim toward her fainting brother and lend him her aid, and soon the twins were safe on the sunlit rock, nestling for warmth beneath their sister’s wings.Yet Finola’s heart still beat with alarm as she sheltered her younger brothers, for Aed came not, and she feared lest he were lost forever. But, at noon, sailing he came over the breast of the blue waters, with head erect and plumage sunlit. And under the feathers of her breast did Finola draw him, for Conn and Fiacra still cradled beneath her wings. “Rest here, while ye may, dear brothers,” she said.And she sang to them a lullaby so surpassing sweet that the sea-birds hushed their cries and flocked to listen to the sad, slow music. Andwhen Aed and Fiacra and Conn were lulled to sleep, Finola’s notes grew more and more faint and her head drooped, and soon she, too, slept peacefully in the warm sunlight.But few were the sunny days on the sea of Moyle, and many were the tempests that ruffled its waters. Still keener grew the winter frosts, and the misery of the four white swans was greater than ever before. Even their most sorrowful Gaelic songs told not half their woe. From the fury of the storm they still sought shelter on that rocky isle where Finola had despaired of seeing her dear ones more.Slowly passed the years of doom, until one midwinter a frost more keen than any known before froze the sea into a floor of solid black ice. By night the swans crouched together on the rocky isle for warmth, but each morning they were frozen to the ground and could free themselves only with sore pain, for they left clinging to the ice-bound rock the soft down of their breasts, the quills from their white wings, and the skin of their poor feet.And when the sun melted the ice-bound surface of the waters, and the swans swam once more in the sea of Moyle, the salt water entered their wounds, and they well-nigh died of pain. But in time the down on their breasts and the feathers on their wings grew, and they were healed of their wounds.The years dragged on, and by day Finola and her brothers would fly toward the shores of the Green Island of Erin, or to the rocky blue headlands of Alba, or they would swim far out into a dim gray wilderness of waters. But ever as night fell it was their doom to return to the sea of Moyle.One day, as they looked toward the Green Isle, they saw coming to the coast a troop of horsemen mounted on snow-white steeds, and their armor glittered in the sun.A cry of great joy went up from the children of Lir, for they had seen no human form since they spread their wings above Lake Darvra, and flew to the stormy sea of Moyle.“Speak,” said Finola to her brothers, “speak, and say if these be not our own Dedannan folk.” And Aed and Fiacra and Conn strained their eyes, and Aed answered, “It seemeth, dear sister, to me, that it is indeed our own people.”As the horsemen drew nearer and saw the four swans, each man shouted in the Gaelic tongue, “Behold the children of Lir!”And when Finola and her brothers heard once more the sweet Gaelic speech, and saw the faces of their own people, their happiness was greater than can be told. For long they were silent, but at length Finola spake.Of their life on the sea of Moyle she told, of the dreary rains and blustering winds, of the giant waves and the roaring thunder, of the black frost, and of their own poor battered and wounded bodies. Of their loneliness of soul, of that she could not speak. “But tell us,” she went on, “tell us of our father, Lir. Lives he still, and Bove Derg, and our dear Dedannan friends?”Scarce could the Dedannans speak for the sorrow they had for Finola and her brothers, but they told how Lir and Bove Derg were alive and well, and were even now celebrating the Feast of Age at the house of Lir. “But for their longing for you, your father and friends would be happy indeed.”Glad then and of great comfort were the hearts of Finola and her brothers. But they could not hear more, for they must hasten to fly from the pleasant shores of Erin to the sea-stream of Moyle, which was their doom. And as they flew, Finola sang, and faint floated her voice over the kneeling host.As the sad song grew fainter and more faint, the Dedannans wept aloud. Then, as the snow-white birds faded from sight, the sorrowful company turned the heads of their white steeds from the shore, and rode southward to the home of Lir.And when it was told there of the sufferings of Finola and her brothers, great was the sorrow of the Dedannans. Yet was Lir glad that his children were alive, and he thought of the day when the magic spell would be broken, and those so dear to him would be freed from their bitter woe.Once more were ended three hundred years of doom, and glad were the four white swans to leave the cruel sea of Moyle. Yet might they fly only to the wild Western Sea, and tempest-tossed as before, here they in no way escaped the pitiless fury of wind and wave. Worse than aught they had before endured was a frost that drove the brothers to despair. Well-nigh frozen to a rock, they one night cried aloud to Finola that they longed for death. And she, too, would fain have died.But that same night did a dream come to the swan-maiden, and, when she awoke, she cried to her brothers to take heart. “Believe, dear brothers, in the great God who hath created the earth with its fruits and the sea with its terrible wonders. Trust in him, and he will yet save you.” And her brothers answered, “We will trust.”And Finola also put her trust in God, and theyall fell into a deep slumber.When the children of Lir awoke, behold! the sun shone, and thereafter, until the three hundred years on the Western Sea were ended, neither wind nor wave nor rain nor frost did hurt the four swans.On a grassy isle they lived and sang their wondrous songs by day, and by night they nestled together on their soft couch, and awoke in the morning to sunshine and to peace. And there on the grassy island was their home, until the three hundred years were at an end. Then Finola called to her brothers, and tremblingly she told, and tremblingly they heard, that they might now fly eastward to seek their own old home.Lightly did they rise on outstretched wings, and swiftly did they fly until they reached land. There they alighted and gazed each at the other, but too great for speech was their joy. Then again did they spread their wings and fly above the green grass on and on, until they reached the hills and trees that surrounded their old home. But, alas! only the ruins of Lir’s dwelling were left. Around was a wilderness overgrown with rank grass, nettles, and weeds.Too downhearted to stir, the swans slept that night within the ruined walls of their old home, but, when day broke, each could no longer bear the loneliness, and again they flew westward. And it was not until they came to Inis Glora that they alighted. On a small lake in the heart of the island they made their home, and, by their enchanting music, they drew to its shores all the birds of the west, until the lake came to be called “The Lake of the Bird-flocks.”Slowly passed the years, but a great longing filled the hearts of the children of Lir. When would the good saint come to Erin? When would the chime of the Christ-bell peal over land and sea?One rosy dawn the swans awoke among the rushes of the Lake of the Bird-flocks, and strange and faint was the sound that floated to them from afar. Trembling, they nestled close the one to the other, until the brothers stretched their wings and fluttered hither and thither in great fear. Yet trembling they flew back to their sister, who had remained silent among the sedges. Crouching by her side they asked, “What, dear sister, can be the strange, faint sound that steals across our island?”With quiet, deep joy Finola answered: “Dear brothers, it is the chime of the Christ-bell that ye hear, the Christ-bell of which we have dreamed through thrice three hundred years. Soon the spell will be broken, soon our sufferings will end.” Then did Finola glide from the shelter of the sedges across the rose-lit lake, and there by the shore of the Western Sea she chanted a song of hope.Calm crept into the hearts of the brothers as Finola sang, and, as she ended, once more the chime stole across the isle. No longer did it strike terror into the hearts of the children of Lir, rather as a note of peace did it sink into their souls.Then, when the last chime died, Finola said, “Let us sing to the great King of Heaven and Earth.”Far stole the sweet strains of the white swans, far across Inis Glora, until they reached the good Saint Kemoc, for whose early prayers the Christ-bell had chimed.And he, filled with wonder at the surpassing sweetness of the music, stood mute, but when it was revealed unto him that the voices he heard were the voices of Finola and Aed and Fiacra and Conn, who thanked the High God for the chime of the Christ-bell, he knelt and also gave thanks, for it was to seek the children of Lir that the saint had come to Inis Glora.In the glory of noon, Kemoc reached the shore of the little lake, and saw four white swans gliding on its waters. And no need had the saint to ask whether these indeed were the children of Lir. Rather did he give thanks to the High God who had brought him hither.Then gravely the good Kemoc said to the swans: “Come ye now to land, and put your trust in me, for it is in this place that ye shall be freed from your enchantment.”These words the four white swans heard with great joy, and coming to the shore they placed themselves under the care of the saint. And he led them to his cell, and there they dwelt with him. And Kemoc sent to Erin for a skilful workman, and ordered that two slender chains of shining silver be made. Betwixt Finola and Aed did he clasp one silver chain, and with the other did he bind Fiacra and Conn.Then did the children of Lir dwell with the holy Kemoc, and he taught them the wonderful story of Christ that he and Saint Patrick had brought to the Green Isle. And the story so gladdened their hearts that the misery of their past sufferings was well-nigh forgotten, and they lived in great happiness with the saint. Dear to him were they, dear as though they had been his own children.Thrice three hundred years had gone since Eva had chanted the fate of the children of Lir. “Until Decca be the Queen of Largnen, until the good saint come to Erin, and ye hear thechime of the Christ-bell, shall ye not be delivered from your doom.”The good saint had indeed come, and the sweet chimes of the Christ-bell had been heard, and the fair Decca was now the Queen of King Largnen.Soon were tidings brought to Decca of the swan-maiden and her three swan-brothers. Strange tales did she hear of their haunting songs. It was told her, too, of their cruel miseries. Then begged she her husband, the King, that he would go to Kemoc and bring to her these human birds.But Largnen did not wish to ask Kemoc to part with the swans, and therefore he did not go.Then was Decca angry, and swore she would live no longer with Largnen, until he brought the singing swans to the palace. And that same night she set out for her father’s kingdom in the south.Nevertheless Largnen loved Decca, and great was his grief when he heard that she had fled. And he commanded messengers to go after her, saying he would send for the white swans if she would but come back. Therefore Decca returned to the palace, and Largnen sent to Kemoc to beg of him the four white swans. But the messenger returned without the birds.Then was Largnen wroth, and set out himself for the cell of Kemoc. But he found the saint in the little church, and before the altar were the four white swans.“Is it truly told me that you refused these birds to Queen Decca?” asked the King.