Ham and Eggs

Ham and Eggs“Wisha, in the name of all the nonentities that a man meets at a fancy dress ball, or a lawn tennis party,” said Padna to Micus, as he saw him holding a lantern over a pool of water, on a dark night, at the crossroads of Carrignamore, “what are you doing, at all, at all?”“I’m looking for the moon that was here in the pool, less than an hour ago, and a more beautiful moon was never seen in any part of the whole world,” said Micus.“Well,” said Padna, “if ’twas twice as beautiful, and twice as large, and the size of a Chinese sunshade inself, you’d have no more chance of finding it on a dark night like this, than you’d have of finding a circus at the North Pole, or discovering why women will worry about their husbands when they stay out late at night, andthen abuse the devil out of them when they come in, even though they had to stay out through no fault of their own.”“What you say may be true,” said Micus, “but ’tis better a man should have an interest in astronomy or something else, and go looking for the moon in a pool of water at the crossroads, than have no interest in anything at all, except killing time talking about the wars of the world, or the ways of his neighbours. And sure if a man couldn’t find the moon inself, he might find something else while he’d be looking for it.”“Bedad, and that’s true enough too! Many a man found happiness when he went looking for trouble, and many a man found trouble when he went looking for happiness, and a man often found a friend where he expected to find an enemy, and found an enemy where he expected to find a friend,” said Padna.“In a word, we go through life looking for what we can’t find, and finding what we didn’t go to look for. Think of poor Columbus, and what he found, and he not looking for America,at all. Sure, that sort of thing would encourage any one to set out on a voyage of adventure, even though he mightn’t know where he’d be going to, or what he might be doing,” said Micus.“Talking about findings and losings, and strange happenings in general, I wonder if you ever heard tell of the bishop who took off his hat to a poor man,” said Padna.“I did not, then, and I don’t believe a word of it either,” said Micus.“Oh, bedad, whether you believe it or no, ’tis a fact, then, nevertheless,” said Padna.“Well, it must have been a mistake of some kind, or maybe an accident. ’Tis possible, of course, that His Lordship took off his hat to leave the air to his head when the poor man was passing, but I can’t imagine that he removed it for any other purpose, unless, maybe, a wasp, or a fly settled on his bald crown. In that case he would take off his hat to scratch his head,” said Micus.“If you don’t believe what I’m telling you, there’s no use going on with the story,” said Padna.“There is not then. But surely,” said Micus, “you must have something else to relate, and I not to lay eyes on you since Monday was a week.”“I have another story, if you’d like to hear it,” said Padna.“Of course, I’d like to hear it. What is it all about?”“’Tis all about a pig and a clucking hen,” said Padna.“Let us take the shortest cut home, and I’ll listen to the story as we walk along. And ’tis glad I am that I went looking for the moon, this blessed night, else I mightn’t have found yourself, and I dying to have a talk with some one,” said Micus.“Well,” said Padna, as he sauntered leisurely along with his friend Micus, who kept swinging a lantern, “on my way home from market yesterday evening, as the sun was sinking behind the hills, I strolled along the road that leads to Five Mile Bridge, and I felt so tired after the journey from Cork to Ballinabearna that I was compelled to say to myself: ‘Padna,’ ses I, ‘why the devildon’t you be sensible once in a while, and take a rest for yourself when you feel tired? What’s the use in wearing yourself out, and causing yourself unnecessary pain and torture, when in a few short years you will be as dead as decency, or disinterested kindness, which is no less than one and the same thing. And once you are dead, you are dead for ever and ever, and no one will bother their heads about you, or care whether you lived or not, or just existed, by trying to please every one but yourself. The man who tries to please everybody,’ ses I to myself, ‘won’t live half as long as one of the aristocracy, who don’t care where the money comes from so long as he has it to spend.’ And when all that was said, I then up and ses: ‘Padna,’ ses I, ‘that’s good sound advice, and don’t forget what I have told you.’ And then and there I made one jump and landed on top of a ditch, and as I looked over my shoulder into the field behind, what did I see but a pig and a clucking hen, and they exchanging salutations. And then they began to talk and this is what I heard:“‘Good evening,’ ses the pig.“‘Good evening kindly and good luck. How are you feeling to-day?’ ses the hen.“‘Just about the same as ever,’ ses the pig. ‘Sure, ’tis a sad world for us all!’“‘’Tis, God help us!’ ses the hen. ‘But don’t start me crying again, this sorrowful day, for ’tis myself who has shed a bucketful of tears, since my poor grandmother was choked this morning.’“‘I wouldn’t be crying about that, if I were you,’ ses the pig. ‘Sure, ’tis as good to be choked as to have your head cut off with a rusty knife.’“‘’Tisn’t about that in particular that I have fumed and worried, and wept so copiously,’ ses the hen.“‘And about what then?’ ses the pig.“‘About everything in general. The ingratitude of man, the presumption and assumption of women, and the consumption of ham and eggs,’ ses the hen.“‘Ah, wisha, God knows,’ ses the pig, ‘you couldn’t waste your tears over a more worthyand likewise unworthy object. And like the pessimist that I am, myself, ’tis but little respect that I have for man or woman either. Only for the fact that I have still some pride left, and wouldn’t like to disgrace my own family, I’d end my miserable existence by committing suicide, and drown myself in the horse pond.’“‘If you were to do the likes of that, you would sin against tradition, and only be sold as sausages. Whereas, if you were to die a natural death by strangulation, amputation of the head, or bisection of the windpipe, you would be sent to the best butcher’s shop in the town, and the different parts of your anatomy would be sold at the very highest rates, the same as all your family, relations and ancestors,’ ses the hen.“‘Don’t mention my family or my ancestors to me. They were all snobs, each and every one of them,—father, mother, sisters, and brothers. ’Twas little respect they ever had for myself, and always said that I was only fit to be used for sausages, anyway. As though, indeed, I didn’t come of as good a stock as the best of them.’“‘I often heard that you came of very respectable people,’ ses the hen.“‘Respectable isn’t the name for them belonging to me. There were gentry, and no less, in our family.’“‘Is that so?’ ses the hen.“‘Yes, indeed, it is,’ ses the pig. ‘’Twas a piece of my great-great-great-great-grandfather’s great-grandfather that gave Napoleon indigestion before Waterloo. And that’s how he lost the day by giving wrong orders to his generals,’ ses the pig.“‘And ’twas from eating a bad egg,’ ses the hen, ‘that King George got the hiccoughs, and fell from his horse while reviewing his troops in France. And that’s how he won the Victoria Cross and got a rise of two and tuppence a week in his wages. Howsomever, be that as it may, ’tis a pension yourself should have from the German and English Governments, instead of earning your living by eating yourself to death, so to speak. An aristocrat of your social standing should be living on some one else’s money, and your time shouldbe divided between sleeping and eating, like all the other members of the fraternity.’“‘Oh,’ ses the pig, ‘my associates and equals wouldn’t think of recognising me, unless I was fully dressed for dinner at some fashionable hotel or restaurant.’“‘Fully dressed!’ ses the hen. ‘With bread crumbs on your hind quarters, you mean?’“‘Yes,’ ses the pig.“‘Well,’ ses the hen, ‘I come of good stock myself. The members of my family always supplied eggs to the King of Spain, the Mayor of Boston, and the Royalty of England and America.’“‘Wisha,’ ses the pig, ‘what are a few eggs, even when they are fresh inself, compared to a fine ham, two pork chops, a soft crubeen, or a flitch of bacon, boiled down with plenty of cabbage, and set before a battalion of hungry policemen on a cold winter’s day?’“‘Oh,’ ses the hen, ‘no one would think of eating bacon and cabbage all the time, while eggs are always in season. But ’tisn’t quarreling about such a trifle that we should be, when wehave no great grievance against ourselves, but against mankind in general.’“‘The inconsistency of mankind is disgusting, to say the very least of it,’ ses the pig. ‘Every one from the king to the beggar has a bad word to say for the pig. We stand for all that’s contemptible, loathsome and vile, and yet the most delicate and refined people will always call for ham and eggs, in the morning, in preference to anything else. And if one of those genteel young men who might have had my poor grandmother’s liver for supper, was to meet myself on the road, and he with a young lady by his side, and she as fond of ham and eggs as himself, neither of them would bid me the time of day, or ask how I might be, or say as much as go to Belgium, or anything at all, but make disparaging remarks about my idiosyncracies.’“‘And think of myself,’ ses the hen. ‘I that have laid more eggs than you could count in a lifetime, and I have reared five large families, besides. And the day I can’t lay any more, I’ll be killed by some caubogue of a churn boy,and sold to some landlady who boards tramps, navvies, and all kinds of traveling tinkers. I wouldn’t mind inself if I went to nourish and sustain some decent people, who could appreciate the tender parts of my constitution. Or if I could be like my poor father, who was killed with a new razor, stuffed with bread and currants, roasted on a spit, and exhibited in a shop window before Christmas.’“‘Ah! we live in a thoughtless and heartless world!’ ses the pig.“‘I know it,’ ses the hen. ‘Only about one in every ten thousand has either the power or the privilege of thinking for themselves.’“‘Everything seems to go by contrary. Take the decent people,—the Jews, for instance. They have no respect for the members of my family, but they are consistent. They wouldn’t write their name, or my epitaph, on my back with a hot poker, and make fun of my table manners, and then go home and have pork for dinner and say ’twas worth walking to America for,’ ses the pig.“‘Nevertheless,’ ses the hen, ‘when I think of what yourself and myself does for mankind, and the poor return we get, I feel proud to know that we can be of service to those who don’t and can’t appreciate us.’“‘Yes, indeed, and so do I,’ ses the pig. ‘What would life be to most people without their ham and eggs every morning, and the newspaper thrown in. And a cigar never tastes sweeter than after a good feed of spare ribs and yellow turnips.’“‘Or even sausages,’ ses the hen.“‘I object to sausages and salt meat in general, because it makes people cranky and disputatious,’ ses the pig.“‘Of course,’ ses the hen, ‘there’s no doubt but we do a lot of good, though we have been neglected. And it makes my heart bleed, when I think of the stupidity of man and his perverted sense of honour. After all those years of preaching and reform, no poet has ever written an ode to a hen or a pig, and all the poets liked their ham and eggs. There was Shakespeare himself,—people thought he forgot nothing, or what heforgot wasn’t worth remembering, but where’s the mention of either hens or pigs in all his highly respected works?’“’Tis no wonder there is war in the world to-day,’ ses the pig.“‘Indeed it is not, when married men will spend all their money on finery for their wives, so that they can look better than they really are, and elope with other women’s husbands. Sure, only for the motherly instinct that’s in myself, I would leave my family of ducklings and die by my own hand, but I don’t want one of them to be neglected and feel the pangs of adversity, like yourself and myself,’ ses the hen.“‘’Tis instinct rather than reason that guides most people. If we were always to act reasonably, people would think we had no sense, at all. However, there’s a compensation in all things, and we can enjoy ourselves in our own old way. And while it is a great consolation to know that we can do a lot of good, it is a greater consolation still to know that we can do a lot of harm as well,’ ses the pig.“‘Like myself, you share the same sentiments as all good and pious people. The satisfaction of doing harm is the only enjoyment some of us receive for doing good, when our kindness is not appreciated,’ ses the hen.