Nobody could listen to Ned M'Grane's laughter and refrain from laughing himself; it was so airy, so wholehearted, so pleasant, that it became, after the initial explosion, contagious, and if the forge were full of young fellows—as it generally was—the smith's hearty "Ha, ha, ha-ah!" set them all in tune, and there would be a chorus of laughter under that old roof fit to rouse the most despondent heart that ever made its owner believe he was in the blues, and that caused passers-by to stand for a moment on the road and listen, and they usually murmured, as they wagged their heads and walked on, "Ned must be after tellin' a good one now." It was, I think, the most cheering and exhilarating thing I have ever heard—the laughter of Ned M'Grane, the blacksmith of Balnagore.
No wonder, then, that we chimed in with Ned's more than usually vigorous "Ha, ha, ha-ah!" when Andy Murtagh was telling the smith about the "tallyvangin'," as he called it, that old Maire Lanigan, of the Red Bog, had given to Larry Boylan of our own townland, at the inquiry in Castletown, under the Old Age Pensions Act. The smith, as Andy proceeded with the story, had laid down the hammer on the anvil, had taken off his cap and wiped his perspiring brow with the back of his hand, and had laughed until we caught the contagion, and were obliged to joinhim, though as to the real cause of his merriment we were at the time ignorant.
"What else did she say?" he inquired, the tears which the laughter had called forth streaming down his dust-covered cheeks. "I'm sure Old Crusty was sweatin', an' divil mend him! What's the likes of him wantin' with a pension anyhow?"
"She said 'twas a ticket for the next world he ought to be lookin' for an' not an old age pension," said Andy, "an' when she had everyone laughin' at him she said somethin' like the way an old dog'd bark, an' went off with herself, an' whatever it was it made Larry twice as mad as all the tallyvangin' o' the tongue she gave him. He was ragin'."
"Ha, ha, ha-ah!" shouted Ned M'Grane again, and of course we had to join in, though we couldn't see that there was very much to laugh at in Andy's story after all.
When Ned had laughed in boisterous fashion for a minute or two he resumed his work, but every now and then he would give a short chuckle of delight to himself, as he made the sparks fly in showers from the burning iron upon which he was working.
"It's not the first time she set Old Crusty mad," he said at length, more to himself than to us, as he gave the finishing short, sharp taps to the article he was shaping, and cast it from him into the trough beside the anvil to cool. We were beginning to guess from this remark and from his behaviour while Andy was telling him of the encounter between the old pair at the inquiry, that there was a story in Ned's head which we had not yet heard, and as he proceeded tofill his pipe, after donning his coat, I ventured to say:
"Why, what did she do to him before to-day, Ned?"
"What didn't she do to him?" Ned asked, in return. "She made him the maddest man I ever saw in my life, an' as small as—as that bit o' tobacco. I don't wonder what she said an' she goin' off to-day left him vexed enough; it put him in mind o' when she made him a laughin'-stock for the whole county—that's what it did."
"When was that, Ned?" we all asked, in a breath. "Was it long ago?"
"'Twas long ago, sure enough, but not long enough to make Larry forget it," said Ned, as he teased the tobacco in the hollow of his hand, and then packed his pipe.
"Gi' me a match, some o' you, an' when I have a few draws o' this I'll tell you all about it."
Everybody fumbled in all his pockets for matches, and soon Ned had a supply sufficient to last for a week. He carefully lighted his pipe, took a few pulls, and then seated himself on a box in which there had been horse-shoe nails—the only easy-chair the forge contained.
"Let me see," he said, as he took the pipe from his mouth for a minute and gazed intently into the bowl, as if his inspiration lay therein. "It's nearer to thirty years ago than it is to twenty, an' the oldest o' you here was only toddlin' from the fire to the dresser an' back again. I was a lump of a gossoon at the time, an' I remember it as well as yesterday, an' good reason I have to remember it, because everyman, woman, an' child in the country was talkin' about it, an' laughin' at Larry, as well they might.
"Maire Lanigan, you must know, was a bigger play-actor of a woman when she was younger than she is now. She was as tricky as a fox, an' no one could match her in every kind o' cleverness, though you'd think to look at her that she was only a gom. She an' old Charley the husband—God be good to him!—had that little farm o' the Lynches at that time, an' were middlin' well off, havin' neither chick nor child to bother about. They used to rear calves an' pigs an' sell them at good prices, but the dickens a one o' them ever Charley sold, because he was too shy an' quiet an' easy-goin' always. Maire is the one that could thrash out a bargain an' haggle an' wrangle an' dispute until she'd have the whole fair lookin' at her an' laughin' at her; an' there wasn't a jobber ever came into the fair o' Castletown but knew her as well as they knew a good beast or a bad one.
"Well, one May fair—the biggest fair that ever was in Castletown, the old people 'll tell you—Charley an' Maire had a fine lump of a calf to sell that they reared themselves from he was calved, an' they brought him out brave an' early in the mornin' to get rid of him, if they could come across a buyer. They weren't long in the fair, anyway, when who comes up to them but Mickey Flanagan—God rest him!—Jack the Jobber's father, an' begins to make the bargain with Maire. After a lot o' disputin' an' squabblin' an' dividin' o' this crown an' that half-crown an' a lot o' shoutin' on Maire's part, Mickey bought the calf, an' says he:
"'Meet me at Kennedy's, below near the railway, at three o'clock, an' I'll pay you, along with the rest.'
"'No, but you'll pay me this minute,' says Maire, 'or you'll not get the calf at all. I have my rent to pay at twelve o'clock, an' if you don't gi' me the money now I'll have to sell him to some one that will.'
"Mickey Flanagan saw that the calf was a good one, so he paid for it at once, because he was afraid that if he made any delay Maire might sell to some other jobber. When all was settled says he:
"'Drive him down an' put him into Kennedy's yard, an' tell the gossoon to keep an eye to him till I go down myself with a few more.'
"He forgot with the hurry he was in to mark the calf, an' away he went. Whatever divilment put it into Maire's head, instead o' bringin' the calf to Kennedy's yard what did she do only go stravagle it off to the far end o' the town, an' made Charley go with her an' say nothin'—the poor man was afraid of his life of her always—an', by the powers, if she didn't sell the calf again in less than half an hour to a jobber from the North of Ireland, who sent it off on the eleven o'clock train, an' paid Maire just the same amount she was after gettin' from Mickey Flanagan.
"Maire made away home as fast as she could make Charley step out, an' she laughin' to herself at the way she done Mickey Flanagan, an' she was just after puttin' the pan on the fire with a bit o' meat on it that she brought home, when who comes up to the door but my brave Mickey himself, an' he in a tearin' temper.
"'Where's my calf?' he shouted, as soon as he sawMaire in the middle o' the floor.
"'What do I know where he is?' answered Maire, just as loud, an' a lot sharper, 'didn't I sell him to you? Do you think I ought to stay in the town all day watchin' him for you, an' that poor unfortunate man there, that was up out of his bed at four o'clock this mornin', nearly fallin' out of his standin' with the hunger. Do you think I'm a fool, Mickey Flanagan? I sold you the calf, an' if you can't find him now, you needn't blame anyone but yourself.'
"'You're a darin' woman, that's what y'are,' says Mickey, the eyes nearly jumpin' out of his head with madness, 'an' if you don't tell me where the calf is, or give me back my money, I'll make you remember this day as long as you live.'