“It is truly told,” replied Kemoc.Then Largnen was more wroth than before, and seizing the silver chain of Finola and Aed in the one hand, and the chain of Fiacra and Conn in the other, he dragged the birds from the altar and down the aisle, and it seemed as though he would leave the church. And in great fear did the saint follow.But lo! as they reached the door, the snow-white feathers of the four swans fell to the ground, and the children of Lir were delivered from their doom. For was not Decca the bride of Largnen, and the good saint had he not come, and the chime of the Christ-bell was it not heard in the land?But aged and feeble were the children of Lir. Wrinkled were their once fair faces, and bent their little white bodies.At the sight Largnen, affrighted, fled from the church, and the good Kemoc cried aloud, “Woe to thee, O King!”Then did the children of Lir turn toward the saint, and thus Finola spake: “Baptize us now, we pray thee, for death is nigh. Heavy with sorrow are our hearts that we must part from thee, thou holy one, and that in loneliness must thy days on earth be spent. But such is the will of the high God. Here let our graves be digged, and here bury our four bodies, Conn standing at my right side, Fiacra at my left, and Aed before my face, for thus did I shelter my dear brothers for thrice three hundred years ’neath wing and breast.”Then did the good Kemoc baptize the children of Lir, and thereafter the saint looked up, and lo! he saw a vision of four lovely children with silvery wings, and faces radiant as the sun; and as he gazed they floated ever upward, until they were lost in a mist of blue. Then was the good Kemoc glad, for he knew that they had gone to heaven.But, when he looked downward, four worn bodies lay at the church door, and Kemoc wept sore.And the saint ordered a wide grave to be digged close by the little church, and there were the children of Lir buried, Conn standing at Finola’s right hand, and Fiacra at her left, and before her face her twin brother Aed.And the grass grew green above them, and a white tombstone bore their names, and across the grave floated morning and evening the chime of the sweet Christ-bell.THE MISHAPS OF HANDY ANDYAndy Rooney was a fellow who had the most singularly ingenious knack of doing everything the wrong way. He grew up in his humble Irish home full of mischief to the eyes of every one save his admiring mother. But, to do him justice, he never meant harm in the course of his life, and he was most anxious to offer his services on every occasion to all who would accept them. Here is the account of how Andy first went into service:When Andy grew up to be what in country parlance is called “a brave lump of a boy,” and his mother thought he was old enough to do something for himself, she took him one day along with her to the squire’s, and waited outsidethe door, loitering up and down the yard behind the house, among a crowd of beggars and great lazy dogs that were thrusting their heads into every iron pot that stood outside the kitchen door, until chance might give her “a sight of the squire afore he wint out, or afore he wint in”; and, after spending her entire day in this idle way, at last the squire made his appearance, and Judy presented her son, who kept scraping his foot, and pulling his forelock, that stuck out like a piece of ragged thatch from his forehead, making his obeisance to the squire, while his mother was sounding his praises for being the “handiest craythur alive, and so willin’—nothin’ comes wrong to him.”“I suppose the English of all this is, you want me to take him?” said the squire.“Throth, an’ your honor, that’s just it—if your honor would be plazed.”“What can he do?”“Anything, your honor.”“That meansnothing, I suppose,” said the squire.“Oh, no, sir! Everything, I mane, that you would desire him to do.”To every one of these assurances on his mother’s part Andy made a bow and a scrape.“Can he take care of horses?”“The best of care, sir,” said the mother.“Let him come, then, and help in the stables, and we’ll see what we can do.”The next day found Andy duly installed in the office of stable-helper; and, as he was a good rider, he was soon made whipper-in to the hounds, and became a favorite with the squire, who was one of those rollicking “boys” of the old school, who let any one that chance threw in his way bring him his boots, or his hot water for shaving, or brush his coat, whenever it was brushed. The squire, you see, scorned the attentions of a regular valet. But Andy knew a great deal more about horses than about the duties of a valet. One morning he came to his master’s room with hot water and tapped at the door.“Who’s that?” said the squire, who had just risen.“It’s me, sir.”“Oh, Andy! Come in.”“Here’s the hot water, sir,” said Andy, bearing an enormous tin can.“Why, what brings that enormous tin can here? You might as well bring the stable-bucket.”“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Andy, retreating. In two minutes more Andy came back, and, tapping at the door, put in his head cautiously.HOW ANDY BROUGHT HIS MASTER’SHOT WATER IN THE MORNING“The maids in the kitchen, your honor, say there’s not so much hot water ready.”“Did I not see it a moment since in your hand?”“Yes, sir; but that’s not nigh the full o’ the stable-bucket.”“Go along, you stupid thief, and get me some hot water directly.”“Will the can do, sir?”“Ay, anything, so you make haste.”Off posted Andy, and back he came with the can.“Where’ll I put it, sir?”“Throw this out,” said the squire, handing Andy a jug containing some cold water, meaning the jug to be replenished with the hot.Andy took the jug, and the window of the room being open, he very deliberately threw the jug out. The squire stared with wonder, and at last said:“What did you do that for?”“Sure, youtowldme to throw it out, sir.”“Go out of this, you thick-headed villain,” said the squire, throwing his boots at Andy’s head; whereupon Andy retreated, and, like all stupid people, thought himself a very ill-used person.WHAT HAPPENED WHEN ANDY OPENEDA BOTTLE OF SODA AT THE DINNERAndy was soon the laughing-stock of the household. When, for example, he first saw silver forks he declared that “he had never seen a silver spoon split that way before.” When told to “cut the cord” of a soda-water bottle on one occasion when the squire was entertaining a number of guests at dinner, he “did as he was desired.”He happened at that time to hold the bottle on the level with the candles that shed light over the festive board from a large silver branch, and the moment he made the incision, bang went the bottle of soda, knocking out two of the lights with the projected cork, which struck the squire himself in the eye at the foot of the table; while the hostess, at the head, had a cold bath down her back. Andy, when he saw the soda-water jumping out of the bottle, held it from him at arm’s length, at every fizz it made, exclaiming: “Ow! Ow! Ow!” and at last, when the bottle was empty, he roared out: “Oh, oh, it’s all gone!”Great was the commotion. Few could resistlaughter, except the ladies, who all looked at their gowns, not liking the mixture of satin and soda-water. The extinguished candles were relighted, the squire got his eyes open again, and the next time he perceived the butler sufficiently near to speak to him, he said, in a low and hurried tone of deep anger, while he knit his brow:“Send that fellow out of the room.” Suspended from indoor service, Andy was not long before he distinguished himself out of doors in such a way as to involve his master in a coil of trouble, and, incidentally, to retard the good fortune that came to himself in the end.THE SQUIRE SENDS ANDY TO THEPOST-OFFICE FOR A LETTERThe squire said to him one day:“Ride into the town and see if there’s a letter for me.”“Yes, sir,” said Andy.“Do you know where to go?” inquired his master.“To the town, sir,” was the reply.“But do you know where to go in the town?”“No, sir.”“And why don’t you ask, you stupid thief?”“Sure, I’d find out, sir.”“Didn’t I often tell you to ask what you’re to do when you don’t know?”“Yes, sir.”“And why don’t you?”“I don’t like to be troublesome, sir.”“Confound you!” said the squire, though he could not help laughing at Andy’s excuse for remaining in ignorance. “Well, go to the post-office. You know the post-office, I suppose?” continued his master in sarcastic tones.“Yes, sir; where they sell gunpowder.”“You’re right for once,” said the squire—for his Majesty’s postmaster was the person who had the privilege of dealing in the aforesaid combustible. “Go, then, to the post-office, and ask for a letter for me. Remember, not gunpowder, but a letter.”“Yes, sir,” said Andy, who got astride of his hack, and trotted away to the post-office.On arriving at the shop of the postmaster (for that person carried on a brisk trade in groceries, gimlets, broadcloth, and linen-drapery), Andy presented himself at the counter, and said:“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”“Who do you want it for?” said the postmaster, in a tone which Andy considered an aggression upon the sacredness of private life. So Andy, in his ignorance and pride, thought the coolest contempt he could throw upon the prying impertinence of the postmaster was to repeat his question.ANDY HAS A VERY FOOLISH QUARRELWITH THE POSTMASTER“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”“And who do you want it for?” repeated the postmaster.“What’s that to you?” said Andy.The postmaster, laughing at his simplicity, told him he could not tell what letter to give him unless he told him the direction.“The directions I got was to get a letther here—that’s the directions.”“Who gave you those directions?”“The master.”“And who’s your master?”“What consarn is that of yours?”“Why, you stupid rascal, if you don’t tell me his name, how can I give you a letter?”“You could give it if you liked; but you’re fond of axin’ impident questions, bekase you think I’m simple.”“Go along out o’ this! Your master must be as great a goose as yourself, to send such a messenger.”“Bad luck to your impidence!” said Andy. “Is it Squire Egan you dare to say goose to?”“Oh, Squire Egan’s your master, then?”“Yes. Have you anything to say agin it?”“Only that I never saw you before.”“Faith, then, you’ll never see me agin if I have my own consint.”“I won’t give you any letter for the squire unless I know you’re his servant. Is there any one in the town knows you?”“Plenty,” said Andy. “It’s not every one is as ignorant as you.”WHY ANDY WOULD NOT PAYELEVEN PENCE FOR A LETTERJust at this moment a person to whom Andy was known entered the house, who vouched to the postmaster that he might give Andy the squire’s letter. “Have you one for me?”“Yes, sir,” said the postmaster, producing one. “Fourpence.”The gentleman paid the fourpence postage (the story, it must be remembered, belongs to the earlier half of the last century, before the days of the penny post), and left the shop with his letter.“Here’s a letter for the squire,” said the postmaster. “You’ve to pay me elevenpence postage.”“What ’ud I pay elevenpence for?”“For postage.”“Get out wid you! Didn’t I see you give Mr.Durfy a letther for fourpence this minit, and a bigger letther than this? And now you want me to pay elevenpence for this scrap of a thing? Do you think I’m a fool?”“No; but I’m sure of it,” said the postmaster.“Well, you’re welkum, to be sure; but don’t be delayin’ me now. Here’s fourpence for you, and gi’ me the letther.”“Go along, you stupid thief!” (the word “thief” was often used in Ireland in the humorous way we sometimes use the word “rascal”) said the postmaster, taking up the letter, and going to serve a customer with a mouse-trap.WHY ANDY WENT BACK TO THESQUIRE WITHOUT HIS LETTERWhile this person and many others were served, Andy lounged up and down the shop, every now and then putting in his head in the middle of the customers and saying:“Will you gi’ me the letther?”He waited for above half an hour, and at last left, when he found it impossible to get common justice for his master, which he thought he deserved as well as another man; for, under this impression, Andy determined to give no more than the fourpence. The squire, in the meantime, was getting impatient for his return, and when Andy made his appearance, asked if there was a letter for him.“There is, sir,” said Andy.“Then give it to me.”“I haven’t it, sir.”“What do you mean?”“He wouldn’t give it to me, sir.”“Who wouldn’t give it to you?”ANDY IS SENT BACK TO THE POST-OFFICEBY HIS ANGRY MASTER“That owld chate beyant in the town—wanting to charge double for it.”“Maybe it’s a double letter. Why didn’t you pay what he asked, sir?”“Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated? It’s not a double letther at all; not above half the size o’ one Mr. Durfy got before my face for fourpence.”“You’ll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vagabond! Ride back for your life, and pay whatever he asks, and get me the letter.”“Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin’ them before my face for fourpence apiece.”“Go back, you scoundrel, or I’ll horsewhip you; and if you’re longer than an hour, I’ll have you ducked in the horsepond!”Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he arrived two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was selecting the epistles for each from a large parcel that lay before him on the counter. At the same time many shop customers were waiting to be served.“I’ve come for that letther,” said Andy.“I’ll attend to you by and by.”“The masther’s in a hurry.”“Let him wait till his hurry’s over.”“He’ll murther me if I’m not back soon.”