“‘When I think of all those who suffer from dyspepsia after eating my friends and relations, I ses to myself: “Well, things could be worse even for such as my humble self. You mightn’t have the satisfaction of knowing that there was such a thing as indigestion.” And when I think of what people must pay for pork chops, in a restaurant after the theatre at night, and how they must suffer from cramps, pains in the stomach, and a bursting headache next morning, well then I feel as happy as a wife when she is abusing her fool of a husband for giving her too much of her own way,’ ses the pig.“‘And when I consider the little nourishment there is in cold storage eggs, and the price the poor lodgers must pay their landladies for them, I feel like dancing a jig on a milestone. And whenever I hear of some one eating a bad egg,disguised by frying it hard in margarine, and seasoning it with salt and pepper, I takes a holiday for myself. Ptomaine poisoning is as good as cramps, or pains in the head, at any time,’ ses the hen.“‘Of course, when we are really hungry, we don’t care what we eat. I have eaten pieces of my relatives and friends dozen of times, when they were mixed with my food, but to tell the truth it never gave me any trouble. And in many respects I am no better and no worse than those who don’t care how they make their living, so long as they have what they want,’ ses the pig.“And then two farmers came on the scene, and one ses to the other, as he pointed to the pig with a stick: ‘How much do you want for the beast?’ ses he.“‘As much as he will fetch,’ ses the owner.“‘One would think ’twas a work of art you were trying to dispose of,’ ses the man with the stick. ‘I’ll give you the market price and not a ha’penny more.’“‘Very well,’ ses the owner, ‘I’m satisfied.’“‘And what do you want for that old hen?’ ses the man with the stick.“‘Oh,’ ses the owner, ‘she is no more use to me, and for that reason I must charge you ten or a hundred times her legitimate value. She is an antique. You can have her for ten shillings, and be under a compliment to me for my decency, besides.’“‘I’ll owe you the money,’ ses the man with the stick, ‘so that you won’t forget your generosity.’ And with that they walked away, and I jumped off the ditch and turned home,” said Micus.“’Tis a queer world,” said Padna.“A queer world, surely!” said Micus.The White Horse of Banba“Come in, come in, and make yourself at home; for the flowers of spring couldn’t be more heartily welcome,” said Micus Pat to his friend Padna Dan, as he held the latch of his cottage door. And when Padna crossed the threshold, Micus turned from his place by the hearth and said: “Close the door, take off your topcoat, and pull the blinds, while I will heap logs and faggots on the fire, for ’tis five feet of snow there may be on the ground before morning, I’m thinking. And who knows but the house itself may be covered up, and we may not be able to move from where we are for days and days, or a week inself.”“True for you,” said Padna. “We never know what good luck or bad luck the morrow mayhave for any of us. Howsomever, ’tisn’t grumbling we should be about anything, but take things as they come. The storm rages furiously without, and to-night, for all the wisest of us can tell, may be the very last night of the world. The end must come some time, and when the sun rises on the morrow, this earth of ours, with all its beauty and all its mystery, and all its splendour, may be reduced to particles of dust, that will find its way into the eyes of those who dwell on other spheres. If the gale continues, the world will be swirled from its course, and ‘twill surely strike some weighty satellite of the sun or moon with a mighty crash, and that will be the end of all joy and sorrow. Then the king will be no more than the beggar, and the beggar will be as much as the king.”“I will place the kettle on the hob,” said Micus, “for ’tis true courage we will want to put into our hearts with a good drop of poteen this blessed night. And a drop of poteen is a wonderful thing to drive away the melancholy thoughts that haunt and bother so many of us. We canfill glass after glass of steaming punch, until the jar in the cupboard is empty. For what is life to some but so many glasses of poteen, the best whiskey or brandy, or wine all the ways from France itself, and so many meals of food, a few good books to read, and maybe a congenial friend or two.”“Life is a rugged and a lonely road, but flowers always grow on the wayside,” said Padna.“And when you try to pluck a flower, ’tis a thorn you will find in your hand, maybe,” said Micus.“That is so, indeed. But let us forget the pitfalls that await us at every turn, and while the wind blows let us fill our pipes and fill our glasses, and sing a merry song if we should feel like doing so, for there is no use looking for the Devil to bid him good-morrow until we will meet him. And the best thing to do when he appears in person, or in disguise, is to pass him by the same as if he was no relation of yours at all,” said Padna.And then Micus heaped dried faggots andlogs on the glowing hearth, and as they crackled and blazed, red sparks flew up the chimney, and the shutters of the windows, and the latch of the door, and the loose tiles on the ridge, and the loose slates on the gable, shook and rattled, and trees were uprooted, and slates were blown from the roofs of houses and so was the golden thatch, and havoc was wrought in the city, the town, and the hamlet, on the mountain side, in the valley, and by the seashore. And as Micus and Padna settled themselves comfortably in two armchairs, the white dog and the black cat drew closer to their feet, while a thrush in his large white cage made of twigs, and a linnet in his small green cage made of wires and beechwood, closed their eyes and buried their heads beneath their wings.Flash after flash of lightning lit up the darkened countryside, and each peal of thunder was louder than its predecessor, and at times one thought that the whole artillery of hell with the Devil in command had opened fire, and that the fury of the elements would send all to perdition. But Padna and Micus looked on unperturbed atthe crackling faggots. And as the first glass of warm punch was raised on high, Micus up and said: “Here’s good luck to us all, the generous as well as the covetous, for ’tis little any of us know why we are what we are, or why we do the things we do, and don’t want to do. And as we can’t always be decent, we might at least be charitable when we can.”“But alas! alas! we seldom think before we act, and usually act without thinking, and that’s why there are so many strange doings and happenings,” said Padna. “Be all that as it may, neglect not your duty as my host to-night, and take charge of the decanter, and keep my glass well filled with punch, and my pipe well filled with tobacco, and I will tell you a story that may set your heart beating against your ribs, and your knees knocking together, and your hands may shake till the tumbler will fall from your fingers, and your teeth may rattle until the pipe will fall from your mouth.”“Tell it to me, for I’m filled with curiosity to hear a strange tale. And maybe ’tis a storyabout some beautiful woman, or the Aurora Borealis, or some monster of the deep,” said Micus.“It isn’t either one or the other, but the story of a horse,” said Padna.“A horse, is it?”“Aye, the White Horse of Banba,” said Padna.“And how came you to hear it?” said Micus.“It was an old man of dignified bearing, tall and stately he was, with a long flowing beard, clear grey-blue eyes, nicely chiseled features, keen wit, and a soft easy tongue, who told me the story.”“And where did you meet him?” said Micus.“On the high road overlooking the Glen of the Leprechauns, on a starlit night before the moon came up,” said Padna.“On with the story,” said Micus.“Well,” said Padna, as he lit his pipe, “three weeks ago, come Tuesday, I was strolling along the road for myself by the Bridge of the Seven Witches, thinking of nothing but the future ofthe children, when I heard strange footsteps behind me, and on looking over my shoulder, I espied a man I had never seen before. And as our eyes met, he up and ses: ‘Good night, stranger,’ ses he. ‘Good night kindly,’ ses I.“‘’Tis a fine night,’ ses he.“‘A glorious night, thank God,’ ses I.“‘Indeed it is that,’ses he. ‘And a night to be appreciated and enjoyed by ghosts, fairies, goblins and hobgoblins, gnomes and elves, owls and barroway-bats, and all the strange creatures of the earth, that does be scared to venture out in the broad daylight, as well as man himself.’“‘There’s no doubt whatever about what you say,’ ses I. ‘And a fine night for any one who likes to walk to the top of a mountain to see the moon rising, the stars twinkling, or for those who like to hear the soft wind blowing through the tall rushes in the bogs, and making music, the like of which would inspire a poet to write verses and have them printed in a book, for women to read and talk about, and hold disputatious arguments on modern poetry,’ ses I.“And so we walked and talked until we came to the great Cliff of Banba, that overlooks the ocean on the southwest coast. And as we sat down to rest our weary limbs, he looked from the sky to a high pinnacle of rock, and ses: ‘A beautiful sight is the Cliff of Banba when viewed from the ocean beyond, in a small boat, a sloop, or a four-masted ship. But the most beautiful of all sights is to see the White Horse of Banba himself.’“‘I never heard tell of him,’ ses I.“‘Why, you must be a queer man, not to have heard tell of the White Horse of Banba. Now,’ ses he, as he crossed his legs, and put his hand under his jaw, ‘fill your pipe,’ ses he, ‘and smoke, and smoke, and smoke until you will drive cold fear from your heart. For the story I am going to tell you this blessed night may turn every hair on your head as white as the drifting snow, and every tooth in your head may chatter, and rattle and fall out on the ground.’“‘Oh,’ ses I, ‘’twould take more than the mere telling of a story, no matter how long or how short, or a hundred stories about the living orthe dead to scare or frighten or disturb me in any way, and I a married man for more years than you could count on your own fingers and toes, and herself as stubborn and as contrary as the first day she made up her mind to marry me. So ’tis thinking I am that I will be neither white, nor grey, nor sallow, nor toothless, nor bald maybe, after I have heard the story of the White Horse of Banba; or the Black Horse of Carrigmore, and he that took Shauneen the Cobbler away on his back on a dark and windy night and drowned him in the Lough at Cork, because he was cursed by the widow Maloney for spoiling the heel of her shoe.’“‘God forgive her for putting a curse on any poor man,’ ses he.“‘Amen,’ ses I.“‘Well,’ ses he, ‘if you think that you will be neither white, nor grey, nor one way nor another but the way you are at this present moment, I wouldn’t be boasting, if I were you, until the story is told. Because once it strikes your ears, you can never keep it out of your mind, whetheryou be sailing over the seas in a full-rigged clipper, or walking the lonely roads at home, or in foreign parts. ‘Twill be with you when you wake up in the morning, and when you are going to bed at night, and even when you are asleep and dreaming inself.’“‘If ’tis such a wonderful and astonishing story as all that, why don’t you write it down, and have it printed in a book?’ ses I.“‘Some of the best stories were never written,’ ses he. ‘And some of the wisest sayings are forgotten and the foolish ones remembered. But once the story of the White Horse of Banba is told, ‘twill keep ringing in your ears till the dawn of your doom.’“‘Really?’ ses I.“‘Yes,’ ses he. ‘’Tis the White Horse of Banba who comes in the dark of the night to carry us all from the Prison of Life to the Land of the Mighty Dead. And ’twas he stole the woman of my heart from me.’“‘Well,’ ses I, ‘maybe ’tis better that he should have stolen her than some worthless bla’guardwho couldn’t appreciate and treat her decently. There are more married than keep good house,’ ses I.“‘That’s true, but ’tis no comfort for a man to see the woman he loves the wife of another, unless she might have the devil of a temper, and no taste for anything but gallivanting through the streets,’ ses he. ‘And only for the White Horse of Banba, I might be the father of a fine large family, who would be able to earn enough to keep me idle in my old age. Then I wouldn’t have to be worrying and fretting, when I am walking behind a plough or a harrow, on a warm day, or searching the boreens, the long winding lanes, or the dusty roads, looking for a lost sheep or a wandering cow, and watering the green grass that grows under my feet with the sweat that does be falling from my brow. Not, indeed, that I couldn’t have more wives than I’d want. But ’tis too respectable a man I am to ever fall in love with more than one woman. And that’s something that very few can boast of, whether they be single or married, inself.’