"'Faith, if you don't leave that, quick, an' quit your bargin',' cried Maire, as she caught hold o' the pan on the fire, 'I'll make you remember it longer than you live, because I'll give you a taste o' what the Old Boy 'll be givin' you yet for annoyin' an' tryin' to cheat an honest, decent woman! G'long! you cripplin' old rogue! or I'll scald the tongue in your head!'
"An' Mickey had to fly for his life, but he found out, some way or other, about the sellin' o' the calf a second time, an' what do you think but he sends a summons to Maire for the Quarter Sessions in Castletown, chargin' her with defraudin' him out o' the price o' the calf.
"Well, here's where Larry Boylan comes in. There wasn't many lawyers or solicitors in the country places at that time—an' sure, maybe we were as welloff without them—but knowledgeable men used to give their opinion about points o' the law, an' used to settle disputes an' the like, an' any o' them that was graspin' or miserly used to charge somethin' for their advice—a couple o' rolls o' butter, or a sack o' praties, or maybe a few shillin's.
"Larry Boylan set up for bein' a knowledgeable man, not because he was extra wise, but because he wanted to make somethin' out of his poorer neighbours whenever he could get the chance.
"To Larry Maire went with the summons, an' asked what 'd be the best thing for her to do, an' if there was any chance of her beatin' Flanagan in the law.
"Larry considered, an' considered, an' pretended to be very wise, an' looked very solemn, an' asked Maire a lot o' questions that he knew the answer to long before that, an' at last says he:
"'Mrs. Lanigan,' says he, 'you're a woman I have a great respect for, an' your husband is one o' the decintest men in the parish, an' on that account,' says he, 'I'll bring all my long experience into the case an' do the best I can for you, an' it isn't for everyone I'd do it, an' it isn't in every case I'd give the advice I'm goin' to give now. But I want to say a word first. On account of it bein' a very delicate case, an' one that everybody is lookin' forward to, an' because my reputation 'll suffer if it goes against us, I'll have to charge you a fee, an' that fee 'll have to be a pound. Are you willin' to pay it, ma'am?' says Larry.
"'Well, indeed an' I am an' welcome, Mister Boylan,' says Maire, 'I'll give the pound, an' twopound, if you only mention it, as soon as the case is over. Make your mind easy on that point, Mister Boylan.'
"'Well, ma'am,' says Larry, 'the only way you can get the upper hand o' Mickey Flanagan is by makin' out you're a little bit gone in the head, an' if you do what I tell you there isn't a judge or a jury or a lawyer in Ireland can prove that you're responsible for the price o' the calf, or for anythin' that took place the day o' the fair.'
"'Musha, more power to you, Mister Boylan,' says Maire.
"'What I want you to do is this,' says Larry; 'when the court day comes just let your hair hang down about your face an' shoulders, an' wear your cloak upside down on you, an' be laughin' an' puttin' out your tongue at everyone you meet. An' when you go into the court, no matter who asks you a question, just laugh and put out your tongue, an' say "Bow-wow" like a dog. Will you do that?' says he.
"'Indeed, an' I will, Mister Boylan,' says Maire, as thankful as you please. 'Wait till you see but I'll do it better than you expect. May God bless you an' prosper you, an' lengthen your days; you're the clever, knowledgeable man!'
"An' off she went in the best o' humour, an' she blessin' Larry all the time.
"Well, at any rate the Quarter Sessions came at long last, an' there was hardly a man, woman, or child in the country but was in the town that day, watchin' an' waitin' for the case against Maire Lanigan, an' when the time for the case came on thecourthouse was packed with people. Mickey Flanagan had a lawyer down from Dublin, an' everyone was sure he'd win the case, because Maire had no one at all to speak for her.
"When the case was brought on, an' when Maire stepped up to be examined, you'd think 'twas a circus or somethin' was in the courthouse with the way the people laughed, an' the old judge himself had to laugh, too, when he saw the get-up of her. Everyone was laughin' only Mickey Flanagan an' his lawyer.
"Maire's old grey, greasy-lookin' hair was all hangin' down about her face, an' there was little red an' yalla ribbons tied on it here an' there, like what you'd see on girshas o' ten or twelve; an' her cloak was turned inside out an' she was wearin' it upside down, with the tail of it round her shoulders an' the hood streelin' at her heels; an' there she was, grinnin' an' caperin', an' puttin' out her tongue at everyone. I never saw anythin' like her in my life, an' I laughed after the judge commanded silence. I thought he'd tell some one to put me out.
"The lawyer from Dublin got up to question Maire, an' he fixed his specs on him, an' frowned an' put on a grand air, an' says he:
"'Are you the person who sold a calf to this man, my client, Michael Flanagan?'
"Maire grinned at him, an' put out her tongue, an' all the answer she gave him was:
"'Bow-wow!'
"You could hear the laughin' o' the people all over the town, but the judge said in a loud voice—though I think he was laughin' to himself—that he'd clear outthe court if there was any more noise, an' the lawyer put a blacker frown on him, an' says he:
"'Remember, madam,' says he, 'that you're in her Majesty's Court o' Justice, an' give me a straightforward, honest answer, or learn the consequences. Did you, or did you not, sell a calf to this man?'
"'Bow-wow,' says Maire again, an' she puttin' out her tongue at him, an' you'd think she didn't know a word he was sayin'. Everyone laughed again, except Mickey an' his lawyer, an' the judge gave a pull to his wig an' snuffled, an' says he:
"'This woman is a fool! Put her down,' says he; 'I dismiss the case. It's only makin' a humbug o' the court.'
"'She has it,' says Larry Boylan to my father—God rest him!—an' out we all went to the street after Maire, an' sure everyone in the whole place was round her, laughin' an' talkin' an' goin' on.
"Larry wanted to show himself off as the great man o' the day, an' says he, goin' over an' shakin' Maire's hand:
"'You done it the best I ever saw! There's not the beatin' o' you on Ireland's ground. Have you the pound, Mrs. Lanigan?' says he, in a lower tone o' voice, but plenty of us heard him all the same.
"Maire shook his hand, an' Larry was feelin' proud of himself, when she just looked him straight in the face, an' grinned like a monkey an' put out her tongue down to her chin, an' says she, at the top of her voice:
"'Bow-wow, Larry Boylan! Bow-wow!'
"An' with that she made a run through the crowd, an' away home with her, an' Charley after her as fastas he could trot, an' the poor man ashamed of his life. If ever any man got laughed at that man was Larry Boylan. He couldn't go out anywhere, to fair or market or meetin' for long an' long after, but every gossoon in the country'd shout 'Bow-wow' at him till they'd have him ragin'. An' that's what old Maire said to him to-day, that Andy Murtagh was tellin' us about, an' it's thinkin' o' the law case made Larry so mad."
And as Ned M'Grane closed the door of the forge after we had left we heard him laugh softly to himself.
The forge in Balnagore was a sort of library of reference to all the young fellows of the district. No matter what information was sought for regarding events of importance that had occurred in Ireland during the past couple of hundred years (we had not much access to books down there) the one and only thought of the seeker after knowledge was to repair at once, or as soon as his work was finished, to the smithy in which Ned M'Grane reigned, and to ask the same Ned a few questions on the matter which puzzled himself; and Ned, to his credit let me say it, was never, in my recollection, found wanting on any such occasion. His mind was a well-stocked storehouse of local and national history, as well as of humour, which he was ever willing to impart to "the risin' generation," as he called us.