“I’m glad to hear it.”CALLED A “THIEF” IN JEST, ANDY DOESA LITTLE THIEVING IN EARNESTWhile the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these appeals for despatch, Andy’s eye caught the heap of letters which lay on the counter. So, while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap, and, having effected that, waited patiently enough until it was the great man’s pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master.Then did Andy bestride his hack, and, in triumph at his trick on the postmaster, rattled along the road homeward as fast as the beast could carry him. He came into the squire’s presence; his face beaming with delight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite unaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had been grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket, and, holding three letters over his head while he said: “Look at that!” he next slapped them down under his broad fist on the table before the squire, saying:“Well, if he did make me pay elevenpence, I brought your honor the worth o’ your money, anyhow.”Now, the letter addressed to the squire was from his law-agent, and concerned an approaching election in the county. His old friend, Mr. Gustavus O’Grady, the master of Neck-or-Nothing Hall, was, it appeared, working in the interest of the honorable Sackville Scatterbrain, and against Squire Egan.THE TROUBLE THAT CAME OF ANDY’SFAMOUS VISITS TO THE POST-OFFICEThis unexpected information threw him into a great rage, in the midst of which his eye caught sight of one of the letters Andy had taken from the post-office. This was addressed to Mr. O’Grady, and as it bore the Dublin postmark, Mr. Egan yielded to the temptation of makingthe letter gape at its extremities—this was before the days of the envelope—and so read its contents, which were highly uncomplimentary to the reader. As Mr. O’Grady was much in debt financially to Mr. Egan, the latter decided to put all the pressure of the law upon his one-time friend, and, to save trouble with the authorities, destroyed both of the stolen letters and pledged Andy to secrecy.Neck-or-Nothing Hall was carefully guarded from intruders, and Mr. Egan’s agent, Mr. Murphy, greatly doubted if it would be possible to serve its master with a writ. Our friend Andy, however, unconsciously solved the difficulty.Being sent over to the law-agent’s for the writ, and at the same time bidden to call at the apothecary’s for a prescription, he managed to mix up the two documents, leaving the writ, without its accompanying letter, at the apothecary’s, whence it was duly forwarded to Neck-or-Nothing Hall with certain medicines for Mr. O’Grady, who was then lying ill in bed. The law-agent’s letter, in its turn, was brought to Squire Egan by Andy, together with a blister which was meant for Mr. O’Grady. Imagine the recipient’s anger when he read the following missive and, on opening the package it was with, found a real and not a figurative blister:“My dear Squire: I send you the blister for O’Grady as you insist on it; but I think you won’t find it easy to serve him with it.“Your obedient and obliged,“Murtough Murphy.”The result in his case was a hurried ride to the law-agent’s and the administration to that devoted personage of a severe hiding. This was followed by a duel, in which, happily, neither combatant was hurt. Then, after the firing, satisfactory explanations were made. On Mr. O’Grady’s part, there was an almost simultaneous descent upon the unsuspecting apothecary, and the administration to the man of drugs and blisters of a terrible drubbing. Next a duel was arranged between the two old friends. Andy again distinguished himself.HOW ANDY WAS FINALLY DISCHARGEDFROM THE SERVICE OF SQUIRE EGANWhen his employer’s second was not looking, Andy thought he would do Squire Egan a good turn by inserting bullets in his pistols before they were loaded. The intention of Andy was to give Mr. Egan the advantage of double bullets, but the result was that, when the weapons were loaded, Andy’s bullets lay between the powder and the touch-hole. Mr. O’Grady missed his aim twice, and Mr. Egan missed his fire. The cause being discovered, Andy was unmercifully chased and punished by the second, and ignominiously dismissed from Mr. Egan’s service.By an accident, Andy shortly afterward was the means of driving a Mr. Furlong to Squire Egan’s place instead of to Squire O’Grady’s. Mr. Furlong was an agent from Dublin Castle, whose commission it was to aid the cause of the Honorable Mr. Scatterbrain. Of course, Andy, when he was told, on taking the place of the driver of the vehicle in which Mr. Furlong was traveling, to drive this important personage to “the squire’s,” at once jumped to the conclusion that by “the squire’s” was meant Mr. Egan’s. Here, before the mistake was found out by the victim, Mr. Furlong was unburdened of much important information. While this process was going on at Mr. Egan’s, a hue and cry was on foot at Mr. O’Grady’s, for the lost Mr. Furlong, and poor, blundering Andy was arrested and charged with murdering him.ANOTHER OF ANDY’S BLUNDERS HASA HAPPY RESULT FOR HIS OLD MASTERHe was soon set free and taken into Mr. O’Grady’s service when Mr. Furlong had made his appearance before the owner of Neck-or-Nothing Hall. But a clever rascal named Larry Hogan divined by accident and the help of his native wit the secret of the stolen letters, and Andy was forced by terror to flee from Neck-or-Nothing Hall.His subsequent adventures took him through the heat of the election, at which his ingenuity was displayed in unwittingly stopping up the mouth of the trumpet on which the Honorable Mr. Scatterbrain’s supporters relied to drown Mr. Egan’s speeches and those of his men. He thus did a good turn to his old master without knowing it, having merely imitated the action of the trumpeter, who had pretended to cork up the instrument before momentarily laying it aside.When his fortunes seemed to be at their lowest ebb, Andy was discovered to be the rightful heir to the Scatterbrain title and estates, his claims to which were set forth in the second of the two letters stolen from the post-office, which had been destroyed by the squire without his reading it.ANDY TURNS OUT TO BE OF GENTLEBIRTH AND COMES INTO HIS OWNSoon afterward, through his old master’s influence, Andy was taken to London, and by dint of much effort remedied many of the defects of hisearly education. Then, marrying his cousin, Onoah, who had shared his mother’s cabin in the old days, and to save whom from a desperado Andy had, this time knowingly, braved great personal danger, our hero settled down to the enjoyment of a life such as he had never dreamed of in his humble days.THE GREEDY SHEPHERDOnce upon a time there lived in the South Country two brothers, whose business it was to keep sheep. No one lived on that plain but shepherds, who watched their sheep so carefully that no lamb was ever lost.There was none among them more careful than these two brothers, one of whom was called Clutch, and the other Kind. Though brothers, no two men could be more unlike in disposition. Clutch thought of nothing but how to make some profit for himself, while Kind would have shared his last morsel with a hungry dog. This covetous mind made Clutch keep all his father’s sheep when the old man was dead, because he was the eldest brother, allowing Kind nothing but the place of a servant to help him in looking after them.For some time the brothers lived peaceably in their father’s cottage, and kept their flock on the grassy plain, till new troubles arose through Clutch’s covetousness.One midsummer it so happened that the traders praised the wool of Clutch’s flock more than all they found on the plain, and gave him the highest price for it. That was an unlucky thing for the sheep, for after that Clutch thought he could never get enough wool off them. At shearing time nobody clipped so close as Clutch, and, in spite of all Kind could do or say, he left the poor sheep as bare as if they had been shaven. Kind didn’t like these doings, but Clutch always tried to persuade him that close clipping was good for the sheep, and Kind always tried to make him think he had got all the wool. Still Clutch sold the wool, and stored up his profits, and one midsummer after another passed. The shepherds began to think him a rich man, and close clipping might have become the fashion but for a strange thing which happened to his flock.The wool had grown well that summer. He had taken two crops off the sheep, and was thinking of a third, when first the lambs, and then the ewes, began to stray away; and, search as the brothers would, none of them was ever found again. The flocks grew smaller every day, and all the brothers could find out was that the closest clipped were the first to go.Kind grew tired of watching, and Clutch lost his sleep with vexation. The other shepherds, to whom he had boasted of his wool and his profits, were not sorry to see pride having a fall. Still the flock melted away as the months wore on, and when the spring came back nothing remained with Clutch and Kind but three old ewes. The two brothers were watching these ewes one evening when Clutch said:“Brother, there is wool to be had on their backs.”“It is too little to keep them warm,” said Kind. “The east wind still blows sometimes.” But Clutch was off to the cottage for the bag and shears.Kind was grieved to see his brother so covetous, and to divert his mind he looked up at the great hills. As he looked, three creatures like sheep scoured up a cleft in one of the hills, as fleet as any deer; and when Kind turned he saw his brother coming with the bag and shears, but not a single ewe was to be seen. Clutch’s first question was, what had become of them; and when Kind told him what he saw, the eldest brother scolded him for not watching better.“Now we have not a single sheep,” said he, “and the other shepherds will hardly give us room among them at shearing time or harvest. If you like to come with me, we shall get service somewhere. I have heard my father say that there were great shepherds living in old times beyond the hills; let us go and see if they will take us for sheep-boys.”Accordingly, next morning Clutch took his bag and shears, Kind took his crook and pipe, and away they went over the plain and up the hills. All who saw them thought that they had lost their senses, for no shepherd had gone there for a hundred years, and nothing was to be seen but wide moorlands, full of rugged rocks, and sloping up, it seemed, to the very sky.By noon they came to the stony cleft up which the three old ewes had scoured like deer; but both were tired, and sat down to rest. As they sat there, there came a sound of music down the hills as if a thousand shepherds had been playing on their pipes. Clutch and Kind had never heard such music before, and, getting up, they followed the sound up the cleft, and over a wide heath, till at sunset they came to the hill-top,where they saw a flock of thousands of snow-white sheep feeding, while an old man sat in the midst of them playing merrily on his pipe.“Good father,” said Kind, for his eldest brother hung back and was afraid, “tell us what land is this, and where we can find service; for my brother and I are shepherds, and can keep flocks from straying, though we have lost our own.”“These are the hill pastures,” said the old man, “and I am the ancient shepherd. My flocks never stray, but I have employment for you. Which of you can shear best?”“Good father,” said Clutch, taking courage, “I am the closest shearer in all the plain country; you would not find enough wool to make a thread on a sheep when I have done with it.”“You are the man for my business,” said the old shepherd. “When the moon rises, I will call the flock you have to shear.”The sun went down and the moon rose, and all the snow-white sheep laid themselves down behind him. Then up the hills came a troop of shaggy wolves, with hair so long that their eyes could scarcely be seen. Clutch would have fled for fear, but the wolves stopped, and the old man said:“Rise and shear—this flock of mine have too much wool on them.”Clutch had never shorn wolves before, yet he went forward bravely; but the first of the wolves showed its teeth, and all the rest raised such a howl that Clutch was glad to throw down his shears and run behind the old man for safety.“Good father,” cried he, “I will shear sheep, but not wolves!”“They must be shorn,” said the old man, “or you go back to the plains, and them after you; but whichever of you can shear them will get the whole flock.”On hearing this, Kind caught up the shears Clutch had thrown away in his fright, and went boldly up to the nearest wolf. To his great surprise, the wild creature seemed to know him, and stood quietly to be shorn. Kind clipped neatly, but not too closely, and when he had done with one, another came forward, till the whole flock were shorn. Then the man said:“You have done well; take the wool and the flock for your wages, return with them to the plain, and take this brother of yours for a boy to keep them.”Kind did not much like keeping wolves, but before he could answer they had all changed into the very sheep which had strayed away, and the hair he had cut off was now a heap of fine and soft wool.Clutch gathered it up in his bag, and went back to the plain with his brother. They keep the sheep together till this day, but Clutch has grown less greedy, and Kind alone uses the shears.