“‘And who told you about the White Horse of Banba?’ ses I.“‘I have seen him with my own two eyes,’ ses he.“‘Where?’ ses I.“‘In this very spot. And I have seen him in every nook and corner of the land from the Giants’ Causeway to the Old Head of Kinsale, and as many times as you forgot to keep your promises too, and he with the golden shoes and hoofs of ivory, and a long mane that reaches down to the ground and a neck more beautiful than a swan, and eyes that sparkle like glow-worms when night is as dark as pitch.’“‘And he will carry us all to the Land of the Mighty Dead?’“‘Yes, he will carry each and every one of us to the great country beyond the grave.’“‘’Tis strange indeed,’ ses I, ‘that you should see the White Horse of Banba so often.’“‘Some are more favoured than others,’ ses he. ‘But if you will wait until the lights in the city grow dim, and when the lights in the skysparkle and glimmer, and when the birds fall asleep on their perches, and the dogs begin to snore in their kennels, and all the tired people are stretched in their beds, then if you are lucky you may see him passing by here, and he flying through the night, the way you’d see a pigeon racing home, or a meteor shooting through space.’“‘And is it all alone that he does be?’ ses I.“‘No. There is always some one on his back, and the banshee follows at his heels, wailing and moaning the way you’d be scared out of your wits.’“‘But some people have no wits,’ ses I.“‘That’s so. But we all dread something. It may be the sea, fire, loneliness, the past, the present, the future, hereafter, a wife with an angel’s face and the tongue of the Devil, a rat maybe, or a shadow itself. There’s a weak spot in the strongest, and a strong spot in the weakest, even though it might be stubbornness. But there’s nothing to make a man more scared than the cry of the banshee that follows the WhiteHorse of Banba as he gallops along the dreary roads, where the ghosts themselves would be afraid to venture. And he always has some one on his back, holding on to his wavy mane, lest they might fall and be dashed to pieces on the cobbled roadway. Sometimes it does be an old man full of days with toothless gums and white hair that you’d see, and other times some comely maiden, with the virtue of purity and innocence stamped on her brow, and she more beautiful than Helen of Troy or the Queen of Sheba. And oftentimes it does be a little child with rosy cheeks and golden curls, or maybe an infant who just opened its eyes to get one peep at the world, and then closed them forever. It may be a young giant of a man that you’d see, or an old woman, wrinkled and feeble. And as he skelters by, the very trees themselves bow their heads, the corncrakes in the meadows and the toads in the marshes keep still, and you would hear no sound at all, except the clattering of hoofs on the stony roads and the wailing of the banshee. ’Tis along this very road that the White Horsecomes at the close of night and the birth of morn, and he races with the speed of the lightning flash, until he comes to the top of the cliff beyond, where he stands for a little while, sniffs the air and shakes his mane, turns his head and gives a knowing look at whoever does be on his back. Then a weird whinnying cry is heard, and he plunges into the sea, and he swims and swims through the surf and billows until he reaches the edge of the moon that does be rising out of the waters at the horizon. As quick as thought he shakes the water from his mane, stamps and prances and jumps from the top of the moon to the nearest star, and from star to star until he arrives at the Golden Gate of the Land of No Returning.“‘Then he walks through a beautiful avenue, sheltered by tall green trees and made fragrant with sweet blooms, until he is met by St. Peter and St. Patrick on the steps of a marble palace. And the stranger on his back dismounts and accompanies the Holy Apostles into the Sanctum Sanctorum where a record of our good and baddeeds is kept. And when the record book is found and the stranger’s fate discovered, St. Peter looks at St. Patrick, and St. Patrick looks at St. Peter, but no words at all are spoken. Then the stranger is hurried away by an attendant with a flaming sword in his hand.’“‘And where does the angel with the flaming sword carry the poor stranger?’ ses I.“‘Nobody knows,’ ses he. ‘And the pity of it all is that very few care. It was the White Horse of Banbawhotook my father away and my grandfather, and his father and grandfather, and his father before him again, and some night when we may least expect it he will take ourselves, and gallop along like the wind over the highways and byways, through the meadows and marshes, underneath bridges, and over the cobbled tracts on the mountain side. And a terrifying sight it is to see him as he thunders past. He spares no one at all, and takes those we love and those we hate. He stole the woman of my heart from me, and made me the lonely man that I am to-night.’“‘But isn’t it a foolish thing for you to remain a bachelor, and the world full of beautiful women waiting to be loved by some one?’ ses I.“‘A man only loves once,’ ses he, ‘and when the woman of your heart is dead who would want to be living at all?’“‘And now that the woman of your heart is dead, why don’t you try and forget her when you may never see her again?’“‘Of course I will see her again. Life is but the shadow of eternity, and before to-morrow’s sun will flood the East with dazzling light, I will see the woman of my heart.’“‘Where will you see her?’ ses I.“‘In a land farther away than the farthest star.’“‘And who will carry you there?’ ses I.“‘The White Horse of Banba,’ ses he.“‘But he may not pass this way to-night,’ ses I.“‘As sure as you will make some mistake to-morrow he will pass this way to-night,’ ses he.“‘How do you know?’ ses I.“‘We know lots of things that we have never been told,’ ses he. ‘And you will be wiser to-morrow than you are to-day. The hands of the clock are now together at the midnight hour, and I can hear the clattering of hoofs in the distance.’“‘Maybe the White Horse of Banba is coming,’ ses I.“‘He is,’ ses he, ‘and there is no one on his back this time, for he is looking for me.’“And as true as I’m telling you, a fiery steed rushed over the hill, and the stranger jumped on his back, and ses, ‘Good-by,’ ses he, ‘till we meet again in the Valley of the Dead on the Judgment Day.’“And then the White Horse of Banba scampered along the rugged pathway with the wailing banshee at his heels, until the top of the cliff was reached, and before I could realize what had happened, he plunged into the dark waters,’ said Padna.“‘I hope it will be many a long day before eitherof us will be taken to the world next door,” said Micus.“I hope so too,” said Padna.“I wonder is the decanter empty,” said Micus.“Not yet,” said Padna.Rebellions“Come in and sit down by the fire, and don’t stand shivering there at the door,” said Padna Dan to his neighbor, Micus Pat. “One would think you were afraid to be natural.”“I’m only afraid of myself and my own foolishness,” answered Micus. “So I’ll go in and sit down. On a cold night, there’s nothing like a good fire, a pipe of tobacco, a cheerful companion, and a faithful dog to lie at your feet. ’Tis better than being married a hundred times. Marriage should be the last thought in any sensible man’s head.”“Married men,” said Padna, “are very tiresome people. They are ever either boasting about their wives and children or else abusing them. And married women are always worse than their husbands. A woman becomes a tyrantwhen she knows her husband is afraid of her, and a good wife when she is afraid of him, and when both are afraid of each other the children are afraid of neither. And children that aren’t afraid of their parents get married young and always to the wrong people. But as people who want to get married will get married, then let them get married and enjoy themselves if they like trouble. I’ve been trying to keep out of trouble all my lifetime, and no one has ever failed so successfully,” said Micus.“There’s only one way to keep out of trouble,” said Padna.“And what way is that?”“Well, by either drowning, hanging, or poisoning yourself.”“I’d rather fall from an aeroplane, or die a respectable death and have my name in the papers, than do anything so common as drowning or hanging myself, if I was trying to escape from marrying a widow.”“Wisha, when all is said and done, the longest life is so short that ’tis only a fool, or maybe a verywise man, that would make it any shorter. When we fall out of the cradle, we almost fall into the grave, so to speak, and unless we are either very bad or very good, we’re forgotten before the grass commences to sprout above us.”“A graveyard is a great place surely, for grass to grow and flowers to bloom, and for ghosts to take the fresh air for themselves, but the last place to go for a rest.”“And the only place for a poor man. Because there’s no rest in life, except for the very stupid people and the philosophers.”“And what’s the difference between a stupid man and a philosopher?”“The stupid man is naturally easy in his mind because of his wonderful gift from providence, and the philosopher pretends that you are a wise man, when you know that you are only one of the many poor fools sent astray in this world, without the least notion where your wandering footsteps may lead you to, or your preaching lead others.”“And isn’t it philosophy that keeps the world together?”“No, ’tis not philosophy, but pride, and pride that pulls it asunder, and pride that makes hell and heaven. Pride is the net that the Devil goes fishing with.”“The world must be full of fools then, because I can’t understand myself or any one else, and I never met any one who could understand me.”“If a man could understand himself, he’d die of wisdom, and if he could understand his friend, he’d become his enemy.”“And what would happen if a man could understand his enemy?”“Well, then, he’d be so wise that he’d never get married.”“We’ll try and forget the women for a while, and talk a little about the other wonders of the world. There’s nothing more extraordinary than the patience of married men. The world is full of wonders, police, clergy, and public houses. But what I do be wondering most about at the close of day is, how did all the stars get into the sky?”“Well, well, to be sure! There’s ignorance for you! Didn’t you ever hear tell of the night of the big wind?”“Of course, I did.”“That was the night the earth was blown about in the heavens the way you’d see a piece of paper in the month of March. She was carried from one place to another, until, lo and behold! she struck the moon a wallop and shattered her highest mountains into smithereens, and all the pieces that fell into the sky were turned into the stars you see floating about on frosty nights.”“And did she strike the sun at all in her travels?”“How could the earth strike the sun, you omadhaun?”“It should be as easy to strike the sun as the moon, but how she could strike either is more than any one will ever be able to understand, I’m thinking.”“‘Pon my word, but you’re the most ignorant man one could meet in a year of Saturdays. Don’t you know that the sun is a round hole inthe floor of Heaven through which all the fairies and politicians fell the night of the rebellion?”“And was there a rebellion in Heaven?”“Wisha, what kind of a man are you not to know all these things? Sure, there’s rebellions everywhere.”“What kind of a rebellion do you refer to?”“Well, there are only two kinds, though there’s no difference between them.”“And what are they?”“Rebellions with a reason and rebellions without a reason.”“And why should there be rebellions at all?”“Well, because when people get tired of being good they become bad, and when they get tired of being bad they become good.”“I hope I’ll never be in a rebellion,” said Micus.“Rebellions are the salt of life,” said Padna. “Only for the rebellion in Heaven, we wouldn’t be here to-day enjoying ourselves at the expense of our neighbors. Don’t you know that we are to take the place of the fallen angels and that we must win the respect of St. Peter and St. Patrickby our courageous behavior? I’m never happy only when I’m in the thick of battle, and the only music that charms me is the thunderous cannonading of the enemy. That’s the time that I have the courage of a lion, the grace and power of an elephant, and the fire of hell withal in my eye, ready to conquer or die for my convictions. The man who can’t feel and act like a hero should—What noise is that?”“Only your wife scolding some one outside the door,” answered Micus.“’Tis her voice, surely. Then be off with yourself by the back door, for ’tis ten by the clock, and mind the dog in the haggard while I’ll put out the light and go to bed,” said Padna.