He could remember every droll occurrence that had taken place in the parish for at least forty years, and every stirring event of national importance that had taken place in the country during the same period, and along with all this he had, in his young days, set himself the task of acquiring knowledge of events of an earlier period from the people who were old when he was a boy, so that when I state that he could bring us back over the happenings of a couple of hundred years I do not by any means overstep the mark. He often told us that in his young days he had a veritable thirstfor old stories and for knowledge of every kind, and he used to make a round of the neighbours' houses night after night to hear the tales the old people told about the "ould times" and the "good people," and of the far-off days in an Ireland that was free. And if the news was conveyed to him that a "poor scholar" was staying at any farmer's house within a radius of seven miles, he used tramp across the country to hear the learned man talk about his travels, and to hear him read out of the books which he carried with him on his journeys.
"From all the goin' about I used to have, an' the way I used to be askin' questions o' the old people, an' the way I used to have the wits worried out o' Master Sweeney o' Kilfane," said Ned to us more than once, "what do you think but some o' the playboys put the nick-name o' 'the poor scholar' on myself, an' every one o' the youngsters used to be jibin' at me about it. I didn't care tuppence as long as I was a gossoon, but it was stickin' so tight to me an' I growin' up a big lad that I gave over my stravagin' a good bit, an' they forgot it after a while. I didn't mind at that time, because the old people were gettin' feeble an' bothered, an' a lot of them dyin' away, too, an' them that came after them didn't care a wisp o' straw for the stories or anythin' only cattle, an' money, an' land. An' signs on it, they're all old men an' women at fifty, with their worryin' over grass land and con-acres, an' calves, an' things you'd think they could bring to the grave with them. God be with the old times! when the people knew somethin' about Ireland, an' had life an' spirit in them, an' weren't always breakin' their necksrunnin' after the world, an' never catchin' up with it, like them we see round us every day. Aye! God be with the old times, when it's not backbitin' each other they'd be round the fire at night, or makin' up law cases against each other. I wish it was the old times again!"
I reproduce the above speech of Ned's, which was delivered partly to us and partly to himself many a time when the retrospective mood held possession of him—I reproduce it, I say, to show that Ned M'Grane's outlook on life was neither narrow nor sordid, but that there was in his mind and heart a great deal of the old-world philosophy of life, viz., that it was better to be rich intellectually than materially; that was Ned's firm opinion and belief, and he was never done impressing upon us the foolishness of seeking after wealth and worldly emoluments, and of neglecting at the same time to enrich and beautify the mind with the lore of the years gone by. Whether he was right or wrong I leave to my readers to decide.
There were in the forge, now and then, what I may call "impromptu" evenings—that is, there were times when Ned, reminded of past episodes through hearing some name casually mentioned in our conversation, drew at random from his well-filled storehouse of stories one of the delightfully droll occurrences which he himself remembered to have happened in the neighbourhood long years before, and told it to us while he worked, without calling upon any of the aids, such as a well-filled pipe and a comfortable seat, which he called into requisition when relating one of the longer tales to which he treated us now and then.On such occasions, too, he often gave out riddles to us that set our brains hard at work, and sang for us some of the fine songs he had learned from the old people and from the "poor scholars" in the happy evenings of the past, which he designated the "old times."
I remember one of those impromptu evenings in particular, because I thought, and think so still, that the story he told us about Johnnie Finnegan's "Degree" was as good as I had ever heard. He had just finished singing a favourite song of ours about a young Wexfordman who escaped from the Yeos in '98, and we were bestowing upon him our hearty praise and applause, when an old grumpy farmer from Knockbride, called Johnnie Finnegan, but who was best known by the nick-name of "Johnnie the Doctor," came to the forge door and asked Ned to tighten one of the hind shoes on his mare, as he was afraid 'twould fall off before he should reach home. Ned performed the task, and when he returned to the work which he had in hand before Johnnie appeared upon the scene, some of us asked him the reason why "Johnnie the Doctor" was the name everybody had for Johnnie Finnegan.
"Did I never tell you how Johnnie got his degree?" asked Ned, with a merry twinkle in his eye.
"No, you never told us that, Ned; but now's the time for it," a couple of us answered, and the eager faces of the others signified their whole-hearted approval of our suggestion.
"Troth, you'll hear it, boys, an' welcome," said Ned, as he went on with his work. "An' it doesn'ttake long in the tellin', though if I told it to you while Johnnie was here you'd see him in a flarin' fine temper an' the dickens a nail I'd ever get the chance o' drivin' in a shoe, or a sock I'd put on a plough for Johnnie again, because you might as well roll him in a heap o' nettles an' his clothes tore, as mention 'Johnnie the Doctor' an' he listenin'.
"The way it was is this. Old Jimmy Finnegan, his father, was as poor as a rat in an empty barn, an' so were all his people before him, but one day—Johnnie was the only child, an' he was no more than nine years old at the time—up comes a postman from Castletown to Jimmy Finnegan's and hands in a letter, an' when they got Master Sweeney up to read it, they found out that it was from a lawyer in America to say that a brother o' Jimmy's—Phil Finnegan—was after dyin'—a rich man—in Boston, an' that he left all his money to Jimmy, an' the letter went on to say that after the cost o' settlin' up the will 'd be took out of it, the legacy'd amount to somethin' like four thousand pounds.
"They could hardly believe the story was true, because they were nearly on the road for rent, but sure enough a cheque came to Jimmy for that whole four thousand pounds in a couple o' months after that. Well, you never saw anythin' in your life like the way Jimmy and the wife made fools o' themselves. They began to try to talk grand, an' dressed themselves up like gentry, an' bought a car like Father Fagan's, an' wouldn't talk to the people that knew them all their lives, an' that often gave them a helpin' hand when they wanted it an' they in debt.
"Everyone, of course, was laughin' at them, an' some o' the playboys used to salute Jimmy for fun when they'd meet him on the road, an' Jimmy used to think they were in earnest, an' he used to put up his hand to his hat, the same as Father Fagan 'd do, an' the lads puttin' out their tongues at him behind his back. He wouldn't let Johnnie go to school the same as other gossoons, but paid Master Sweeney ten pound a year to come up an' teach him at the house, an' sure if the Master—God rest him—was alive still an' goin' up to teach Johnnie every day since, he wouldn't be a bit better nor he was when the poor Master gave him up in despair; because Johnnie was as thick as the post of a gate, every day ever, an' he's that yet.
"Well what do you think but when Johnnie was a big, soft lump of a lad of seventeen or eighteen, didn't Jimmy bring him over to old Doctor Dempsey that lived beyond near the chapel o' Kilfane, an' asked him to make a doctor o' the bucko, an' offered the doctor a fee o' so much a year while Johnnie 'd be learnin' the trade. Doctor Dempsey knew be the look o' the lad that he'd never be a doctor as long as there was a bill on a crow, but he was hard up for money at the time, an' didn't he take Johnnie; an' old Jimmy went home as proud as a peacock an' he boastin' an' blowin' out of him to everybody that the next doctor for the district 'd be no other than 'Doctor John Finnegan.' He used to drive over on the car every mornin' to Doctor Dempsey's an' call for him again in the evenin', an' he havin' him dressed up like a young lord or somethin'. An' sure the whole country was laughin' at them more than ever.