Stories From Ireland
In the days of long ago there lived in the Green Isle of Erin a race of brave men and fair women—the race of the Dedannans. North, south, east, and west did this noble people dwell, doing homage to many chiefs.
But one blue morning after a great battle the Dedannans met on a wide plain to choose a king. “Let us,” they said, “have one king over all. Let us no longer have many rulers.”
Forth from among the princes rose five well fitted to wield a scepter and to wear a crown, yet most royal stood Bove Derg and Lir. And forth did the five chiefs wander, that the Dedannan folk might freely say to whom they would most gladly do homage as king.
Not far did they roam, for soon there arose a great cry, “Bove Derg is King! Bove Derg is King!” And all were glad, save Lir.
But Lir was angry, and he left the plain where the Dedannan people were, taking leave of none, and doing Bove Derg no reverence. For jealousy filled the heart of Lir.
Then were the Dedannans wroth, and a hundred swords were unsheathed and flashed in the sunlight on the plain. “We go to slay Lir who doeth not homage to our King and regardeth not the choice of the people.”
But wise and generous was Bove Derg, and he bade the warriors do no hurt to the offended prince.
For long years did Lir live in discontent, yielding obedience to none. But at length a great sorrow fell upon him, for his wife, who was dear unto him, died, and she had been ill but three days. Loudly did he lament her death, and heavy was his heart with sorrow.
When tidings of Lir’s grief reached Bove Derg, he was surrounded by his mightiest chiefs. “Go forth,” he said, “in fifty chariots go forth. Tell Lir I am his friend as ever, and ask that he come with you hither. Three fair foster-children are mine, and one may he yet have to wife, will he but bow to the will of the people, who have chosen me their King.”
When these words were told to Lir, his heart was glad. Speedily he called around him his train, and in fifty chariots set forth. Nor did they slacken speed until they reached the palace of Bove Derg by the Great Lake. And there at the still close of day, as the setting rays of the sun fell athwart the silver waters, did Lir do homage to Bove Derg. And Bove Derg kissed Lir and vowed to be his friend forever.
And when it was known throughout the Dedannan host that peace reigned between these mighty chiefs, brave men and fair women and little children rejoiced, and nowhere were there happier hearts than in the Green Isle of Erin.
Time passed, and Lir still dwelt with Bove Derg in his palace by the Great Lake. One morning the King said: “Full well thou knowest my three fair foster-daughters, nor have I forgotten my promise that one thou shouldst have to wife. Choose her whom thou wilt.”
Then Lir answered: “All are indeed fair, and choice is hard. But give unto me the eldest, if it be that she be willing to wed.”
And Eve, the eldest of the fair maidens, was glad, and that day was she married to Lir, and after two weeks she left the palace by the Great Lake and drove with her husband to her new home.
Happily dwelt Lir’s household and merrily sped the months. Then were born unto Lir twin babes. The girl they called Finola, and her brother did they name Aed.
Yet another year passed and again twins were born, but before the infant boys knew their mother, she died. So sorely did Lir grieve for his beautiful wife that he would have died of sorrow, but for the great love he bore his motherless children.
When news of Eve’s death reached the palace of Bove Derg by the Great Lake all mourned aloud, for love of Eve and sore pity for Lir andhis four babes. And Bove Derg said to his mighty chiefs: “Great, indeed is our grief, but in this dark hour shall Lir know our friendship. Ride forth, make known to him that Eva, my second fair foster-child, shall in time become his wedded wife and shall cherish his lone babies.”
So messengers rode forth to carry these tidings to Lir, and in time Lir came again to the palace of Bove Derg by the Great Lake, and he married the beautiful Eva and took her back with him to his little daughter, Finola, and to her three brothers, Aed and Fiacra and Conn.
Four lovely and gentle children they were, and with tenderness did Eva care for the little ones who were their father’s joy and the pride of the Dedannans.
As for Lir, so great was the love he bore them, that at early dawn he would rise, and, pulling aside the deerskin that separated his sleeping-room from theirs, would fondle and frolic with the children until morning broke.
And Bove Derg loved them well-nigh as did Lir himself. Ofttimes would he come to see them and ofttimes were they brought to his palace by the Great Lake.
And through all the Green Isle, where dwelt the Dedannan people, there also was spread the fame of the beauty of the children of Lir.
Time crept on, and Finola was a maid of twelve summers. Then did a wicked jealousy find root in Eva’s heart, and so did it grow that it strangled the love which she had borne her sister’s children. In bitterness she cried: “Lir careth not for me; to Finola and her brothers hath he given all his love.”
And for weeks and months Eva lay in bed planning how she might do hurt to the children of Lir.
At length, one midsummer morn, she ordered forth her chariot, that with the four children she might come to the palace of Bove Derg.
When Finola heard it, her fair face grew pale, for in a dream had it been revealed unto her that Eva, her stepmother, should that day do a dark deed among those of her own household. Therefore was Finola sore afraid, but only her large eyes and pale cheeks spake her woe, as she and her brothers drove along with Eva and her train.
On they drove, the boys laughing merrily, heedless alike of the black shadow resting on their stepmother’s brow, and of the pale, trembling lips of their sister. As they reached a gloomy pass, Eva whispered to her attendants: “Kill, I pray you, these children of Lir, for their father careth not for me, because of his great love for them. Kill them, and great wealth shall be yours.”
But the attendants answered in horror: “We will not kill them. Fearful, O Eva, were the deed, and great is the evil that will befall thee, for having it in thine heart to do this thing.”
Then Eva, filled with rage, drew forth her sword to slay them with her own hand, but too weak for the monstrous deed, she sank back in the chariot.
Onward they drove, out of the gloomy pass into the bright sunlight of the white road. Daisies with wide-open eyes looked up into the blue sky overhead. Golden glistened the buttercups among the shamrock. From the ditches peeped forget-me-not. Honeysuckle scented the hedgerows. Around, above, and afar, caroled the linnet, the lark, and the thrush. All was color and sunshine, scent and song, as the children of Lir drove onward to their doom.
Not until they reached a still lake were the horses unyoked for rest. There Eva bade the children undress and go bathe in the waters. And when the children of Lir reached the water’s edge, Eva was there behind them, holding in her hand a fairy wand. And with the wand she touched the shoulder of each. And, lo! as she touched Finola, the maiden was changed into a snow-white swan, and behold! as she touched Aed, Fiacra, and Conn, the three brothers were as the maid. Four snow-white swans floated on the blue lake, and to them the wicked Eva chanted a song of doom.
As she finished, the swans turned toward her, and Finola spake:
“Evil is the deed thy magic wand hath wrought, O Eva, on us the children of Lir, but greater evil shall befall thee, because of the hardness and jealousy of thine heart.” And Finola’s white swan-breast heaved as she sang of their pitiless doom.
The song ended, again spake the swan-maiden: “Tell us, O Eva, when death shall set us free.”
And Eva made answer: “Three hundred years shall your home be on the smooth waters of this lone lake. Three hundred years shall ye pass on the stormy waters of the sea betwixt Erin and Alba, and three hundred years shall ye be tempest-tossed on the wild Western Sea. Until Decca be the Queen of Largnen, and the good saint come to Erin, and ye hear the chime of the Christ-bell, neither your plaints nor prayers, neither the love of your father Lir, nor the might of your King, Bove Derg, shall have power to deliver you from your doom. But lone white swans though ye be, ye shall keep forever your own sweet Gaelic speech, and ye shall sing, with plaintive voices, songs so haunting that yourmusic will bring peace to the souls of those who hear. And still beneath your snowy plumage shall beat the hearts of Finola, Aed, Fiacra and Conn, and still forever shall ye be the children of Lir.”
four snow-white swans floated on the blue lake
Then did Eva order the horses to be yoked to the chariot, and away westward did she drive.
And swimming on the lone lake were four white swans.
When Eva reached the palace of Bove Derg alone, greatly was he troubled lest evil had befallen the children of Lir.