Ham and Eggs“Wisha, in the name of all the nonentities that a man meets at a fancy dress ball, or a lawn tennis party,” said Padna to Micus, as he saw him holding a lantern over a pool of water, on a dark night, at the crossroads of Carrignamore, “what are you doing, at all, at all?”“I’m looking for the moon that was here in the pool, less than an hour ago, and a more beautiful moon was never seen in any part of the whole world,” said Micus.“Well,” said Padna, “if ’twas twice as beautiful, and twice as large, and the size of a Chinese sunshade inself, you’d have no more chance of finding it on a dark night like this, than you’d have of finding a circus at the North Pole, or discovering why women will worry about their husbands when they stay out late at night, andthen abuse the devil out of them when they come in, even though they had to stay out through no fault of their own.”“What you say may be true,” said Micus, “but ’tis better a man should have an interest in astronomy or something else, and go looking for the moon in a pool of water at the crossroads, than have no interest in anything at all, except killing time talking about the wars of the world, or the ways of his neighbours. And sure if a man couldn’t find the moon inself, he might find something else while he’d be looking for it.”“Bedad, and that’s true enough too! Many a man found happiness when he went looking for trouble, and many a man found trouble when he went looking for happiness, and a man often found a friend where he expected to find an enemy, and found an enemy where he expected to find a friend,” said Padna.“In a word, we go through life looking for what we can’t find, and finding what we didn’t go to look for. Think of poor Columbus, and what he found, and he not looking for America,at all. Sure, that sort of thing would encourage any one to set out on a voyage of adventure, even though he mightn’t know where he’d be going to, or what he might be doing,” said Micus.“Talking about findings and losings, and strange happenings in general, I wonder if you ever heard tell of the bishop who took off his hat to a poor man,” said Padna.“I did not, then, and I don’t believe a word of it either,” said Micus.“Oh, bedad, whether you believe it or no, ’tis a fact, then, nevertheless,” said Padna.“Well, it must have been a mistake of some kind, or maybe an accident. ’Tis possible, of course, that His Lordship took off his hat to leave the air to his head when the poor man was passing, but I can’t imagine that he removed it for any other purpose, unless, maybe, a wasp, or a fly settled on his bald crown. In that case he would take off his hat to scratch his head,” said Micus.“If you don’t believe what I’m telling you, there’s no use going on with the story,” said Padna.“There is not then. But surely,” said Micus, “you must have something else to relate, and I not to lay eyes on you since Monday was a week.”“I have another story, if you’d like to hear it,” said Padna.“Of course, I’d like to hear it. What is it all about?”“’Tis all about a pig and a clucking hen,” said Padna.“Let us take the shortest cut home, and I’ll listen to the story as we walk along. And ’tis glad I am that I went looking for the moon, this blessed night, else I mightn’t have found yourself, and I dying to have a talk with some one,” said Micus.“Well,” said Padna, as he sauntered leisurely along with his friend Micus, who kept swinging a lantern, “on my way home from market yesterday evening, as the sun was sinking behind the hills, I strolled along the road that leads to Five Mile Bridge, and I felt so tired after the journey from Cork to Ballinabearna that I was compelled to say to myself: ‘Padna,’ ses I, ‘why the devildon’t you be sensible once in a while, and take a rest for yourself when you feel tired? What’s the use in wearing yourself out, and causing yourself unnecessary pain and torture, when in a few short years you will be as dead as decency, or disinterested kindness, which is no less than one and the same thing. And once you are dead, you are dead for ever and ever, and no one will bother their heads about you, or care whether you lived or not, or just existed, by trying to please every one but yourself. The man who tries to please everybody,’ ses I to myself, ‘won’t live half as long as one of the aristocracy, who don’t care where the money comes from so long as he has it to spend.’ And when all that was said, I then up and ses: ‘Padna,’ ses I, ‘that’s good sound advice, and don’t forget what I have told you.’ And then and there I made one jump and landed on top of a ditch, and as I looked over my shoulder into the field behind, what did I see but a pig and a clucking hen, and they exchanging salutations. And then they began to talk and this is what I heard:“‘Good evening,’ ses the pig.“‘Good evening kindly and good luck. How are you feeling to-day?’ ses the hen.“‘Just about the same as ever,’ ses the pig. ‘Sure, ’tis a sad world for us all!’“‘’Tis, God help us!’ ses the hen. ‘But don’t start me crying again, this sorrowful day, for ’tis myself who has shed a bucketful of tears, since my poor grandmother was choked this morning.’“‘I wouldn’t be crying about that, if I were you,’ ses the pig. ‘Sure, ’tis as good to be choked as to have your head cut off with a rusty knife.’“‘’Tisn’t about that in particular that I have fumed and worried, and wept so copiously,’ ses the hen.“‘And about what then?’ ses the pig.“‘About everything in general. The ingratitude of man, the presumption and assumption of women, and the consumption of ham and eggs,’ ses the hen.“‘Ah, wisha, God knows,’ ses the pig, ‘you couldn’t waste your tears over a more worthyand likewise unworthy object. And like the pessimist that I am, myself, ’tis but little respect that I have for man or woman either. Only for the fact that I have still some pride left, and wouldn’t like to disgrace my own family, I’d end my miserable existence by committing suicide, and drown myself in the horse pond.’“‘If you were to do the likes of that, you would sin against tradition, and only be sold as sausages. Whereas, if you were to die a natural death by strangulation, amputation of the head, or bisection of the windpipe, you would be sent to the best butcher’s shop in the town, and the different parts of your anatomy would be sold at the very highest rates, the same as all your family, relations and ancestors,’ ses the hen.“‘Don’t mention my family or my ancestors to me. They were all snobs, each and every one of them,—father, mother, sisters, and brothers. ’Twas little respect they ever had for myself, and always said that I was only fit to be used for sausages, anyway. As though, indeed, I didn’t come of as good a stock as the best of them.’“‘I often heard that you came of very respectable people,’ ses the hen.“‘Respectable isn’t the name for them belonging to me. There were gentry, and no less, in our family.’“‘Is that so?’ ses the hen.“‘Yes, indeed, it is,’ ses the pig. ‘’Twas a piece of my great-great-great-great-grandfather’s great-grandfather that gave Napoleon indigestion before Waterloo. And that’s how he lost the day by giving wrong orders to his generals,’ ses the pig.“‘And ’twas from eating a bad egg,’ ses the hen, ‘that King George got the hiccoughs, and fell from his horse while reviewing his troops in France. And that’s how he won the Victoria Cross and got a rise of two and tuppence a week in his wages. Howsomever, be that as it may, ’tis a pension yourself should have from the German and English Governments, instead of earning your living by eating yourself to death, so to speak. An aristocrat of your social standing should be living on some one else’s money, and your time shouldbe divided between sleeping and eating, like all the other members of the fraternity.’“‘Oh,’ ses the pig, ‘my associates and equals wouldn’t think of recognising me, unless I was fully dressed for dinner at some fashionable hotel or restaurant.’“‘Fully dressed!’ ses the hen. ‘With bread crumbs on your hind quarters, you mean?’“‘Yes,’ ses the pig.“‘Well,’ ses the hen, ‘I come of good stock myself. The members of my family always supplied eggs to the King of Spain, the Mayor of Boston, and the Royalty of England and America.’“‘Wisha,’ ses the pig, ‘what are a few eggs, even when they are fresh inself, compared to a fine ham, two pork chops, a soft crubeen, or a flitch of bacon, boiled down with plenty of cabbage, and set before a battalion of hungry policemen on a cold winter’s day?’“‘Oh,’ ses the hen, ‘no one would think of eating bacon and cabbage all the time, while eggs are always in season. But ’tisn’t quarreling about such a trifle that we should be, when wehave no great grievance against ourselves, but against mankind in general.’“‘The inconsistency of mankind is disgusting, to say the very least of it,’ ses the pig. ‘Every one from the king to the beggar has a bad word to say for the pig. We stand for all that’s contemptible, loathsome and vile, and yet the most delicate and refined people will always call for ham and eggs, in the morning, in preference to anything else. And if one of those genteel young men who might have had my poor grandmother’s liver for supper, was to meet myself on the road, and he with a young lady by his side, and she as fond of ham and eggs as himself, neither of them would bid me the time of day, or ask how I might be, or say as much as go to Belgium, or anything at all, but make disparaging remarks about my idiosyncracies.’“‘And think of myself,’ ses the hen. ‘I that have laid more eggs than you could count in a lifetime, and I have reared five large families, besides. And the day I can’t lay any more, I’ll be killed by some caubogue of a churn boy,and sold to some landlady who boards tramps, navvies, and all kinds of traveling tinkers. I wouldn’t mind inself if I went to nourish and sustain some decent people, who could appreciate the tender parts of my constitution. Or if I could be like my poor father, who was killed with a new razor, stuffed with bread and currants, roasted on a spit, and exhibited in a shop window before Christmas.’“‘Ah! we live in a thoughtless and heartless world!’ ses the pig.“‘I know it,’ ses the hen. ‘Only about one in every ten thousand has either the power or the privilege of thinking for themselves.’“‘Everything seems to go by contrary. Take the decent people,—the Jews, for instance. They have no respect for the members of my family, but they are consistent. They wouldn’t write their name, or my epitaph, on my back with a hot poker, and make fun of my table manners, and then go home and have pork for dinner and say ’twas worth walking to America for,’ ses the pig.“‘Nevertheless,’ ses the hen, ‘when I think of what yourself and myself does for mankind, and the poor return we get, I feel proud to know that we can be of service to those who don’t and can’t appreciate us.’“‘Yes, indeed, and so do I,’ ses the pig. ‘What would life be to most people without their ham and eggs every morning, and the newspaper thrown in. And a cigar never tastes sweeter than after a good feed of spare ribs and yellow turnips.’“‘Or even sausages,’ ses the hen.“‘I object to sausages and salt meat in general, because it makes people cranky and disputatious,’ ses the pig.“‘Of course,’ ses the hen, ‘there’s no doubt but we do a lot of good, though we have been neglected. And it makes my heart bleed, when I think of the stupidity of man and his perverted sense of honour. After all those years of preaching and reform, no poet has ever written an ode to a hen or a pig, and all the poets liked their ham and eggs. There was Shakespeare himself,—people thought he forgot nothing, or what heforgot wasn’t worth remembering, but where’s the mention of either hens or pigs in all his highly respected works?’“’Tis no wonder there is war in the world to-day,’ ses the pig.“‘Indeed it is not, when married men will spend all their money on finery for their wives, so that they can look better than they really are, and elope with other women’s husbands. Sure, only for the motherly instinct that’s in myself, I would leave my family of ducklings and die by my own hand, but I don’t want one of them to be neglected and feel the pangs of adversity, like yourself and myself,’ ses the hen.“‘’Tis instinct rather than reason that guides most people. If we were always to act reasonably, people would think we had no sense, at all. However, there’s a compensation in all things, and we can enjoy ourselves in our own old way. And while it is a great consolation to know that we can do a lot of good, it is a greater consolation still to know that we can do a lot of harm as well,’ ses the pig.“‘Like myself, you share the same sentiments as all good and pious people. The satisfaction of doing harm is the only enjoyment some of us receive for doing good, when our kindness is not appreciated,’ ses the hen.“‘When I think of all those who suffer from dyspepsia after eating my friends and relations, I ses to myself: “Well, things could be worse even for such as my humble self. You mightn’t have the satisfaction of knowing that there was such a thing as indigestion.” And when I think of what people must pay for pork chops, in a restaurant after the theatre at night, and how they must suffer from cramps, pains in the stomach, and a bursting headache next morning, well then I feel as happy as a wife when she is abusing her fool of a husband for giving her too much of her own way,’ ses the pig.“‘And when I consider the little nourishment there is in cold storage eggs, and the price the poor lodgers must pay their landladies for them, I feel like dancing a jig on a milestone. And whenever I hear of some one eating a bad egg,disguised by frying it hard in margarine, and seasoning it with salt and pepper, I takes a holiday for myself. Ptomaine poisoning is as good as cramps, or pains in the head, at any time,’ ses the hen.“‘Of course, when we are really hungry, we don’t care what we eat. I have eaten pieces of my relatives and friends dozen of times, when they were mixed with my food, but to tell the truth it never gave me any trouble. And in many respects I am no better and no worse than those who don’t care how they make their living, so long as they have what they want,’ ses the pig.“And then two farmers came on the scene, and one ses to the other, as he pointed to the pig with a stick: ‘How much do you want for the beast?’ ses he.“‘As much as he will fetch,’ ses the owner.“‘One would think ’twas a work of art you were trying to dispose of,’ ses the man with the stick. ‘I’ll give you the market price and not a ha’penny more.’“‘Very well,’ ses the owner, ‘I’m satisfied.’“‘And what do you want for that old hen?’ ses the man with the stick.“‘Oh,’ ses the owner, ‘she is no more use to me, and for that reason I must charge you ten or a hundred times her legitimate value. She is an antique. You can have her for ten shillings, and be under a compliment to me for my decency, besides.’“‘I’ll owe you the money,’ ses the man with the stick, ‘so that you won’t forget your generosity.’ And with that they walked away, and I jumped off the ditch and turned home,” said Micus.“’Tis a queer world,” said Padna.“A queer world, surely!” said Micus.