"Johnnie was with Doctor Dempsey for a few years, anyway, an' sure he knew as much then as he did the first day; the doctor used to bring him about the country with him on some of his visits, to give him experience, he used to tell Jimmy, but I think 'twas mostly for holdin' the horse he had him.
"One day they went to see a rich old lady that lived beyond in Moylough, an' when Doctor Dempsey was after lookin' at her tongue for awhile, an' feelin' her pulse, says he:
"'You ate oranges, ma'am,' says he.
"'I did then, sure enough, doctor,' says she.
"'Well, don't eat them again,' says he, 'an' you'll be in the best o' health.'
"Johnnie was listenin', an' his mouth opened wide with wonder, an' when they were comin' home says he to Doctor Dempsey:
"'How did you know, sir,' says he, 'that Miss Hamilton was after eatin' oranges?'
"'Oh, 'twas easy enough to know that, John,' says the doctor to him, 'because,' says he, 'when I was feelin' her pulse I looked under the bed, an' I saw the heap o' skins.'
"Johnnie kep' wonderin' all the way home at the cleverness o' the doctor, an' wonderin', too, if he'd ever get a case all to himself, so that he could show his father an' mother an' the whole country how clever he was.
"Well, anyway, in a couple o' weeks after that a gossoon came up to Doctor Dempsey's one mornin' to tell him that old Peadar Mullen o' the Bog was bad with the pains, an' wanted him to call over an' seehim. Peadar used to get pains about every fortnight, an' he was on the point o' dyin' with them—accordin' to his own opinion—about twenty times, an' he had the poor old doctor plagued sendin' for him every other week. Doctor Dempsey was a big-hearted sort of a man that was never hard on the poor, an' Peadar was that cranky an' conceited that he thought the doctor ought to be always runnin' over to see him, no matter about anyone else in the district. That was the sort o' Peadar.
"The doctor wasn't on for goin' near him this day, anyway, an' what do you think but he sends Johnnie, an' never said a word to him about what complaint Peadar had or anythin' only left him to find out for himself. Johnnie starts off an' the doctor's boy along with him on the car, an' it's him that was proud to think that he had a case all to himself at last, an' that he could be boastin' about it to his father an' mother that evenin' when he'd go home.
"They went down the old boreen to Peadar's house—'twas a long way in in the bog by itself, an' not a soul he had livin' with him—an' when they got over to it, Johnnie left the servant boy mindin' the horse, an' in he goes, an' sure dickens a much he could see with all the smoke that was in the house. Old Peadar was lyin' in bed in the room, an' he groanin' an' moanin' as hard as he could when he heard the doctor's car comin', because Doctor Dempsey used to give him a couple o' shillin's now an' again.
"'Doctor Dempsey can't come to-day, my good man,' says Johnnie, when he went into the room, an' he lookin' very grand an' severe an' solemn. 'He'snot extra well, an' he sent me in his place to see what's the matter with you.'
"'Musha, may God bless your honour for comin', Doctor Finnegan,' says Peadar, thinkin' he'd knock a few shillin's out o' Johnnie, 'an' sure maybe he sent a gentleman every bit as good as himself.'
"Johnnie didn't know what to do, but he asked Peadar to put out his tongue, an' then he felt his pulse, an' all the time he was tryin' to get a peep under the bed, the same as he saw the doctor doin' with the lady that was after eatin' the oranges. At long last he spied the straddle an' winkers belongin' to old Peadar's ass, an' says he, shakin' his head an' lookin' at Peadar as much as to say, 'You're done for':
"'My good man,' says he, 'my good man, you ate an ass!'
"'What's that you're after sayin'?' says Peadar, lettin' a shout out o' him, an' he jumpin' up out o' the bed. 'What's that you're after sayin'?'
"'You—ate—an—ass,' says Johnnie, again, an' he shakin', when he saw the way Peadar made a grab at the big crookey stick that was lyin' across the bed.
"'G'long! you upstartin' imp o' the divil,' says Peadar, with a roar, an' he jumpin' out o' the bed. 'Is it a son o' Shameen Finnegan's to come into my own house an' tell me I'm a cannaball? I'll soon give you a chance o' curin' yourself instead o' comin' in to make a fool o' me an' I lyin' helpless on my bed with the pains! There's a doctor's degree for you!' an' old Peadar drew a whack o' the stick at Johnnie that made him roar an' run for the door as fast as his legs 'd carry him.
"Out went Peadar after him an' not a fligget on him only his shirt an' breeches, an' across the bog with them as hard as they could run until Johnnie tripped an' fell, an' old Peadar on top of him, into a dry drain. Peadar began flailin' him, an' with every thump o' the stick he'd give to poor Johnnie he'd shout, 'There's a doctor's degree for you! There's a doctor's degree for you!' an' only for Doctor Dempsey's boy tied the horse to a bush an' came runnin' over, it's Johnnie that 'd be bad with the pains, an' not Peadar.
"He was bad enough, in troth, when they brought him home, an' he didn't stir out o' the house for three months, but everyone said 'twas shame was on him more than the pains after Peadar's stick. That was the end of his doctorin' anyway; he never went back to Doctor Dempsey, an' the flailin' he got in the bog knocked a lot o' the nonsense out o' him an' put sense in its place, because he gave up the foolish ways, an' settled down to workin' and lookin' after the bit o' land old Jimmy was after buyin'. But from that day to this if you wanted to set him tearin' mad all you'd have to say is 'doctor,' and he'd roar like a ragin' bull.
"An' that's the way Johnnie Finnegan got his 'doctor's degree' from Peadar Mullen o' the Bog."
'Twas the evening of the Christmas Fair of Castletown, and the forge in Balnagore was almost full of men and boys. A fine, frosty night it promised to be, and the roads getting every moment more slippery, some of the men who had made long journeys were waiting for their turn to get their horses' shoes sharpened, as a precaution against accidents. The majority, though, of those who stood or sat around the fire, where Ned M'Grane was working at his best, were the young fellows of the neighbourhood, who, as usual, had dropped in to smoke or chat, and mayhap, if their lucky star happened to be in the ascendant, to hear one of his entertaining stories from Ned o' the Forge.
Well, one by one those who had far to travel were attended to and took their departure and then, with a big sigh of relief, Ned threw down the hammer, drew on his coat and took his pipe from his pocket.
"What sort was the fair, boys?" he asked, when the first wreath of smoke from his pipe had ascended towards the ceiling.
"'Twas good, Ned," answered Joe Clinton; "but, indeed, everybody was sayin' on the way home that Castletown Christmas Fair is nothin' now to what it used to be."
"I remember the time," said Ned, "when thewhole town, from where the new Post Office is now to the railway gates, used to be so full o' people an' cattle an' trick-o'-the-loops an' everythin', that you'd have to fight your way through them."
"I heard my father sayin' to James Clancy an' we waitin' to be paid by the jobber," said Bartle Nolan, "that bacon isn't as dear now as the day Jimmy the Thrick doubled the grain of oats on the Belfast jobber, an' they were laughin' over it. What was that about, Ned?"