But the attendants, because of their great fear of Eva, dared not to tell the King of the magic spell she had wrought by the way. Therefore Bove Derg asked, “Wherefore, O Eva, come not Finola and her brothers to the palace this day?”
And Eva answered: “Because, O King, Lir no longer trusteth thee, therefore would he not let the children come hither.”
But Bove Derg believed not his foster-daughter, and that night he secretly sent messengers across the hills to the dwelling of Lir.
When the messengers came there, and told their errand, great was the grief of the father. And in the morning with a heavy heart he summoned a company of the Dedannans, and together they set out for the palace of Bove Derg. And it was not until sunset as they reached the lone shore of Lake Darvra, that they slackened speed.
Lir alighted from his chariot and stood spellbound. What was that plaintive sound? The Gaelic words, his dear daughter’s voice more enchanting even than of old, and yet, before and around, only the lone blue lake. The haunting music rang clearer, and as the last words died away, four snow-white swans glided from behind the sedges, and with a wild flap of wings flew toward the eastern shore. There, stricken with wonder, stood Lir.
“Know, O Lir,” said Finola, “that we are thy children, changed by the wicked magic of our stepmother into four white swans.” When Lir and the Dedannan people heard these words, they wept aloud.
Still spake the swan-maiden: “Three hundred years must we float on this lone lake, three hundred years shall we be storm-tossed on the waters between Erin and Alba, and three hundred years on the wild Western Sea. Not until Decca be the Queen of Largnen, not until the good saint come to Erin and the chime of the Christ-bell be heard in the land, not until then shall we be saved from our doom.”
Then great cries of sorrow went up from the Dedannans, and again Lir sobbed aloud. But at the last silence fell upon his grief, and Finola told how she and her brothers would keep forever their own sweet Gaelic speech, how they would sing songs so haunting that their music would bring peace to the souls of all who heard. She told how, beneath their snowy plumage, the human hearts of Finola, Aed, Fiacra, and Conn should still beat—the hearts of the children of Lir. “Stay with us to-night by the lone lake,” she ended, “and our music will steal to you across its moonlit waters and lull you into peaceful slumber. Stay, stay with us.”
And Lir and his people stayed on the shore that night and until the morning glimmered. Then, with the dim dawn, silence stole over the lake.
Speedily did Lir rise, and in haste did he bid farewell to his children, that he might seek Eva and see her tremble before him.
Swiftly did he drive and straight, until he came to the palace of Bove Derg, and there by the waters of the Great Lake did Bove Derg meet him. “Oh, Lir, wherefore have thy children come not hither?” And Eva stood by the King.
Stern and sad rang the answer of Lir: “Alas! Eva, your foster-child, hath by her wicked magic changed them into four snow-white swans. On the blue waters of Lake Darvra dwell Finola, Aed, Fiacra, and Conn, and thence come I that I may avenge their doom.”
A silence as the silence of death fell upon the three, and all was still save that Eva trembled greatly. But ere long Bove Derg spake. Fierce and angry did he look, as, high above his foster-daughter, he held his magic wand. Awful was his voice as he pronounced her doom: “Wretched woman, henceforth shalt thou no longer darken this fair earth, but as a demon of the air shalt thou dwell in misery till the end of time.” And of a sudden from out her shoulders grew black, shadowy wings, and, with a piercing scream, she swirled upward, until the awe-stricken Dedannans saw nought save a black speck vanish among the lowering clouds. And as a demon of the air do Eva’s black wings swirl her through space to this day.
But great and good was Bove Derg. He laid aside his magic wand and so spake: “Let us, my people, leave the Great Lake, and let us pitch our tents on the shores of Lake Darvra. Exceeding dear unto us are the children of Lir, and I, Bove Derg, and Lir, their father, have vowed henceforth to make our home forever by the lone waters where they dwell.”
And when it was told throughout the Green Island of Erin of the fate of the children of Lirand of the vow that Bove Derg had vowed, from north, south, east, and west did the Dedannans flock to the lake, until a mighty host dwelt by its shores.
And by day Finola and her brothers knew not loneliness, for in the sweet Gaelic speech they told of their joys and fears; and by night the mighty Dedannans knew no sorrowful memories, for by haunting songs were they lulled to sleep, and the music brought peace to their souls.
Slowly did the years go by, and upon the shoulders of Bove Derg and Lir fell the long white hair. Fearful grew the four swans, for the time was not far off when they must wing their flight north to the wild sea of Moyle.
And when at length the sad day dawned, Finola told her brothers how their three hundred happy years on Lake Darvra were at an end, and how they must now leave the peace of its lone waters for evermore.
Then, slowly and sadly, did the four swans glide to the margin of the lake. Never had the snowy whiteness of their plumage so dazzled the beholders, never had music so sweet and sorrowful floated to Lake Darvra’s sunlit shores. As the swans reached the water’s edge, silent were the three brothers, and alone Finola chanted a farewell song.
With bowed white heads did the Dedannan host listen to Finola’s chant, and when the music ceased and only sobs broke the stillness, the four swans spread their wings, and, soaring high, paused but for one short moment to gaze on the kneeling forms of Lir and Bove Derg. Then, stretching their graceful necks toward the north, they winged their flight to the waters of the stormy sea that separates the blue Alba from the Green Island of Erin.
And when it was known throughout the Green Isle that the four white swans had flown, so great was the sorrow of the people that they made a law that no swan should be killed in Erin from that day forth.
With hearts that burned with longing for their father and their friends, did Finola and her brothers reach the sea of Moyle. Cold were its wintry waters, black and fearful were the steep rocks overhanging Alba’s far-stretching coasts. From hunger, too, the swans suffered. Dark indeed was all, and darker yet as the children of Lir remembered the still waters of Lake Darvra and the fond Dedannan host on its peaceful shores. Here the sighing of the wind among the reeds no longer soothed their sorrow, but the roar of the breaking surf struck fresh terror in their souls. In misery and terror did their days pass, until one night the black, lowering clouds overhead told that a great tempest was nigh. Then did Finola call to her Aed, Fiacra, and Conn. “Beloved brothers, a great fear is at my heart, for, in the fury of the coming gale, we may be driven the one from the other. Therefore, let us say where we may hope to meet when the storm is spent.”
And Aed answered: “Wise art thou, dear, gentle sister. If we be driven apart, may it be to meet again on the rocky isle that has ofttimes been our haven, for well known is it to us all, and from far can it be seen.”
Darker grew the night, louder raged the wind, as the four swans dived and rose again on the giant billows. Yet fiercer blew the gale, until at midnight loud bursts of thunder mingled with the roaring wind, but, in the glare of the blue lightning’s flashes, the children of Lir beheld each the snowy form of the other. The mad fury of the hurricane yet increased, and the force of it lifted one swan from its wild home on the billows, and swept it through the blackness of the night. Another blue lightning-flash, and each swan saw its loneliness, and uttered a great cry of desolation. Tossed hither and thither by wind and wave, the white birds were well-nigh dead when dawn broke. And with the dawn fell calm.
Swift as her tired wings would bear her, Finola sailed to the rocky isle, where she hoped to find her brothers. But alas! no sign was there of one of them. Then to the highest summit of the rocks she flew. North, south, east, and west did she look, yet nought saw she save a watery wilderness. Now did her heart fail her, and she sang the saddest song she had yet sung.
As the last notes died Finola raised her eyes, and lo! Conn came slowly swimming toward her with drenched plumage and head that drooped. And as she looked, behold! Fiacra appeared, but it was as though his strength failed. Then did Finola swim toward her fainting brother and lend him her aid, and soon the twins were safe on the sunlit rock, nestling for warmth beneath their sister’s wings.
Yet Finola’s heart still beat with alarm as she sheltered her younger brothers, for Aed came not, and she feared lest he were lost forever. But, at noon, sailing he came over the breast of the blue waters, with head erect and plumage sunlit. And under the feathers of her breast did Finola draw him, for Conn and Fiacra still cradled beneath her wings. “Rest here, while ye may, dear brothers,” she said.
And she sang to them a lullaby so surpassing sweet that the sea-birds hushed their cries and flocked to listen to the sad, slow music. Andwhen Aed and Fiacra and Conn were lulled to sleep, Finola’s notes grew more and more faint and her head drooped, and soon she, too, slept peacefully in the warm sunlight.
But few were the sunny days on the sea of Moyle, and many were the tempests that ruffled its waters. Still keener grew the winter frosts, and the misery of the four white swans was greater than ever before. Even their most sorrowful Gaelic songs told not half their woe. From the fury of the storm they still sought shelter on that rocky isle where Finola had despaired of seeing her dear ones more.
Slowly passed the years of doom, until one midwinter a frost more keen than any known before froze the sea into a floor of solid black ice. By night the swans crouched together on the rocky isle for warmth, but each morning they were frozen to the ground and could free themselves only with sore pain, for they left clinging to the ice-bound rock the soft down of their breasts, the quills from their white wings, and the skin of their poor feet.
And when the sun melted the ice-bound surface of the waters, and the swans swam once more in the sea of Moyle, the salt water entered their wounds, and they well-nigh died of pain. But in time the down on their breasts and the feathers on their wings grew, and they were healed of their wounds.
The years dragged on, and by day Finola and her brothers would fly toward the shores of the Green Island of Erin, or to the rocky blue headlands of Alba, or they would swim far out into a dim gray wilderness of waters. But ever as night fell it was their doom to return to the sea of Moyle.
One day, as they looked toward the Green Isle, they saw coming to the coast a troop of horsemen mounted on snow-white steeds, and their armor glittered in the sun.
A cry of great joy went up from the children of Lir, for they had seen no human form since they spread their wings above Lake Darvra, and flew to the stormy sea of Moyle.
“Speak,” said Finola to her brothers, “speak, and say if these be not our own Dedannan folk.” And Aed and Fiacra and Conn strained their eyes, and Aed answered, “It seemeth, dear sister, to me, that it is indeed our own people.”
As the horsemen drew nearer and saw the four swans, each man shouted in the Gaelic tongue, “Behold the children of Lir!”
And when Finola and her brothers heard once more the sweet Gaelic speech, and saw the faces of their own people, their happiness was greater than can be told. For long they were silent, but at length Finola spake.