Ham and Eggs

“Wisha, in the name of all the nonentities that a man meets at a fancy dress ball, or a lawn tennis party,” said Padna to Micus, as he saw him holding a lantern over a pool of water, on a dark night, at the crossroads of Carrignamore, “what are you doing, at all, at all?”“I’m looking for the moon that was here in the pool, less than an hour ago, and a more beautiful moon was never seen in any part of the whole world,” said Micus.“Well,” said Padna, “if ’twas twice as beautiful, and twice as large, and the size of a Chinese sunshade inself, you’d have no more chance of finding it on a dark night like this, than you’d have of finding a circus at the North Pole, or discovering why women will worry about their husbands when they stay out late at night, andthen abuse the devil out of them when they come in, even though they had to stay out through no fault of their own.”“What you say may be true,” said Micus, “but ’tis better a man should have an interest in astronomy or something else, and go looking for the moon in a pool of water at the crossroads, than have no interest in anything at all, except killing time talking about the wars of the world, or the ways of his neighbours. And sure if a man couldn’t find the moon inself, he might find something else while he’d be looking for it.”“Bedad, and that’s true enough too! Many a man found happiness when he went looking for trouble, and many a man found trouble when he went looking for happiness, and a man often found a friend where he expected to find an enemy, and found an enemy where he expected to find a friend,” said Padna.“In a word, we go through life looking for what we can’t find, and finding what we didn’t go to look for. Think of poor Columbus, and what he found, and he not looking for America,at all. Sure, that sort of thing would encourage any one to set out on a voyage of adventure, even though he mightn’t know where he’d be going to, or what he might be doing,” said Micus.“Talking about findings and losings, and strange happenings in general, I wonder if you ever heard tell of the bishop who took off his hat to a poor man,” said Padna.“I did not, then, and I don’t believe a word of it either,” said Micus.“Oh, bedad, whether you believe it or no, ’tis a fact, then, nevertheless,” said Padna.“Well, it must have been a mistake of some kind, or maybe an accident. ’Tis possible, of course, that His Lordship took off his hat to leave the air to his head when the poor man was passing, but I can’t imagine that he removed it for any other purpose, unless, maybe, a wasp, or a fly settled on his bald crown. In that case he would take off his hat to scratch his head,” said Micus.“If you don’t believe what I’m telling you, there’s no use going on with the story,” said Padna.“There is not then. But surely,” said Micus, “you must have something else to relate, and I not to lay eyes on you since Monday was a week.”“I have another story, if you’d like to hear it,” said Padna.“Of course, I’d like to hear it. What is it all about?”“’Tis all about a pig and a clucking hen,” said Padna.“Let us take the shortest cut home, and I’ll listen to the story as we walk along. And ’tis glad I am that I went looking for the moon, this blessed night, else I mightn’t have found yourself, and I dying to have a talk with some one,” said Micus.“Well,” said Padna, as he sauntered leisurely along with his friend Micus, who kept swinging a lantern, “on my way home from market yesterday evening, as the sun was sinking behind the hills, I strolled along the road that leads to Five Mile Bridge, and I felt so tired after the journey from Cork to Ballinabearna that I was compelled to say to myself: ‘Padna,’ ses I, ‘why the devildon’t you be sensible once in a while, and take a rest for yourself when you feel tired? What’s the use in wearing yourself out, and causing yourself unnecessary pain and torture, when in a few short years you will be as dead as decency, or disinterested kindness, which is no less than one and the same thing. And once you are dead, you are dead for ever and ever, and no one will bother their heads about you, or care whether you lived or not, or just existed, by trying to please every one but yourself. The man who tries to please everybody,’ ses I to myself, ‘won’t live half as long as one of the aristocracy, who don’t care where the money comes from so long as he has it to spend.’ And when all that was said, I then up and ses: ‘Padna,’ ses I, ‘that’s good sound advice, and don’t forget what I have told you.’ And then and there I made one jump and landed on top of a ditch, and as I looked over my shoulder into the field behind, what did I see but a pig and a clucking hen, and they exchanging salutations. And then they began to talk and this is what I heard:“‘Good evening,’ ses the pig.“‘Good evening kindly and good luck. How are you feeling to-day?’ ses the hen.“‘Just about the same as ever,’ ses the pig. ‘Sure, ’tis a sad world for us all!’“‘’Tis, God help us!’ ses the hen. ‘But don’t start me crying again, this sorrowful day, for ’tis myself who has shed a bucketful of tears, since my poor grandmother was choked this morning.’“‘I wouldn’t be crying about that, if I were you,’ ses the pig. ‘Sure, ’tis as good to be choked as to have your head cut off with a rusty knife.’“‘’Tisn’t about that in particular that I have fumed and worried, and wept so copiously,’ ses the hen.“‘And about what then?’ ses the pig.“‘About everything in general. The ingratitude of man, the presumption and assumption of women, and the consumption of ham and eggs,’ ses the hen.“‘Ah, wisha, God knows,’ ses the pig, ‘you couldn’t waste your tears over a more worthyand likewise unworthy object. And like the pessimist that I am, myself, ’tis but little respect that I have for man or woman either. Only for the fact that I have still some pride left, and wouldn’t like to disgrace my own family, I’d end my miserable existence by committing suicide, and drown myself in the horse pond.’“‘If you were to do the likes of that, you would sin against tradition, and only be sold as sausages. Whereas, if you were to die a natural death by strangulation, amputation of the head, or bisection of the windpipe, you would be sent to the best butcher’s shop in the town, and the different parts of your anatomy would be sold at the very highest rates, the same as all your family, relations and ancestors,’ ses the hen.“‘Don’t mention my family or my ancestors to me. They were all snobs, each and every one of them,—father, mother, sisters, and brothers. ’Twas little respect they ever had for myself, and always said that I was only fit to be used for sausages, anyway. As though, indeed, I didn’t come of as good a stock as the best of them.’“‘I often heard that you came of very respectable people,’ ses the hen.“‘Respectable isn’t the name for them belonging to me. There were gentry, and no less, in our family.’“‘Is that so?’ ses the hen.“‘Yes, indeed, it is,’ ses the pig. ‘’Twas a piece of my great-great-great-great-grandfather’s great-grandfather that gave Napoleon indigestion before Waterloo. And that’s how he lost the day by giving wrong orders to his generals,’ ses the pig.“‘And ’twas from eating a bad egg,’ ses the hen, ‘that King George got the hiccoughs, and fell from his horse while reviewing his troops in France. And that’s how he won the Victoria Cross and got a rise of two and tuppence a week in his wages. Howsomever, be that as it may, ’tis a pension yourself should have from the German and English Governments, instead of earning your living by eating yourself to death, so to speak. An aristocrat of your social standing should be living on some one else’s money, and your time shouldbe divided between sleeping and eating, like all the other members of the fraternity.’