We became as mute as mice after this last question of Bartle's, and Ned M'Grane was silent also for a moment or two. Then when we saw him folding his arms and leaning back against the bellows we knew that a story was coming, and that Bartle had played a trump card.
"It's many's the trick Jimmy played in his day," said Ned, with a smile, "but the doublin' o' the grain of oats was one of his best, an' one that brought him a bit o' money, too. The way it happened was this:
"It was a plan o' Jimmy's sometimes at fairs an' markets to let on that he was a bit of an amadán, an' he'd talk so simple an' queer an' foolish that strange jobbers that didn't know him or his ways used to take great delight in talkin' to him, an' havin' a laugh at him, an' in the heel o' the hunt Jimmy used to knock out the best penny in the fair for whatever he'd be sellin'. But he was caught nappin' one day, an' in revenge for that he doubled the grain of oats.
"He was at the Christmas Fair o' Castletown (it's well over twenty year ago now) tryin' to sell two pigs—a white one an' a black one—an', of course, asusual, he was playin' the fool an' crackin' jokes with every jobber that came the way, an' seemed in no hurry to sell the pigs at all. At last up comes a quiet, tidy bit of a man, an' says he, nice an' easy, an' seemin' to care little whether he got an answer or not:
"'What do you want for the white pig there along with the black one?' says he.
"'Troth then, the sorra much, sir,' says Jimmy; 'all I'm askin' is three pound.'
"'All right, you can have that,' says the jobber, as quick as you please, an' he pullin' out his knife, an before Jimmy had time to say a word the two pigs were marked as plain as if there was a label on them.
"'Take your time there, my good man,' says Jimmy, throwin' off his fool's face, when he saw the jobber walkin' away, 'take your time there,' says he, 'you're only after buyin' the white pig.'
"'Oh, I beg your pardon,' says the jobber, mighty polite, 'I'm after buyin' the white pigalong with the black onefor three pounds. A bargain is a bargain. Am I right or wrong?' says he to Bartle Nolan's father an' a few more o' the neighbours that were listenin' to the whole thing.
"There wasn't a man among them could deny that he was after buyin' the two pigs, an' they told Jimmy that he might as well give in at once, that the bargain was made, an' that the law 'd be again him if he brought the jobber into court. So my brave Jimmy had to leave his two darlin' pigs go for next to nothin', an' see himself made a fool of in real earnest, but he swore that if it was to be in twenty years he'd have revenge on the boyo from Belfast.
"Well, a year went by and the big Christmas Fair came round again, an' Jimmy had two fine pigs to sell, the same as usual, for he was a great man for the pigs. He was about an hour in the fair when who does he see comin' towards him but the same Belfast jobber that diddled him the year before. Jimmy never pretended he knew him at all, an' began leerin' an' lookin' more like a fool than he looked that day twelvemonths. The jobber let on he didn't know Jimmy either, an', says he, very nice an' quiet:
"'What do you want for the pigs, my good man?'
"'Och, the sorra much then, sir,' says Jimmy, an' the amadán's laugh with him. 'All I ask is one grain of oats, only the doublin' of it to be left to myself for half an hour.'
"The jobber laughed, an' winked at the men standin' round; an' says he, 'I'll take them at the price, an' maybe I'd give you a pound or two for yourself as well, because you're a decent-lookin' man. The sorra much doublin' you can do on a grain of oats in half an hour,' says he.
"'Maybe not, maybe not,' says Jimmy, an' a twinkle in his eye; 'but we'll see,' says he.
"'Bring them to the railway station,' says the jobber, an' he markin' the pigs, 'an' I'll pay you along with the rest at one o'clock.' An' off he went, chucklin' an' laughin' to himself.
"Well, there was a big crowd waitin' in a shed in the railway yard to be paid at one o'clock, an' my brave Jimmy was there, movin' about among the neighbours, tellin' them he was goin' to have his revenge on the Belfast jobber, an' they to be all near by to hear an' see the fun.
"The jobber came at last an' emptied out a big pile o' notes an' gold an' silver on to his white overcoat, an' himself an' his partner began payin' away as fast as they could hand out the money. Jimmy was kept till the last, but the neighbours all waited because they knew that my boyo was up to some mischief or other. Anyway, when all was paid that was due the jobber turned round an' called over Jimmy, an' says he:
"'Here's a man that sold me two fine pigs to-day for a grain o' corn, an' all he asked was that he might be let double it for half-an-hour, an' that that 'd be the price o' the pigs. Start now, my good man, an' double your grain of oats, because the train 'll be goin' in forty minutes, an' there's no time to lose.'
"The people crowded in closer an' cocked their ears. Jimmy walked in quietly in front o' them an' faced the jobber. There was no sign o' the amadán on him by this time, but there was a bit of a smile comin' an' goin' round his mouth, an' a sparkle in his eye.
"'A grain an' a grain,' says he, 'that's two grains, four grains, eight grains, sixteen grains, thirty-two grains—that's a pinch. A pinch an' a pinch, that's two pinches, four pinches, eight pinches, sixteen pinches, thirty-two pinches—that's a fistful.'
"'A fine price for two pigs,' says the jobber. An' the people round about began to laugh, but Jimmy never let on he heard them, and off he started again:
"'A fistful an' a fistful, that's two fistfuls, four fistfuls, eight fistfuls, sixteen fistfuls, thirty-two fistfuls—that's a sheaf. A sheaf an' a sheaf, that's two sheaves, four sheaves, eight sheaves, sixteen sheaves, thirty-two sheaves—that's a stook.'
"'A fine big one 'twould be,' says the jobber, 'bigger nor ever I saw in a cornfield.' And he began to laugh an' to jingle money in his pocket. Jimmy made him no answer.
"'A stook an' a stook,' says he, 'that's two stooks, four stooks, eight stooks, sixteen stooks, thirty-two stooks—that's a stack.'
"Faith, the neighbours began to give up grinnin' at Jimmy, an' they gathered in closer to him, an' nodded their heads at one another, but the sorra word they had to say; an' the smile was fadin' out o' the jobber's face. Jimmy kept on countin':
"'A stack an' a stack, that's two stacks, four stacks, eight stacks, sixteen stacks, thirty-two stacks—that's a haggard.'
"The jobber began to look uneasy, but Jimmy saw nothin' or nobody.
"'A haggard an' a haggard,' says he, 'that's two haggards, four haggards, eight haggards, sixteen haggards—that's a townland.'
"You could hear the people breathin', an' the jobber was gettin' pale, but Jimmy kept on:
"'A townland an' a townland, that's two townlands, four townlands, eight townlands, sixteen townlands, thirty-two townlands—that's a barony.'
"'A barony——'
"'Eh! hold on, my good man,' says the jobber, 'I'm afraid I'll be late for my train. I was only jokin'. I'll give you five pound apiece for the pigs.'
"'The time isn't half up yet,' says Jimmy, 'stay where you are,' an' on he went.
"'A barony an' a barony, that's two baronies, fourbaronies, eight baronies, sixteen baronies, thirty-two baronies—that's a county.'
"'Listen here!' says the jobber; but Jimmy wouldn't listen.
"'A county an' a county, that's two counties, four counties, eight counties, sixteen counties, thirty-two counties—that's Ireland!' says Jimmy, with a shout, an' he gave the jobber a slap on the back that made him jump.