Of their life on the sea of Moyle she told, of the dreary rains and blustering winds, of the giant waves and the roaring thunder, of the black frost, and of their own poor battered and wounded bodies. Of their loneliness of soul, of that she could not speak. “But tell us,” she went on, “tell us of our father, Lir. Lives he still, and Bove Derg, and our dear Dedannan friends?”
Scarce could the Dedannans speak for the sorrow they had for Finola and her brothers, but they told how Lir and Bove Derg were alive and well, and were even now celebrating the Feast of Age at the house of Lir. “But for their longing for you, your father and friends would be happy indeed.”
Glad then and of great comfort were the hearts of Finola and her brothers. But they could not hear more, for they must hasten to fly from the pleasant shores of Erin to the sea-stream of Moyle, which was their doom. And as they flew, Finola sang, and faint floated her voice over the kneeling host.
As the sad song grew fainter and more faint, the Dedannans wept aloud. Then, as the snow-white birds faded from sight, the sorrowful company turned the heads of their white steeds from the shore, and rode southward to the home of Lir.
And when it was told there of the sufferings of Finola and her brothers, great was the sorrow of the Dedannans. Yet was Lir glad that his children were alive, and he thought of the day when the magic spell would be broken, and those so dear to him would be freed from their bitter woe.
Once more were ended three hundred years of doom, and glad were the four white swans to leave the cruel sea of Moyle. Yet might they fly only to the wild Western Sea, and tempest-tossed as before, here they in no way escaped the pitiless fury of wind and wave. Worse than aught they had before endured was a frost that drove the brothers to despair. Well-nigh frozen to a rock, they one night cried aloud to Finola that they longed for death. And she, too, would fain have died.
But that same night did a dream come to the swan-maiden, and, when she awoke, she cried to her brothers to take heart. “Believe, dear brothers, in the great God who hath created the earth with its fruits and the sea with its terrible wonders. Trust in him, and he will yet save you.” And her brothers answered, “We will trust.”
And Finola also put her trust in God, and theyall fell into a deep slumber.
When the children of Lir awoke, behold! the sun shone, and thereafter, until the three hundred years on the Western Sea were ended, neither wind nor wave nor rain nor frost did hurt the four swans.
On a grassy isle they lived and sang their wondrous songs by day, and by night they nestled together on their soft couch, and awoke in the morning to sunshine and to peace. And there on the grassy island was their home, until the three hundred years were at an end. Then Finola called to her brothers, and tremblingly she told, and tremblingly they heard, that they might now fly eastward to seek their own old home.
Lightly did they rise on outstretched wings, and swiftly did they fly until they reached land. There they alighted and gazed each at the other, but too great for speech was their joy. Then again did they spread their wings and fly above the green grass on and on, until they reached the hills and trees that surrounded their old home. But, alas! only the ruins of Lir’s dwelling were left. Around was a wilderness overgrown with rank grass, nettles, and weeds.
Too downhearted to stir, the swans slept that night within the ruined walls of their old home, but, when day broke, each could no longer bear the loneliness, and again they flew westward. And it was not until they came to Inis Glora that they alighted. On a small lake in the heart of the island they made their home, and, by their enchanting music, they drew to its shores all the birds of the west, until the lake came to be called “The Lake of the Bird-flocks.”
Slowly passed the years, but a great longing filled the hearts of the children of Lir. When would the good saint come to Erin? When would the chime of the Christ-bell peal over land and sea?
One rosy dawn the swans awoke among the rushes of the Lake of the Bird-flocks, and strange and faint was the sound that floated to them from afar. Trembling, they nestled close the one to the other, until the brothers stretched their wings and fluttered hither and thither in great fear. Yet trembling they flew back to their sister, who had remained silent among the sedges. Crouching by her side they asked, “What, dear sister, can be the strange, faint sound that steals across our island?”
With quiet, deep joy Finola answered: “Dear brothers, it is the chime of the Christ-bell that ye hear, the Christ-bell of which we have dreamed through thrice three hundred years. Soon the spell will be broken, soon our sufferings will end.” Then did Finola glide from the shelter of the sedges across the rose-lit lake, and there by the shore of the Western Sea she chanted a song of hope.
Calm crept into the hearts of the brothers as Finola sang, and, as she ended, once more the chime stole across the isle. No longer did it strike terror into the hearts of the children of Lir, rather as a note of peace did it sink into their souls.
Then, when the last chime died, Finola said, “Let us sing to the great King of Heaven and Earth.”
Far stole the sweet strains of the white swans, far across Inis Glora, until they reached the good Saint Kemoc, for whose early prayers the Christ-bell had chimed.
And he, filled with wonder at the surpassing sweetness of the music, stood mute, but when it was revealed unto him that the voices he heard were the voices of Finola and Aed and Fiacra and Conn, who thanked the High God for the chime of the Christ-bell, he knelt and also gave thanks, for it was to seek the children of Lir that the saint had come to Inis Glora.
In the glory of noon, Kemoc reached the shore of the little lake, and saw four white swans gliding on its waters. And no need had the saint to ask whether these indeed were the children of Lir. Rather did he give thanks to the High God who had brought him hither.
Then gravely the good Kemoc said to the swans: “Come ye now to land, and put your trust in me, for it is in this place that ye shall be freed from your enchantment.”
These words the four white swans heard with great joy, and coming to the shore they placed themselves under the care of the saint. And he led them to his cell, and there they dwelt with him. And Kemoc sent to Erin for a skilful workman, and ordered that two slender chains of shining silver be made. Betwixt Finola and Aed did he clasp one silver chain, and with the other did he bind Fiacra and Conn.
Then did the children of Lir dwell with the holy Kemoc, and he taught them the wonderful story of Christ that he and Saint Patrick had brought to the Green Isle. And the story so gladdened their hearts that the misery of their past sufferings was well-nigh forgotten, and they lived in great happiness with the saint. Dear to him were they, dear as though they had been his own children.
Thrice three hundred years had gone since Eva had chanted the fate of the children of Lir. “Until Decca be the Queen of Largnen, until the good saint come to Erin, and ye hear thechime of the Christ-bell, shall ye not be delivered from your doom.”
The good saint had indeed come, and the sweet chimes of the Christ-bell had been heard, and the fair Decca was now the Queen of King Largnen.
Soon were tidings brought to Decca of the swan-maiden and her three swan-brothers. Strange tales did she hear of their haunting songs. It was told her, too, of their cruel miseries. Then begged she her husband, the King, that he would go to Kemoc and bring to her these human birds.
But Largnen did not wish to ask Kemoc to part with the swans, and therefore he did not go.
Then was Decca angry, and swore she would live no longer with Largnen, until he brought the singing swans to the palace. And that same night she set out for her father’s kingdom in the south.
Nevertheless Largnen loved Decca, and great was his grief when he heard that she had fled. And he commanded messengers to go after her, saying he would send for the white swans if she would but come back. Therefore Decca returned to the palace, and Largnen sent to Kemoc to beg of him the four white swans. But the messenger returned without the birds.
Then was Largnen wroth, and set out himself for the cell of Kemoc. But he found the saint in the little church, and before the altar were the four white swans.
“Is it truly told me that you refused these birds to Queen Decca?” asked the King.
“It is truly told,” replied Kemoc.
Then Largnen was more wroth than before, and seizing the silver chain of Finola and Aed in the one hand, and the chain of Fiacra and Conn in the other, he dragged the birds from the altar and down the aisle, and it seemed as though he would leave the church. And in great fear did the saint follow.
But lo! as they reached the door, the snow-white feathers of the four swans fell to the ground, and the children of Lir were delivered from their doom. For was not Decca the bride of Largnen, and the good saint had he not come, and the chime of the Christ-bell was it not heard in the land?
But aged and feeble were the children of Lir. Wrinkled were their once fair faces, and bent their little white bodies.
At the sight Largnen, affrighted, fled from the church, and the good Kemoc cried aloud, “Woe to thee, O King!”
Then did the children of Lir turn toward the saint, and thus Finola spake: “Baptize us now, we pray thee, for death is nigh. Heavy with sorrow are our hearts that we must part from thee, thou holy one, and that in loneliness must thy days on earth be spent. But such is the will of the high God. Here let our graves be digged, and here bury our four bodies, Conn standing at my right side, Fiacra at my left, and Aed before my face, for thus did I shelter my dear brothers for thrice three hundred years ’neath wing and breast.”
Then did the good Kemoc baptize the children of Lir, and thereafter the saint looked up, and lo! he saw a vision of four lovely children with silvery wings, and faces radiant as the sun; and as he gazed they floated ever upward, until they were lost in a mist of blue. Then was the good Kemoc glad, for he knew that they had gone to heaven.
But, when he looked downward, four worn bodies lay at the church door, and Kemoc wept sore.
And the saint ordered a wide grave to be digged close by the little church, and there were the children of Lir buried, Conn standing at Finola’s right hand, and Fiacra at her left, and before her face her twin brother Aed.
And the grass grew green above them, and a white tombstone bore their names, and across the grave floated morning and evening the chime of the sweet Christ-bell.
Andy Rooney was a fellow who had the most singularly ingenious knack of doing everything the wrong way. He grew up in his humble Irish home full of mischief to the eyes of every one save his admiring mother. But, to do him justice, he never meant harm in the course of his life, and he was most anxious to offer his services on every occasion to all who would accept them. Here is the account of how Andy first went into service:
When Andy grew up to be what in country parlance is called “a brave lump of a boy,” and his mother thought he was old enough to do something for himself, she took him one day along with her to the squire’s, and waited outsidethe door, loitering up and down the yard behind the house, among a crowd of beggars and great lazy dogs that were thrusting their heads into every iron pot that stood outside the kitchen door, until chance might give her “a sight of the squire afore he wint out, or afore he wint in”; and, after spending her entire day in this idle way, at last the squire made his appearance, and Judy presented her son, who kept scraping his foot, and pulling his forelock, that stuck out like a piece of ragged thatch from his forehead, making his obeisance to the squire, while his mother was sounding his praises for being the “handiest craythur alive, and so willin’—nothin’ comes wrong to him.”
“I suppose the English of all this is, you want me to take him?” said the squire.
“Throth, an’ your honor, that’s just it—if your honor would be plazed.”