“‘Oh,’ ses the pig, ‘my associates and equals wouldn’t think of recognising me, unless I was fully dressed for dinner at some fashionable hotel or restaurant.’“‘Fully dressed!’ ses the hen. ‘With bread crumbs on your hind quarters, you mean?’“‘Yes,’ ses the pig.“‘Well,’ ses the hen, ‘I come of good stock myself. The members of my family always supplied eggs to the King of Spain, the Mayor of Boston, and the Royalty of England and America.’“‘Wisha,’ ses the pig, ‘what are a few eggs, even when they are fresh inself, compared to a fine ham, two pork chops, a soft crubeen, or a flitch of bacon, boiled down with plenty of cabbage, and set before a battalion of hungry policemen on a cold winter’s day?’“‘Oh,’ ses the hen, ‘no one would think of eating bacon and cabbage all the time, while eggs are always in season. But ’tisn’t quarreling about such a trifle that we should be, when wehave no great grievance against ourselves, but against mankind in general.’“‘The inconsistency of mankind is disgusting, to say the very least of it,’ ses the pig. ‘Every one from the king to the beggar has a bad word to say for the pig. We stand for all that’s contemptible, loathsome and vile, and yet the most delicate and refined people will always call for ham and eggs, in the morning, in preference to anything else. And if one of those genteel young men who might have had my poor grandmother’s liver for supper, was to meet myself on the road, and he with a young lady by his side, and she as fond of ham and eggs as himself, neither of them would bid me the time of day, or ask how I might be, or say as much as go to Belgium, or anything at all, but make disparaging remarks about my idiosyncracies.’“‘And think of myself,’ ses the hen. ‘I that have laid more eggs than you could count in a lifetime, and I have reared five large families, besides. And the day I can’t lay any more, I’ll be killed by some caubogue of a churn boy,and sold to some landlady who boards tramps, navvies, and all kinds of traveling tinkers. I wouldn’t mind inself if I went to nourish and sustain some decent people, who could appreciate the tender parts of my constitution. Or if I could be like my poor father, who was killed with a new razor, stuffed with bread and currants, roasted on a spit, and exhibited in a shop window before Christmas.’“‘Ah! we live in a thoughtless and heartless world!’ ses the pig.“‘I know it,’ ses the hen. ‘Only about one in every ten thousand has either the power or the privilege of thinking for themselves.’“‘Everything seems to go by contrary. Take the decent people,—the Jews, for instance. They have no respect for the members of my family, but they are consistent. They wouldn’t write their name, or my epitaph, on my back with a hot poker, and make fun of my table manners, and then go home and have pork for dinner and say ’twas worth walking to America for,’ ses the pig.“‘Nevertheless,’ ses the hen, ‘when I think of what yourself and myself does for mankind, and the poor return we get, I feel proud to know that we can be of service to those who don’t and can’t appreciate us.’“‘Yes, indeed, and so do I,’ ses the pig. ‘What would life be to most people without their ham and eggs every morning, and the newspaper thrown in. And a cigar never tastes sweeter than after a good feed of spare ribs and yellow turnips.’“‘Or even sausages,’ ses the hen.“‘I object to sausages and salt meat in general, because it makes people cranky and disputatious,’ ses the pig.“‘Of course,’ ses the hen, ‘there’s no doubt but we do a lot of good, though we have been neglected. And it makes my heart bleed, when I think of the stupidity of man and his perverted sense of honour. After all those years of preaching and reform, no poet has ever written an ode to a hen or a pig, and all the poets liked their ham and eggs. There was Shakespeare himself,—people thought he forgot nothing, or what heforgot wasn’t worth remembering, but where’s the mention of either hens or pigs in all his highly respected works?’“’Tis no wonder there is war in the world to-day,’ ses the pig.“‘Indeed it is not, when married men will spend all their money on finery for their wives, so that they can look better than they really are, and elope with other women’s husbands. Sure, only for the motherly instinct that’s in myself, I would leave my family of ducklings and die by my own hand, but I don’t want one of them to be neglected and feel the pangs of adversity, like yourself and myself,’ ses the hen.“‘’Tis instinct rather than reason that guides most people. If we were always to act reasonably, people would think we had no sense, at all. However, there’s a compensation in all things, and we can enjoy ourselves in our own old way. And while it is a great consolation to know that we can do a lot of good, it is a greater consolation still to know that we can do a lot of harm as well,’ ses the pig.“‘Like myself, you share the same sentiments as all good and pious people. The satisfaction of doing harm is the only enjoyment some of us receive for doing good, when our kindness is not appreciated,’ ses the hen.“‘When I think of all those who suffer from dyspepsia after eating my friends and relations, I ses to myself: “Well, things could be worse even for such as my humble self. You mightn’t have the satisfaction of knowing that there was such a thing as indigestion.” And when I think of what people must pay for pork chops, in a restaurant after the theatre at night, and how they must suffer from cramps, pains in the stomach, and a bursting headache next morning, well then I feel as happy as a wife when she is abusing her fool of a husband for giving her too much of her own way,’ ses the pig.“‘And when I consider the little nourishment there is in cold storage eggs, and the price the poor lodgers must pay their landladies for them, I feel like dancing a jig on a milestone. And whenever I hear of some one eating a bad egg,disguised by frying it hard in margarine, and seasoning it with salt and pepper, I takes a holiday for myself. Ptomaine poisoning is as good as cramps, or pains in the head, at any time,’ ses the hen.“‘Of course, when we are really hungry, we don’t care what we eat. I have eaten pieces of my relatives and friends dozen of times, when they were mixed with my food, but to tell the truth it never gave me any trouble. And in many respects I am no better and no worse than those who don’t care how they make their living, so long as they have what they want,’ ses the pig.“And then two farmers came on the scene, and one ses to the other, as he pointed to the pig with a stick: ‘How much do you want for the beast?’ ses he.“‘As much as he will fetch,’ ses the owner.“‘One would think ’twas a work of art you were trying to dispose of,’ ses the man with the stick. ‘I’ll give you the market price and not a ha’penny more.’“‘Very well,’ ses the owner, ‘I’m satisfied.’“‘And what do you want for that old hen?’ ses the man with the stick.“‘Oh,’ ses the owner, ‘she is no more use to me, and for that reason I must charge you ten or a hundred times her legitimate value. She is an antique. You can have her for ten shillings, and be under a compliment to me for my decency, besides.’“‘I’ll owe you the money,’ ses the man with the stick, ‘so that you won’t forget your generosity.’ And with that they walked away, and I jumped off the ditch and turned home,” said Micus.“’Tis a queer world,” said Padna.“A queer world, surely!” said Micus.

“Wisha, in the name of all the nonentities that a man meets at a fancy dress ball, or a lawn tennis party,” said Padna to Micus, as he saw him holding a lantern over a pool of water, on a dark night, at the crossroads of Carrignamore, “what are you doing, at all, at all?”