"'You owe me all the oats in Ireland, my fine clever fellow, an' not more than half the time's up yet. If I kep' on countin' it's the oats o' the whole world you'd have to be givin' me at the end of half an hour. You met a fool last year, but he isn't at all, at all as soft as he looks. When are you goin' to pay me?'
"The poor jobber was shakin' an' shiverin' like a man in a fit. He was afraid, I think, that the neighbours 'd back up Jimmy, an' give him a taste o' their sticks if he failed to pay.
"'Oh, sir!' says he, 'don't be too hard on me. Sure I haven't the price of one haggard let alone all the haggards in Ireland. There's all I have in the world—fifty pound—an' you can have it an' welcome for your two pigs.'
"'Well,' says Jimmy, 'as it's Christmas times an' I'm a soft-hearted man, I'll let you off easier than you deserve. Give me a twenty pound note, an' I'll forget that you owe me the rest!'
"The jobber was glad to get off so cheap, an' from that day to this he was never seen at the fair o' Castletown.
"An' that's how Jimmy the Thrick doubled the grain of oats."
Adapted from the Irish of "An Seabhac" in "An Baile Seo 'Gainn-ne."
"Bad cess to it for tay," said Ned M'Grane, as he came into the forge, wiping his lips after his evening meal, in which the much-abused beverage in question had been, and always was, a potent factor. "The people were healthier an' hardier, an' the country was better off when the good wholesome food was goin' an' there was little talk o' tay. Now we can't do without it for more than half-a-day, bad cess to it!"
He took a piece of tobacco from his capacious vest pocket and proceeded to fill his pipe, while we eagerly and anxiously scanned his face in the hope of reading there indications that would lead us to expect a story, for we always knew by a close but seemingly careless scrutiny of Ned's face whether we might venture to suggest his drawing upon that wonderful store of yarns for the possession of which he was famous throughout the length and breadth of the three parishes.
"I wonder how was it people took to the tay at all at first," said Bartle Nolan, carelessly, as he fingered a couple of horse-shoe nails and looked thoughtfully away into the shadows; "you'd think they were wiseenough in them times to know what was good for them."
It was a fine bait, that innocent remark of Bartle's, and we waited with drawn breath to see what its result would be on Ned.
"Well," said the latter, as he teased the tobacco between his fingers, while a far-away look that was hopeful came over his face and into his eyes, "there was many a reason, Bartle. The praties began to get bad, an' bad seasons left the meal for the stirabout sour an' heavy an' ugly, an' then people goin' to Dublin an' places like that began to get notions, an' the women began to think they weren't able for the strong food an' that tay would put more heart in them. But maybe the men, or most o' them, were like Denis M'Cann—God be good to him!—an' took the tay because they couldn't stand the other thing any longer."
"Is it Denis o' the Hill that died last year?" said Joe Clinton, his voice trembling with eagerness, and before Bartle Nolan could give us a warning sign four or five of us had blurted out:
"What about Denis, Ned?"
"The very man," said Ned, in reply to Joe's question, and apparently paying no attention to us. "It wasn't any wonder poor Denis took to the tay after all the heart-scald he got from the stirabout—not a wonder in the world."
We sat silent, hardly daring to breathe.
"When I was a gossoon about the size o' Jimmy Tully there, in all the three parishes there wasn't a harder-workin' family than the M'Canns, an' the bestwoman in the barony was Peg M'Cann herself. She was a good wife to Denis an' a good mother to Patsy an' Molly an' Nell, an' she never stopped workin' from daylight till dark; but there was one thing Denis was always grumblin' about, an' that was the stirabout. Poor Peg, no matter how many warnin's or threats or reminders she got, could never think o' puttin' salt on the stirabout, an' on that account there never came a mornin' or a night—except once in a blue moon now an' again when Peg 'd think o' the salt—that there wasn't a shindy in the house over the same thing, an' no amount o' jawin' an' ragin' an' warnin' from Denis could make poor Peg think o' puttin' salt in the pot every time she started to make the stirabout. An' whenever a thing wasn't to anybody's likin' from one end o' the parish to the other end the word was 'That's like Denis McCann's stirabout.'
"Well, everythin' comes to an end some day or other, an' Peg M'Cann's stirabout pot got a rest at last. An' this is the way it happened out.
"One day Denis an' Patsy an' the girshas were out in the long field plantin' praties, an' when it was comin' on to the evenin' time Peg took the stirabout pot an' scoured it an' wiped it an' put it on the fire with water enough in it to make the stirabout. When the water came to the boil she put in the meal, an' then for a wonder, whatever struck into her head, she put a good handful o' salt in the pot, an' says she to herself: 'He can't be sayin' anythin' about it to-night,' says she.
"The stirabout was simmerin' an' singin' away when Denis an' the childre came home, an' when Pegsaw them comin' up the boreen she went out to the byre to milk the cow, an' she was smilin' to herself at the surprise Denis 'd get, an' the quietness there 'd be in the house on account o' the salt bein' in the stirabout.
"Denis left Patsy an' the girshas to take the harness off the jennet an' put up the spades an' shovels an' things, an' he went into the house himself with a couple o' stone o' the seed that was left over after the day's work. He spied the pot on the fire, an' over he went to the salt-box an' took up a good big fistful o' the salt an' put it in the stirabout, an' gave it a stir or two, an' says he an' he lickin' his lips:
"'It'll be right to-night, anyway,' says he, an' down he goes to shut the gate at the end o' the boreen.
"In a few minutes in comes Molly an' goes over to the fire to warm her hands, an' the sound o' the stirabout in the pot reminded her o' the ructions there used to be every night, an' 'I'm sure she didn't think of it to-night, no more than any other night,' says Molly, an' up she jumps an' rams her hand into the salt-box an' takes out a big fistful an' puts it in the pot an' gives it a couple o' stirs an' goes out to see what was keepin' her mother.
"Denis wanted the lantern to look after the young lambs, and Patsy went into the house to get it for him. The smell o' the stirabout brought him to the fire, an' the sight o' the pot made him think o' the shindy every night an' 'For fear o' the worst,' says he an' took as much as he could lift in his hand of salt an' put it in the pot. Then he gave it a stir an' darted out with the lantern, for Denis was callin' to him to hurry.
"Peg was in the byre, milkin' away at her ease, an' says she to Nell, when she saw her passin' the door: 'Nell,' says she, 'run in quick an' stir the pot or the stirabout'll be burned to nothin'. I'll be in in a minute myself,' says she.
"Nell went in an' gave a rousin' fine stirrin' to the supper, and she was just goin' out again to see was Molly ready when she stopped. 'As sure as I'm alive,' says she, 'my mother never put a grain o' salt in it,' an' of course when she thought o' that she went to the salt-box an' done what the rest o' them were after doin' an' says she: 'My father won't have anythin' to say about it to-night,' an' she lightin' the candle.
"Then Peg came in an' put milk in the noggins an' lifted the pot off the fire an' gave it the last stir, an' Denis came in, an' Patsy an' Molly, an' they all as hungry as huntsmen, an' each o' them thinkin' o' the fine, tasty stirabout there was for the supper that night anyway.