“What can he do?”
“Anything, your honor.”
“That meansnothing, I suppose,” said the squire.
“Oh, no, sir! Everything, I mane, that you would desire him to do.”
To every one of these assurances on his mother’s part Andy made a bow and a scrape.
“Can he take care of horses?”
“The best of care, sir,” said the mother.
“Let him come, then, and help in the stables, and we’ll see what we can do.”
The next day found Andy duly installed in the office of stable-helper; and, as he was a good rider, he was soon made whipper-in to the hounds, and became a favorite with the squire, who was one of those rollicking “boys” of the old school, who let any one that chance threw in his way bring him his boots, or his hot water for shaving, or brush his coat, whenever it was brushed. The squire, you see, scorned the attentions of a regular valet. But Andy knew a great deal more about horses than about the duties of a valet. One morning he came to his master’s room with hot water and tapped at the door.
“Who’s that?” said the squire, who had just risen.
“It’s me, sir.”
“Oh, Andy! Come in.”
“Here’s the hot water, sir,” said Andy, bearing an enormous tin can.
“Why, what brings that enormous tin can here? You might as well bring the stable-bucket.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Andy, retreating. In two minutes more Andy came back, and, tapping at the door, put in his head cautiously.
HOW ANDY BROUGHT HIS MASTER’SHOT WATER IN THE MORNING
“The maids in the kitchen, your honor, say there’s not so much hot water ready.”
“Did I not see it a moment since in your hand?”
“Yes, sir; but that’s not nigh the full o’ the stable-bucket.”
“Go along, you stupid thief, and get me some hot water directly.”
“Will the can do, sir?”
“Ay, anything, so you make haste.”
Off posted Andy, and back he came with the can.
“Where’ll I put it, sir?”
“Throw this out,” said the squire, handing Andy a jug containing some cold water, meaning the jug to be replenished with the hot.
Andy took the jug, and the window of the room being open, he very deliberately threw the jug out. The squire stared with wonder, and at last said:
“What did you do that for?”
“Sure, youtowldme to throw it out, sir.”
“Go out of this, you thick-headed villain,” said the squire, throwing his boots at Andy’s head; whereupon Andy retreated, and, like all stupid people, thought himself a very ill-used person.
WHAT HAPPENED WHEN ANDY OPENEDA BOTTLE OF SODA AT THE DINNER
Andy was soon the laughing-stock of the household. When, for example, he first saw silver forks he declared that “he had never seen a silver spoon split that way before.” When told to “cut the cord” of a soda-water bottle on one occasion when the squire was entertaining a number of guests at dinner, he “did as he was desired.”
He happened at that time to hold the bottle on the level with the candles that shed light over the festive board from a large silver branch, and the moment he made the incision, bang went the bottle of soda, knocking out two of the lights with the projected cork, which struck the squire himself in the eye at the foot of the table; while the hostess, at the head, had a cold bath down her back. Andy, when he saw the soda-water jumping out of the bottle, held it from him at arm’s length, at every fizz it made, exclaiming: “Ow! Ow! Ow!” and at last, when the bottle was empty, he roared out: “Oh, oh, it’s all gone!”
Great was the commotion. Few could resistlaughter, except the ladies, who all looked at their gowns, not liking the mixture of satin and soda-water. The extinguished candles were relighted, the squire got his eyes open again, and the next time he perceived the butler sufficiently near to speak to him, he said, in a low and hurried tone of deep anger, while he knit his brow:
“Send that fellow out of the room.” Suspended from indoor service, Andy was not long before he distinguished himself out of doors in such a way as to involve his master in a coil of trouble, and, incidentally, to retard the good fortune that came to himself in the end.
THE SQUIRE SENDS ANDY TO THEPOST-OFFICE FOR A LETTER
The squire said to him one day:
“Ride into the town and see if there’s a letter for me.”
“Yes, sir,” said Andy.
“Do you know where to go?” inquired his master.
“To the town, sir,” was the reply.
“But do you know where to go in the town?”
“No, sir.”
“And why don’t you ask, you stupid thief?”
“Sure, I’d find out, sir.”
“Didn’t I often tell you to ask what you’re to do when you don’t know?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And why don’t you?”
“I don’t like to be troublesome, sir.”
“Confound you!” said the squire, though he could not help laughing at Andy’s excuse for remaining in ignorance. “Well, go to the post-office. You know the post-office, I suppose?” continued his master in sarcastic tones.
“Yes, sir; where they sell gunpowder.”
“You’re right for once,” said the squire—for his Majesty’s postmaster was the person who had the privilege of dealing in the aforesaid combustible. “Go, then, to the post-office, and ask for a letter for me. Remember, not gunpowder, but a letter.”
“Yes, sir,” said Andy, who got astride of his hack, and trotted away to the post-office.
On arriving at the shop of the postmaster (for that person carried on a brisk trade in groceries, gimlets, broadcloth, and linen-drapery), Andy presented himself at the counter, and said:
“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”
“Who do you want it for?” said the postmaster, in a tone which Andy considered an aggression upon the sacredness of private life. So Andy, in his ignorance and pride, thought the coolest contempt he could throw upon the prying impertinence of the postmaster was to repeat his question.
ANDY HAS A VERY FOOLISH QUARRELWITH THE POSTMASTER
“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”
“And who do you want it for?” repeated the postmaster.
“What’s that to you?” said Andy.
The postmaster, laughing at his simplicity, told him he could not tell what letter to give him unless he told him the direction.
“The directions I got was to get a letther here—that’s the directions.”
“Who gave you those directions?”
“The master.”
“And who’s your master?”
“What consarn is that of yours?”
“Why, you stupid rascal, if you don’t tell me his name, how can I give you a letter?”
“You could give it if you liked; but you’re fond of axin’ impident questions, bekase you think I’m simple.”
“Go along out o’ this! Your master must be as great a goose as yourself, to send such a messenger.”
“Bad luck to your impidence!” said Andy. “Is it Squire Egan you dare to say goose to?”
“Oh, Squire Egan’s your master, then?”
“Yes. Have you anything to say agin it?”
“Only that I never saw you before.”
“Faith, then, you’ll never see me agin if I have my own consint.”
“I won’t give you any letter for the squire unless I know you’re his servant. Is there any one in the town knows you?”
“Plenty,” said Andy. “It’s not every one is as ignorant as you.”
WHY ANDY WOULD NOT PAYELEVEN PENCE FOR A LETTER
Just at this moment a person to whom Andy was known entered the house, who vouched to the postmaster that he might give Andy the squire’s letter. “Have you one for me?”
“Yes, sir,” said the postmaster, producing one. “Fourpence.”
The gentleman paid the fourpence postage (the story, it must be remembered, belongs to the earlier half of the last century, before the days of the penny post), and left the shop with his letter.
“Here’s a letter for the squire,” said the postmaster. “You’ve to pay me elevenpence postage.”
“What ’ud I pay elevenpence for?”
“For postage.”
“Get out wid you! Didn’t I see you give Mr.Durfy a letther for fourpence this minit, and a bigger letther than this? And now you want me to pay elevenpence for this scrap of a thing? Do you think I’m a fool?”
“No; but I’m sure of it,” said the postmaster.
“Well, you’re welkum, to be sure; but don’t be delayin’ me now. Here’s fourpence for you, and gi’ me the letther.”
“Go along, you stupid thief!” (the word “thief” was often used in Ireland in the humorous way we sometimes use the word “rascal”) said the postmaster, taking up the letter, and going to serve a customer with a mouse-trap.
WHY ANDY WENT BACK TO THESQUIRE WITHOUT HIS LETTER
While this person and many others were served, Andy lounged up and down the shop, every now and then putting in his head in the middle of the customers and saying:
“Will you gi’ me the letther?”
He waited for above half an hour, and at last left, when he found it impossible to get common justice for his master, which he thought he deserved as well as another man; for, under this impression, Andy determined to give no more than the fourpence. The squire, in the meantime, was getting impatient for his return, and when Andy made his appearance, asked if there was a letter for him.
“There is, sir,” said Andy.
“Then give it to me.”
“I haven’t it, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wouldn’t give it to me, sir.”
“Who wouldn’t give it to you?”
ANDY IS SENT BACK TO THE POST-OFFICEBY HIS ANGRY MASTER
“That owld chate beyant in the town—wanting to charge double for it.”
“Maybe it’s a double letter. Why didn’t you pay what he asked, sir?”
“Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated? It’s not a double letther at all; not above half the size o’ one Mr. Durfy got before my face for fourpence.”
“You’ll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vagabond! Ride back for your life, and pay whatever he asks, and get me the letter.”
“Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin’ them before my face for fourpence apiece.”
“Go back, you scoundrel, or I’ll horsewhip you; and if you’re longer than an hour, I’ll have you ducked in the horsepond!”
Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he arrived two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was selecting the epistles for each from a large parcel that lay before him on the counter. At the same time many shop customers were waiting to be served.
“I’ve come for that letther,” said Andy.
“I’ll attend to you by and by.”
“The masther’s in a hurry.”
“Let him wait till his hurry’s over.”
“He’ll murther me if I’m not back soon.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
CALLED A “THIEF” IN JEST, ANDY DOESA LITTLE THIEVING IN EARNEST
While the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these appeals for despatch, Andy’s eye caught the heap of letters which lay on the counter. So, while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap, and, having effected that, waited patiently enough until it was the great man’s pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master.
Then did Andy bestride his hack, and, in triumph at his trick on the postmaster, rattled along the road homeward as fast as the beast could carry him. He came into the squire’s presence; his face beaming with delight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite unaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had been grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket, and, holding three letters over his head while he said: “Look at that!” he next slapped them down under his broad fist on the table before the squire, saying:
“Well, if he did make me pay elevenpence, I brought your honor the worth o’ your money, anyhow.”
Now, the letter addressed to the squire was from his law-agent, and concerned an approaching election in the county. His old friend, Mr. Gustavus O’Grady, the master of Neck-or-Nothing Hall, was, it appeared, working in the interest of the honorable Sackville Scatterbrain, and against Squire Egan.