“I’m looking for the moon that was here in the pool, less than an hour ago, and a more beautiful moon was never seen in any part of the whole world,” said Micus.

“Well,” said Padna, “if ’twas twice as beautiful, and twice as large, and the size of a Chinese sunshade inself, you’d have no more chance of finding it on a dark night like this, than you’d have of finding a circus at the North Pole, or discovering why women will worry about their husbands when they stay out late at night, andthen abuse the devil out of them when they come in, even though they had to stay out through no fault of their own.”

“What you say may be true,” said Micus, “but ’tis better a man should have an interest in astronomy or something else, and go looking for the moon in a pool of water at the crossroads, than have no interest in anything at all, except killing time talking about the wars of the world, or the ways of his neighbours. And sure if a man couldn’t find the moon inself, he might find something else while he’d be looking for it.”

“Bedad, and that’s true enough too! Many a man found happiness when he went looking for trouble, and many a man found trouble when he went looking for happiness, and a man often found a friend where he expected to find an enemy, and found an enemy where he expected to find a friend,” said Padna.

“In a word, we go through life looking for what we can’t find, and finding what we didn’t go to look for. Think of poor Columbus, and what he found, and he not looking for America,at all. Sure, that sort of thing would encourage any one to set out on a voyage of adventure, even though he mightn’t know where he’d be going to, or what he might be doing,” said Micus.

“Talking about findings and losings, and strange happenings in general, I wonder if you ever heard tell of the bishop who took off his hat to a poor man,” said Padna.

“I did not, then, and I don’t believe a word of it either,” said Micus.

“Oh, bedad, whether you believe it or no, ’tis a fact, then, nevertheless,” said Padna.

“Well, it must have been a mistake of some kind, or maybe an accident. ’Tis possible, of course, that His Lordship took off his hat to leave the air to his head when the poor man was passing, but I can’t imagine that he removed it for any other purpose, unless, maybe, a wasp, or a fly settled on his bald crown. In that case he would take off his hat to scratch his head,” said Micus.

“If you don’t believe what I’m telling you, there’s no use going on with the story,” said Padna.

“There is not then. But surely,” said Micus, “you must have something else to relate, and I not to lay eyes on you since Monday was a week.”

“I have another story, if you’d like to hear it,” said Padna.

“Of course, I’d like to hear it. What is it all about?”

“’Tis all about a pig and a clucking hen,” said Padna.

“Let us take the shortest cut home, and I’ll listen to the story as we walk along. And ’tis glad I am that I went looking for the moon, this blessed night, else I mightn’t have found yourself, and I dying to have a talk with some one,” said Micus.

“Well,” said Padna, as he sauntered leisurely along with his friend Micus, who kept swinging a lantern, “on my way home from market yesterday evening, as the sun was sinking behind the hills, I strolled along the road that leads to Five Mile Bridge, and I felt so tired after the journey from Cork to Ballinabearna that I was compelled to say to myself: ‘Padna,’ ses I, ‘why the devildon’t you be sensible once in a while, and take a rest for yourself when you feel tired? What’s the use in wearing yourself out, and causing yourself unnecessary pain and torture, when in a few short years you will be as dead as decency, or disinterested kindness, which is no less than one and the same thing. And once you are dead, you are dead for ever and ever, and no one will bother their heads about you, or care whether you lived or not, or just existed, by trying to please every one but yourself. The man who tries to please everybody,’ ses I to myself, ‘won’t live half as long as one of the aristocracy, who don’t care where the money comes from so long as he has it to spend.’ And when all that was said, I then up and ses: ‘Padna,’ ses I, ‘that’s good sound advice, and don’t forget what I have told you.’ And then and there I made one jump and landed on top of a ditch, and as I looked over my shoulder into the field behind, what did I see but a pig and a clucking hen, and they exchanging salutations. And then they began to talk and this is what I heard:

“‘Good evening,’ ses the pig.

“‘Good evening kindly and good luck. How are you feeling to-day?’ ses the hen.

“‘Just about the same as ever,’ ses the pig. ‘Sure, ’tis a sad world for us all!’

“‘’Tis, God help us!’ ses the hen. ‘But don’t start me crying again, this sorrowful day, for ’tis myself who has shed a bucketful of tears, since my poor grandmother was choked this morning.’

“‘I wouldn’t be crying about that, if I were you,’ ses the pig. ‘Sure, ’tis as good to be choked as to have your head cut off with a rusty knife.’

“‘’Tisn’t about that in particular that I have fumed and worried, and wept so copiously,’ ses the hen.

“‘And about what then?’ ses the pig.

“‘About everything in general. The ingratitude of man, the presumption and assumption of women, and the consumption of ham and eggs,’ ses the hen.

“‘Ah, wisha, God knows,’ ses the pig, ‘you couldn’t waste your tears over a more worthyand likewise unworthy object. And like the pessimist that I am, myself, ’tis but little respect that I have for man or woman either. Only for the fact that I have still some pride left, and wouldn’t like to disgrace my own family, I’d end my miserable existence by committing suicide, and drown myself in the horse pond.’

“‘If you were to do the likes of that, you would sin against tradition, and only be sold as sausages. Whereas, if you were to die a natural death by strangulation, amputation of the head, or bisection of the windpipe, you would be sent to the best butcher’s shop in the town, and the different parts of your anatomy would be sold at the very highest rates, the same as all your family, relations and ancestors,’ ses the hen.

“‘Don’t mention my family or my ancestors to me. They were all snobs, each and every one of them,—father, mother, sisters, and brothers. ’Twas little respect they ever had for myself, and always said that I was only fit to be used for sausages, anyway. As though, indeed, I didn’t come of as good a stock as the best of them.’

“‘I often heard that you came of very respectable people,’ ses the hen.

“‘Respectable isn’t the name for them belonging to me. There were gentry, and no less, in our family.’

“‘Is that so?’ ses the hen.

“‘Yes, indeed, it is,’ ses the pig. ‘’Twas a piece of my great-great-great-great-grandfather’s great-grandfather that gave Napoleon indigestion before Waterloo. And that’s how he lost the day by giving wrong orders to his generals,’ ses the pig.

“‘And ’twas from eating a bad egg,’ ses the hen, ‘that King George got the hiccoughs, and fell from his horse while reviewing his troops in France. And that’s how he won the Victoria Cross and got a rise of two and tuppence a week in his wages. Howsomever, be that as it may, ’tis a pension yourself should have from the German and English Governments, instead of earning your living by eating yourself to death, so to speak. An aristocrat of your social standing should be living on some one else’s money, and your time shouldbe divided between sleeping and eating, like all the other members of the fraternity.’

“‘Oh,’ ses the pig, ‘my associates and equals wouldn’t think of recognising me, unless I was fully dressed for dinner at some fashionable hotel or restaurant.’

“‘Fully dressed!’ ses the hen. ‘With bread crumbs on your hind quarters, you mean?’

“‘Yes,’ ses the pig.

“‘Well,’ ses the hen, ‘I come of good stock myself. The members of my family always supplied eggs to the King of Spain, the Mayor of Boston, and the Royalty of England and America.’

“‘Wisha,’ ses the pig, ‘what are a few eggs, even when they are fresh inself, compared to a fine ham, two pork chops, a soft crubeen, or a flitch of bacon, boiled down with plenty of cabbage, and set before a battalion of hungry policemen on a cold winter’s day?’

“‘Oh,’ ses the hen, ‘no one would think of eating bacon and cabbage all the time, while eggs are always in season. But ’tisn’t quarreling about such a trifle that we should be, when wehave no great grievance against ourselves, but against mankind in general.’

“‘The inconsistency of mankind is disgusting, to say the very least of it,’ ses the pig. ‘Every one from the king to the beggar has a bad word to say for the pig. We stand for all that’s contemptible, loathsome and vile, and yet the most delicate and refined people will always call for ham and eggs, in the morning, in preference to anything else. And if one of those genteel young men who might have had my poor grandmother’s liver for supper, was to meet myself on the road, and he with a young lady by his side, and she as fond of ham and eggs as himself, neither of them would bid me the time of day, or ask how I might be, or say as much as go to Belgium, or anything at all, but make disparaging remarks about my idiosyncracies.’

“‘And think of myself,’ ses the hen. ‘I that have laid more eggs than you could count in a lifetime, and I have reared five large families, besides. And the day I can’t lay any more, I’ll be killed by some caubogue of a churn boy,and sold to some landlady who boards tramps, navvies, and all kinds of traveling tinkers. I wouldn’t mind inself if I went to nourish and sustain some decent people, who could appreciate the tender parts of my constitution. Or if I could be like my poor father, who was killed with a new razor, stuffed with bread and currants, roasted on a spit, and exhibited in a shop window before Christmas.’

“‘Ah! we live in a thoughtless and heartless world!’ ses the pig.

“‘I know it,’ ses the hen. ‘Only about one in every ten thousand has either the power or the privilege of thinking for themselves.’

“‘Everything seems to go by contrary. Take the decent people,—the Jews, for instance. They have no respect for the members of my family, but they are consistent. They wouldn’t write their name, or my epitaph, on my back with a hot poker, and make fun of my table manners, and then go home and have pork for dinner and say ’twas worth walking to America for,’ ses the pig.

“‘Nevertheless,’ ses the hen, ‘when I think of what yourself and myself does for mankind, and the poor return we get, I feel proud to know that we can be of service to those who don’t and can’t appreciate us.’

“‘Yes, indeed, and so do I,’ ses the pig. ‘What would life be to most people without their ham and eggs every morning, and the newspaper thrown in. And a cigar never tastes sweeter than after a good feed of spare ribs and yellow turnips.’

“‘Or even sausages,’ ses the hen.

“‘I object to sausages and salt meat in general, because it makes people cranky and disputatious,’ ses the pig.

“‘Of course,’ ses the hen, ‘there’s no doubt but we do a lot of good, though we have been neglected. And it makes my heart bleed, when I think of the stupidity of man and his perverted sense of honour. After all those years of preaching and reform, no poet has ever written an ode to a hen or a pig, and all the poets liked their ham and eggs. There was Shakespeare himself,—people thought he forgot nothing, or what heforgot wasn’t worth remembering, but where’s the mention of either hens or pigs in all his highly respected works?’