"Denis sat down in his own place in the corner an' spread out his hands over the fire an' says he:
"'Give us a noggin o' that, Peg. I'm as hungry as Callaghan's cow when she ate the hay rope off Tom the Tramp's leg an' he asleep.' An' Peg filled up the noggin an' handed it over to him. 'That's the stuff for a hungry man,' says Denis, an' he dug his spoon into the noggin an' lifted a spoonful out of it that would nearly make a meal for a man nowadays, an' stuffed it into his mouth, an'——
"'Ugh! Ach! O Lord, I'm pisened!' yelled poor Denis springin' to his feet, an' he tryin' to get rid o'the stirabout, an' as soon as he could get his tongue into shape for talk he did talk, an' the abuse he gave poor Peg was terrible. He never said anythin' half as strong in his life before, an' that's sayin' a lot.
"'Musha! sorrow's on it for stirabout!' says poor Peg, an' she cryin' like the rain, 'it has my heart broke in two, so it has. When I don't put salt on it nobody can eat it, an' this evenin' when I put salt on it an' thought I had it right, it's worse than ever. Bad cess to it for stirabout!' An' indeed 'twas no wonder the poor woman 'd cry!
"'Arrah! don't be botherin' us with your cryin' an' wailin', an' you after makin' the stirabout like, like;—— An' then Denis thought o' the fistful o' salt he put in the pot himself an' he stopped. 'As true as I'm a livin' man,' says he, in his own mind, ''twas myself that made a lad o' the stirabout. But, sure, one fistful would never pisen it like that!' But he cooled down an' sat lookin' into the fire.
"Patsy thought it was himself that ruined the supper an' Molly thought 'twas she that settled it, an' Nell said to herself she was the rascal that was after doin' it, but they were all afraid to speak, an' they were so troubled an' knocked about, that they didn't even think of askin' for anythin' else to eat. Denis was thinkin' an' thinkin' for a long time, an' he lookin' into the fire an' at last says he:
"'There's no use in talkin', says he, 'there's some misfortune or bad luck on this house above every house in the parish. The stirabout is never the same with us as it is with any o' the neighbours no matter how it's made. Let us have done with it, once an'for all, an' have peace an' quietness in the house—what never was in it yet!'
"An', indeed, Peg was only too glad to hear him talkin' like that, for the same stirabout had her heart nearly broke. She bought two ounces o' tay in the shop the next mornin', an' from that day out there never was a bit o' stirabout made under Denis McCann's roof. An', sure, maybe that's the way the tay got into many another house as well, though I suppose if you said so to the women they wouldn't be over thankful to you.
"Bad cess to it for tay!"
Adapted from the Irish of "An Seabhac" in "An Baile Seo 'Gainn-ne."
There had been a big week's work in the forge, and Ned M'Grane, the blacksmith, had got a present of a whole pound of tobacco from his nephew in Dublin, and on account of these two happenings he was in the very best of humour, so we decided that the time was ripe for a story. We hadn't had such a treat from Ned for weeks past, so there was an edge on our appetite for one of his unrivalled stories that pleasant evening as we sat and smoked in the smithy.
"The like of it was never known in history before," said Joe Clinton, suddenly, with a challenging glance towards Bartle Nolan, who started as if he didn't expect the statement, and as if it hadn't been carefully planned beforehand at the Milking Field gate!
"Ach, nonsense, man!" said Bartle, with a withering look at Joe. "D'ye mean to say that there ever was an age or a century or a period o' history that women weren't kickin' up their heels about somethin' or other an' wantin' to boss the whole show. Why, the thing is out of all reason!" finished Bartle, with a fine show of indignation.
"All the same I think Joe is right," said TomM'Donnell. "I don't believe they ever carried things as far as to want to have votes an' seats on public boards, an' to be equal to the men in everythin'. I don't think anyone ever heard before of a woman goin' that far with the game."
"What's that, Tom?" said Ned, who had just thrust about two ounces of his store of tobacco into old Phil Callaghan's hand in a covert sort of way, and was now quietly teasing a pipeful for himself. "What is it you were talkin' about?"
"O, we were just discoursin', Ned, about them suffragettes an' the row they're makin' about gettin' votes an' the like o' that. Joe was sayin' that such a thing as a rumpus about equal rights between man an' woman was never known of in history before in any country in the world, an' some of us didn't agree with him. What do you say yourself, Ned?"
Ned teased the tobacco for a few moments in a dreamy manner that seemed hopeful, and then he looked thoughtfully at Joe Clinton.
"Would it surprise you to hear, Joe," he said at last, "that such a rumpus an' such a row as you speak about took place in this very townland o' Balnagore?"
We all laughed at Joe's confusion as he said sheepishly, "It would, indeed, Ned," and then Ned's eyes twinkled triumphantly.
Then we knew that we had carried our little scheme to success, and we waited as patiently and as quietly as we could while Ned filled and lighted his pipe. At last he spoke:
"It's forty year ago an' more since it happened, Joe, an' indeed it wasn't the woman was to blame at all, but the crankiest, contrariest, crossest old codger of a man that ever sat on a stool, and that was Dickey Moran that lived there below in the hollow, where Jimmy Kearney is livin' now. An' if every woman conducted her fight for a vote as cleverly as Peggy Moran conducted hers for peace an' quietness there 'd be a lot more respect an' support for them than there is. But what 'd be the use of advisin' a woman? You might as well be tryin' to catch eels with a mousetrap.
"Dickey an' Peggy were only a couple o' years married when she began to find out that he wasn't altogether as sweet as he used to be, an' from that time on until she played her trump card she never had an easy day with him. This wasn't done right, an' that was all wrong, an' who showed her how to boil a pig's pot, an' where did she learn to make stirabout, an' forty other growls that nearly put the poor woman out of her wits. An' what used to annoy her the most of all was that Dickey (he was fifteen years older than her) never stopped complainin' about all he had to do in the fields an' on the bog, an' about the little Peggy had to do in the house—a child buildin' a babby-house 'd have more to do, he used to say, an' then he'd put a whinin' rigmarole out of him about the way men had themselves wore to nothin' to keep a bit an' a sup with lazy women, an' so on, an' so on, until poor Peggy couldn't stand it any longer, an' she'd turn on him an' say things that 'd make Dickey twist like an eel an' feel when the shindy 'dbe over that he was after gettin' more than he bargained for, an' a few rattlin' fine sharp wallops o' Peggy's tongue thrown in for luck.
"Well, it had to get worse or stop altogether, and the surprisin' part was that the two things happened at the same time.
"It happened one mornin' that Dickey was in an odious bad humour entirely, an' he goin' about the house with a face on him as long as a late breakfast an' as sharp as a razor, an' every growl out of him like a dog over a bone or a fox in a trap. He was tryin' to light the fire, but the turf was too wet, an' the draught was comin' the wrong way, an' accordin' as his temper got strong his tongue turned on poor Peggy, who was givin' a bottle to the child in the cradle—it was only seven months old at the time—an' she was sayin' nothin' at all, but there was a quare sort of a look in her eye that all as one as said that her mind was made up. Dickey was gettin' worse an' worse with his growlin' about all that men had to do an' the lazy ways of women an' what not, but all of a sudden, when he wasn't mindin', Peggy caught a grip of his arm in a way that made him jump, an' says she, in the voice of a County Court Judge givin' sentence, says she:
"'Let there be an end to this comparin' an' growlin' an' grumblin' once an' for all, Dickey Moran! You say men are run off their feet an' that women have nothin' to do. Well, here's the way to settle that. You stay here in the house an' do what's to be done in it, an' I'll look after the turf an' the praties an' oats an' things out in the fields, an' we'll soon see whohas the most to do. That's the only way to put an end to your aggravatin' talk forever an' a day.'