THE TROUBLE THAT CAME OF ANDY’SFAMOUS VISITS TO THE POST-OFFICE
This unexpected information threw him into a great rage, in the midst of which his eye caught sight of one of the letters Andy had taken from the post-office. This was addressed to Mr. O’Grady, and as it bore the Dublin postmark, Mr. Egan yielded to the temptation of makingthe letter gape at its extremities—this was before the days of the envelope—and so read its contents, which were highly uncomplimentary to the reader. As Mr. O’Grady was much in debt financially to Mr. Egan, the latter decided to put all the pressure of the law upon his one-time friend, and, to save trouble with the authorities, destroyed both of the stolen letters and pledged Andy to secrecy.
Neck-or-Nothing Hall was carefully guarded from intruders, and Mr. Egan’s agent, Mr. Murphy, greatly doubted if it would be possible to serve its master with a writ. Our friend Andy, however, unconsciously solved the difficulty.
Being sent over to the law-agent’s for the writ, and at the same time bidden to call at the apothecary’s for a prescription, he managed to mix up the two documents, leaving the writ, without its accompanying letter, at the apothecary’s, whence it was duly forwarded to Neck-or-Nothing Hall with certain medicines for Mr. O’Grady, who was then lying ill in bed. The law-agent’s letter, in its turn, was brought to Squire Egan by Andy, together with a blister which was meant for Mr. O’Grady. Imagine the recipient’s anger when he read the following missive and, on opening the package it was with, found a real and not a figurative blister:
“My dear Squire: I send you the blister for O’Grady as you insist on it; but I think you won’t find it easy to serve him with it.“Your obedient and obliged,“Murtough Murphy.”
The result in his case was a hurried ride to the law-agent’s and the administration to that devoted personage of a severe hiding. This was followed by a duel, in which, happily, neither combatant was hurt. Then, after the firing, satisfactory explanations were made. On Mr. O’Grady’s part, there was an almost simultaneous descent upon the unsuspecting apothecary, and the administration to the man of drugs and blisters of a terrible drubbing. Next a duel was arranged between the two old friends. Andy again distinguished himself.
HOW ANDY WAS FINALLY DISCHARGEDFROM THE SERVICE OF SQUIRE EGAN
When his employer’s second was not looking, Andy thought he would do Squire Egan a good turn by inserting bullets in his pistols before they were loaded. The intention of Andy was to give Mr. Egan the advantage of double bullets, but the result was that, when the weapons were loaded, Andy’s bullets lay between the powder and the touch-hole. Mr. O’Grady missed his aim twice, and Mr. Egan missed his fire. The cause being discovered, Andy was unmercifully chased and punished by the second, and ignominiously dismissed from Mr. Egan’s service.
By an accident, Andy shortly afterward was the means of driving a Mr. Furlong to Squire Egan’s place instead of to Squire O’Grady’s. Mr. Furlong was an agent from Dublin Castle, whose commission it was to aid the cause of the Honorable Mr. Scatterbrain. Of course, Andy, when he was told, on taking the place of the driver of the vehicle in which Mr. Furlong was traveling, to drive this important personage to “the squire’s,” at once jumped to the conclusion that by “the squire’s” was meant Mr. Egan’s. Here, before the mistake was found out by the victim, Mr. Furlong was unburdened of much important information. While this process was going on at Mr. Egan’s, a hue and cry was on foot at Mr. O’Grady’s, for the lost Mr. Furlong, and poor, blundering Andy was arrested and charged with murdering him.
ANOTHER OF ANDY’S BLUNDERS HASA HAPPY RESULT FOR HIS OLD MASTER
He was soon set free and taken into Mr. O’Grady’s service when Mr. Furlong had made his appearance before the owner of Neck-or-Nothing Hall. But a clever rascal named Larry Hogan divined by accident and the help of his native wit the secret of the stolen letters, and Andy was forced by terror to flee from Neck-or-Nothing Hall.
His subsequent adventures took him through the heat of the election, at which his ingenuity was displayed in unwittingly stopping up the mouth of the trumpet on which the Honorable Mr. Scatterbrain’s supporters relied to drown Mr. Egan’s speeches and those of his men. He thus did a good turn to his old master without knowing it, having merely imitated the action of the trumpeter, who had pretended to cork up the instrument before momentarily laying it aside.
When his fortunes seemed to be at their lowest ebb, Andy was discovered to be the rightful heir to the Scatterbrain title and estates, his claims to which were set forth in the second of the two letters stolen from the post-office, which had been destroyed by the squire without his reading it.
ANDY TURNS OUT TO BE OF GENTLEBIRTH AND COMES INTO HIS OWN
Soon afterward, through his old master’s influence, Andy was taken to London, and by dint of much effort remedied many of the defects of hisearly education. Then, marrying his cousin, Onoah, who had shared his mother’s cabin in the old days, and to save whom from a desperado Andy had, this time knowingly, braved great personal danger, our hero settled down to the enjoyment of a life such as he had never dreamed of in his humble days.
Once upon a time there lived in the South Country two brothers, whose business it was to keep sheep. No one lived on that plain but shepherds, who watched their sheep so carefully that no lamb was ever lost.
There was none among them more careful than these two brothers, one of whom was called Clutch, and the other Kind. Though brothers, no two men could be more unlike in disposition. Clutch thought of nothing but how to make some profit for himself, while Kind would have shared his last morsel with a hungry dog. This covetous mind made Clutch keep all his father’s sheep when the old man was dead, because he was the eldest brother, allowing Kind nothing but the place of a servant to help him in looking after them.
For some time the brothers lived peaceably in their father’s cottage, and kept their flock on the grassy plain, till new troubles arose through Clutch’s covetousness.
One midsummer it so happened that the traders praised the wool of Clutch’s flock more than all they found on the plain, and gave him the highest price for it. That was an unlucky thing for the sheep, for after that Clutch thought he could never get enough wool off them. At shearing time nobody clipped so close as Clutch, and, in spite of all Kind could do or say, he left the poor sheep as bare as if they had been shaven. Kind didn’t like these doings, but Clutch always tried to persuade him that close clipping was good for the sheep, and Kind always tried to make him think he had got all the wool. Still Clutch sold the wool, and stored up his profits, and one midsummer after another passed. The shepherds began to think him a rich man, and close clipping might have become the fashion but for a strange thing which happened to his flock.
The wool had grown well that summer. He had taken two crops off the sheep, and was thinking of a third, when first the lambs, and then the ewes, began to stray away; and, search as the brothers would, none of them was ever found again. The flocks grew smaller every day, and all the brothers could find out was that the closest clipped were the first to go.
Kind grew tired of watching, and Clutch lost his sleep with vexation. The other shepherds, to whom he had boasted of his wool and his profits, were not sorry to see pride having a fall. Still the flock melted away as the months wore on, and when the spring came back nothing remained with Clutch and Kind but three old ewes. The two brothers were watching these ewes one evening when Clutch said:
“Brother, there is wool to be had on their backs.”
“It is too little to keep them warm,” said Kind. “The east wind still blows sometimes.” But Clutch was off to the cottage for the bag and shears.
Kind was grieved to see his brother so covetous, and to divert his mind he looked up at the great hills. As he looked, three creatures like sheep scoured up a cleft in one of the hills, as fleet as any deer; and when Kind turned he saw his brother coming with the bag and shears, but not a single ewe was to be seen. Clutch’s first question was, what had become of them; and when Kind told him what he saw, the eldest brother scolded him for not watching better.
“Now we have not a single sheep,” said he, “and the other shepherds will hardly give us room among them at shearing time or harvest. If you like to come with me, we shall get service somewhere. I have heard my father say that there were great shepherds living in old times beyond the hills; let us go and see if they will take us for sheep-boys.”
Accordingly, next morning Clutch took his bag and shears, Kind took his crook and pipe, and away they went over the plain and up the hills. All who saw them thought that they had lost their senses, for no shepherd had gone there for a hundred years, and nothing was to be seen but wide moorlands, full of rugged rocks, and sloping up, it seemed, to the very sky.
By noon they came to the stony cleft up which the three old ewes had scoured like deer; but both were tired, and sat down to rest. As they sat there, there came a sound of music down the hills as if a thousand shepherds had been playing on their pipes. Clutch and Kind had never heard such music before, and, getting up, they followed the sound up the cleft, and over a wide heath, till at sunset they came to the hill-top,where they saw a flock of thousands of snow-white sheep feeding, while an old man sat in the midst of them playing merrily on his pipe.
“Good father,” said Kind, for his eldest brother hung back and was afraid, “tell us what land is this, and where we can find service; for my brother and I are shepherds, and can keep flocks from straying, though we have lost our own.”
“These are the hill pastures,” said the old man, “and I am the ancient shepherd. My flocks never stray, but I have employment for you. Which of you can shear best?”
“Good father,” said Clutch, taking courage, “I am the closest shearer in all the plain country; you would not find enough wool to make a thread on a sheep when I have done with it.”
“You are the man for my business,” said the old shepherd. “When the moon rises, I will call the flock you have to shear.”
The sun went down and the moon rose, and all the snow-white sheep laid themselves down behind him. Then up the hills came a troop of shaggy wolves, with hair so long that their eyes could scarcely be seen. Clutch would have fled for fear, but the wolves stopped, and the old man said:
“Rise and shear—this flock of mine have too much wool on them.”
Clutch had never shorn wolves before, yet he went forward bravely; but the first of the wolves showed its teeth, and all the rest raised such a howl that Clutch was glad to throw down his shears and run behind the old man for safety.
“Good father,” cried he, “I will shear sheep, but not wolves!”
“They must be shorn,” said the old man, “or you go back to the plains, and them after you; but whichever of you can shear them will get the whole flock.”
On hearing this, Kind caught up the shears Clutch had thrown away in his fright, and went boldly up to the nearest wolf. To his great surprise, the wild creature seemed to know him, and stood quietly to be shorn. Kind clipped neatly, but not too closely, and when he had done with one, another came forward, till the whole flock were shorn. Then the man said:
“You have done well; take the wool and the flock for your wages, return with them to the plain, and take this brother of yours for a boy to keep them.”
Kind did not much like keeping wolves, but before he could answer they had all changed into the very sheep which had strayed away, and the hair he had cut off was now a heap of fine and soft wool.
Clutch gathered it up in his bag, and went back to the plain with his brother. They keep the sheep together till this day, but Clutch has grown less greedy, and Kind alone uses the shears.