"An' Dickey bein' in the temper he was in, agreed on the minute, an' they took their bit o' breakfast without another word, an' when it was down, Peggy tied her shawl round her shoulders an' gripped hold of an old reapin' hook that was hangin' on the wall an' started off to cut the bit of oats in the far field, an' Dickey sat down at the fire to have a pull o' the pipe before startin' the child's play, as he called the work that had to be done in the house.
"When Peggy was gone a couple o' minutes she came back an' put her head in at the door, an' says she in a quiet an' easy way, as if she was only biddin' her man good mornin':
"'Listen here,' says she, 'the cow is in the byre still, an' it's time she was milked. An' don't forget to take every drop from her or it's milk fever she'll be havin' one o' these days. An' put a few handfuls o' poreens on the fire for the pigs an' give them to them soon because they're screechin' with the hunger. An' keep an eye to that black hen for fear she'd lay out, because if she does the dickens an egg you'll get to-morrow mornin'. Scald that churn well an' do the churnin' as soon as you can, because there's not a bit o' butter in the house an' this is Friday. An' make a cake o' bread, too, for if you don't there won't be a pick to eat with the colcannon; an' mind that you don't burn it. An' spin that pound o' wool over there that I have to make your socks out of for the winter, an' mind that you don't have it too thick or lumpy. An' wash up the delph, an' put a drop o' milk on the firein that black saucepan for the child, an' give it to him at eleven o'clock. An' don't make it too hot for him, or you'll hear about it. An' sweep the floor, an' make the bed, an' get a couple o' cans o' water from the well, an' peel the praties for the dinner,' says Peggy, and she out o' breath, an' off she went to the far field.
"'Troth, then, I'll do that an' more, an' it won't trouble me much,' says Dickey, with a grunt, an' he fillin' the pipe for a good smoke, 'it's easier than breakin' one's back bendin' over a reapin' hook.' An' he reddened the pipe an' pulled away at his ease.
"The first thing he started into was the washin' o' the delph, an' he got along middlin' well till he caught hold o' Peggy's darlin' cup that belonged to her mother's aunt's great-grandmother, an' was as precious to her as gold. There was a crack in it down one side, an' half-way round the bottom, an' whatever the dickens happened Dickey, his fingers were too clumsy or somethin', he never felt till he had a piece o' the cup in each hand, an' there was another bit on the floor. He just looked at it an' said nothin', but he thought a lot.
"It couldn't be helped anyway, so he took the gallon can an' out with him to the byre to milk the cow. You'd think Peggy an' the cow had it made up between them, with the look that was in her eye when she saw Dickey comin' with the can, but she stood as quiet as you please an' chewed the cud, an' seemed to be terrible pleased with the song Dickey sang while he milked. An' the work was goin' on so grand that he forgot all about the cup he broke an' was wonderin' to himself was Peggy repentin' yet, an' was givin' achuckle or two an' he drawin' the last drop o' milk into the can, when all of a sudden, without 'by your leave' or 'here's at you,' the rogue of a cow lifted her right hind leg an' gave one kick that sent Dickey an' the can o' milk sprawlin' all over the place. The milk was spilled over him, of course, an' the can was made a pancake of, an' he had a pain in his chest like lumbago, but what could he do only curse the cow an' go into the house without can or milk, an' I may tell you he wasn't chucklin'.
"Well, the pigs were yellin' like mad lions, an' nearly breakin' down the sty with the hunger, an' Dickey put the pot on the fire an' boiled a feed for them as fast as he could. An' when it was ready he went to the sty with it, but whatever misfortune was on him that mornin', an' the place bein' purty dark where the pigs were, he bumped his nose against the sharp corner of a board an' the blood began to come like as if there was somebody after it, an' Dickey flung the feed, bucket an' all to the pigs, an' ran into the house an' lay on the broad of his back tryin' to stop the blood an' it runnin' down his neck an' everywhere.
"He got it stopped at last, but he was as weak as a cat, an' then he thought o' the churnin', an' he started to do it as best he could, which wasn't much of a best. It's no joke to do a churnin' without help an' keep a child from cryin' at the same time, an' when Dickey was finished, I tell you, he didn't feel like runnin' a race or jumpin' over a stone wall. He was sweatin' like a fat pig at a fair on a summer's day.
"Then when the churnin' was finished, he went to the well for a can o' water, an' he brought the child with him as it was cryin' fit to lift the roof off the house, an' what do you think but when he was stoopin' to lift the water didn't he lose his footin' an' fall into the well, child an' all, an' only it wasn't too deep, Dickey's housekeepin' days were over. He was all wet anyway, an' the child was wet an' bawlin', which was no wonder, an' the water was runnin' out o' the two o' them an' they goin' back to the house.
"When he got to the door there was a stream o' fresh buttermilk runnin' out to meet him, an' nice little lumps o' butter floatin' on it, an' there was the churn upset in the middle o' the floor, an' the black pig drinkin' away at her ease, an' givin' a grunt o' contentment every now an' then, as much as to say, 'that's the stuff for puttin' a red neck on a pig.'
"For one full minute Dickey didn't know what to do he was that mad an' wet an' disappointed an' tired all at the one time, but when the minute was up he threw the wet child—an' it roarin' all the time, the poor thing—into the cradle, an' grabbed a new spade that was standin' at the cross-wall, an' made one lunge at the black pig as she darted out on the door, knowin' well there was trouble comin'. It caught her just at the back o' the ear, an' with one yell she staggered an' stretched out on the yard as dead as a door-nail.
"An' that's the way things were when Peggy came up from the far field a few minutes later—Dickey nearly dead with fright, an' the child on the borders of a fit, the churnin' all through the house, the gallon can all battered up an' not a drop o' new milk to beseen, the fire out an' no sign of a dinner, the cow in the byre an' she ragin' with the hunger, one pig dead an' the other rootin' up the winter cabbage in the garden, an' the whole place like a slaughterhouse or a battlefield, with milk an' pig's blood an' well-water flowin' in all directions; an' to crown it all, Dickey sat down in the corner an' began to cry.
"Well, it was a nice how-d'ye-do sure enough, but Peggy was a sensible woman, an' she just figured it all out there in a second or two, an' she said to herself that peace was cheap at the price, an' she knew by the look o' Dickey that there was goin' to be peace, an' she just held her tongue, an' set about fixin' up the child an' Dickey an' the place as best she could. An' then she went for Andy Mahon, the herd over in Moyvore, an' got him to scrape the pig, an' salt the bacon an' pack it, an' before night you'd never know that anythin' strange was after takin' place about the house at all, at all. An' Dickey was as mute as a mouse.
"From that day out there was peace an' quietness an' comfort in that house, an' Dickey Moran was as kind an' cheerful a man as you'd meet in a day's walk. An' the only thing Peggy regretted was her darlin' cup that belonged at one time to her mother's aunt's great-grandmother.
"Boys, O boys, it's eleven o'clock!"