“’Tis no wonder there is war in the world to-day,’ ses the pig.

“‘Indeed it is not, when married men will spend all their money on finery for their wives, so that they can look better than they really are, and elope with other women’s husbands. Sure, only for the motherly instinct that’s in myself, I would leave my family of ducklings and die by my own hand, but I don’t want one of them to be neglected and feel the pangs of adversity, like yourself and myself,’ ses the hen.

“‘’Tis instinct rather than reason that guides most people. If we were always to act reasonably, people would think we had no sense, at all. However, there’s a compensation in all things, and we can enjoy ourselves in our own old way. And while it is a great consolation to know that we can do a lot of good, it is a greater consolation still to know that we can do a lot of harm as well,’ ses the pig.

“‘Like myself, you share the same sentiments as all good and pious people. The satisfaction of doing harm is the only enjoyment some of us receive for doing good, when our kindness is not appreciated,’ ses the hen.

“‘When I think of all those who suffer from dyspepsia after eating my friends and relations, I ses to myself: “Well, things could be worse even for such as my humble self. You mightn’t have the satisfaction of knowing that there was such a thing as indigestion.” And when I think of what people must pay for pork chops, in a restaurant after the theatre at night, and how they must suffer from cramps, pains in the stomach, and a bursting headache next morning, well then I feel as happy as a wife when she is abusing her fool of a husband for giving her too much of her own way,’ ses the pig.

“‘And when I consider the little nourishment there is in cold storage eggs, and the price the poor lodgers must pay their landladies for them, I feel like dancing a jig on a milestone. And whenever I hear of some one eating a bad egg,disguised by frying it hard in margarine, and seasoning it with salt and pepper, I takes a holiday for myself. Ptomaine poisoning is as good as cramps, or pains in the head, at any time,’ ses the hen.

“‘Of course, when we are really hungry, we don’t care what we eat. I have eaten pieces of my relatives and friends dozen of times, when they were mixed with my food, but to tell the truth it never gave me any trouble. And in many respects I am no better and no worse than those who don’t care how they make their living, so long as they have what they want,’ ses the pig.

“And then two farmers came on the scene, and one ses to the other, as he pointed to the pig with a stick: ‘How much do you want for the beast?’ ses he.

“‘As much as he will fetch,’ ses the owner.

“‘One would think ’twas a work of art you were trying to dispose of,’ ses the man with the stick. ‘I’ll give you the market price and not a ha’penny more.’

“‘Very well,’ ses the owner, ‘I’m satisfied.’

“‘And what do you want for that old hen?’ ses the man with the stick.

“‘Oh,’ ses the owner, ‘she is no more use to me, and for that reason I must charge you ten or a hundred times her legitimate value. She is an antique. You can have her for ten shillings, and be under a compliment to me for my decency, besides.’

“‘I’ll owe you the money,’ ses the man with the stick, ‘so that you won’t forget your generosity.’ And with that they walked away, and I jumped off the ditch and turned home,” said Micus.

“’Tis a queer world,” said Padna.

“A queer world, surely!” said Micus.

The White Horse of Banba“Come in, come in, and make yourself at home; for the flowers of spring couldn’t be more heartily welcome,” said Micus Pat to his friend Padna Dan, as he held the latch of his cottage door. And when Padna crossed the threshold, Micus turned from his place by the hearth and said: “Close the door, take off your topcoat, and pull the blinds, while I will heap logs and faggots on the fire, for ’tis five feet of snow there may be on the ground before morning, I’m thinking. And who knows but the house itself may be covered up, and we may not be able to move from where we are for days and days, or a week inself.”“True for you,” said Padna. “We never know what good luck or bad luck the morrow mayhave for any of us. Howsomever, ’tisn’t grumbling we should be about anything, but take things as they come. The storm rages furiously without, and to-night, for all the wisest of us can tell, may be the very last night of the world. The end must come some time, and when the sun rises on the morrow, this earth of ours, with all its beauty and all its mystery, and all its splendour, may be reduced to particles of dust, that will find its way into the eyes of those who dwell on other spheres. If the gale continues, the world will be swirled from its course, and ‘twill surely strike some weighty satellite of the sun or moon with a mighty crash, and that will be the end of all joy and sorrow. Then the king will be no more than the beggar, and the beggar will be as much as the king.”“I will place the kettle on the hob,” said Micus, “for ’tis true courage we will want to put into our hearts with a good drop of poteen this blessed night. And a drop of poteen is a wonderful thing to drive away the melancholy thoughts that haunt and bother so many of us. We canfill glass after glass of steaming punch, until the jar in the cupboard is empty. For what is life to some but so many glasses of poteen, the best whiskey or brandy, or wine all the ways from France itself, and so many meals of food, a few good books to read, and maybe a congenial friend or two.”“Life is a rugged and a lonely road, but flowers always grow on the wayside,” said Padna.“And when you try to pluck a flower, ’tis a thorn you will find in your hand, maybe,” said Micus.“That is so, indeed. But let us forget the pitfalls that await us at every turn, and while the wind blows let us fill our pipes and fill our glasses, and sing a merry song if we should feel like doing so, for there is no use looking for the Devil to bid him good-morrow until we will meet him. And the best thing to do when he appears in person, or in disguise, is to pass him by the same as if he was no relation of yours at all,” said Padna.And then Micus heaped dried faggots andlogs on the glowing hearth, and as they crackled and blazed, red sparks flew up the chimney, and the shutters of the windows, and the latch of the door, and the loose tiles on the ridge, and the loose slates on the gable, shook and rattled, and trees were uprooted, and slates were blown from the roofs of houses and so was the golden thatch, and havoc was wrought in the city, the town, and the hamlet, on the mountain side, in the valley, and by the seashore. And as Micus and Padna settled themselves comfortably in two armchairs, the white dog and the black cat drew closer to their feet, while a thrush in his large white cage made of twigs, and a linnet in his small green cage made of wires and beechwood, closed their eyes and buried their heads beneath their wings.Flash after flash of lightning lit up the darkened countryside, and each peal of thunder was louder than its predecessor, and at times one thought that the whole artillery of hell with the Devil in command had opened fire, and that the fury of the elements would send all to perdition. But Padna and Micus looked on unperturbed atthe crackling faggots. And as the first glass of warm punch was raised on high, Micus up and said: “Here’s good luck to us all, the generous as well as the covetous, for ’tis little any of us know why we are what we are, or why we do the things we do, and don’t want to do. And as we can’t always be decent, we might at least be charitable when we can.”“But alas! alas! we seldom think before we act, and usually act without thinking, and that’s why there are so many strange doings and happenings,” said Padna. “Be all that as it may, neglect not your duty as my host to-night, and take charge of the decanter, and keep my glass well filled with punch, and my pipe well filled with tobacco, and I will tell you a story that may set your heart beating against your ribs, and your knees knocking together, and your hands may shake till the tumbler will fall from your fingers, and your teeth may rattle until the pipe will fall from your mouth.”“Tell it to me, for I’m filled with curiosity to hear a strange tale. And maybe ’tis a storyabout some beautiful woman, or the Aurora Borealis, or some monster of the deep,” said Micus.“It isn’t either one or the other, but the story of a horse,” said Padna.“A horse, is it?”“Aye, the White Horse of Banba,” said Padna.“And how came you to hear it?” said Micus.“It was an old man of dignified bearing, tall and stately he was, with a long flowing beard, clear grey-blue eyes, nicely chiseled features, keen wit, and a soft easy tongue, who told me the story.”“And where did you meet him?” said Micus.“On the high road overlooking the Glen of the Leprechauns, on a starlit night before the moon came up,” said Padna.“On with the story,” said Micus.“Well,” said Padna, as he lit his pipe, “three weeks ago, come Tuesday, I was strolling along the road for myself by the Bridge of the Seven Witches, thinking of nothing but the future ofthe children, when I heard strange footsteps behind me, and on looking over my shoulder, I espied a man I had never seen before. And as our eyes met, he up and ses: ‘Good night, stranger,’ ses he. ‘Good night kindly,’ ses I.“‘’Tis a fine night,’ ses he.“‘A glorious night, thank God,’ ses I.“‘Indeed it is that,’ses he. ‘And a night to be appreciated and enjoyed by ghosts, fairies, goblins and hobgoblins, gnomes and elves, owls and barroway-bats, and all the strange creatures of the earth, that does be scared to venture out in the broad daylight, as well as man himself.’“‘There’s no doubt whatever about what you say,’ ses I. ‘And a fine night for any one who likes to walk to the top of a mountain to see the moon rising, the stars twinkling, or for those who like to hear the soft wind blowing through the tall rushes in the bogs, and making music, the like of which would inspire a poet to write verses and have them printed in a book, for women to read and talk about, and hold disputatious arguments on modern poetry,’ ses I.“And so we walked and talked until we came to the great Cliff of Banba, that overlooks the ocean on the southwest coast. And as we sat down to rest our weary limbs, he looked from the sky to a high pinnacle of rock, and ses: ‘A beautiful sight is the Cliff of Banba when viewed from the ocean beyond, in a small boat, a sloop, or a four-masted ship. But the most beautiful of all sights is to see the White Horse of Banba himself.’“‘I never heard tell of him,’ ses I.“‘Why, you must be a queer man, not to have heard tell of the White Horse of Banba. Now,’ ses he, as he crossed his legs, and put his hand under his jaw, ‘fill your pipe,’ ses he, ‘and smoke, and smoke, and smoke until you will drive cold fear from your heart. For the story I am going to tell you this blessed night may turn every hair on your head as white as the drifting snow, and every tooth in your head may chatter, and rattle and fall out on the ground.’“‘Oh,’ ses I, ‘’twould take more than the mere telling of a story, no matter how long or how short, or a hundred stories about the living orthe dead to scare or frighten or disturb me in any way, and I a married man for more years than you could count on your own fingers and toes, and herself as stubborn and as contrary as the first day she made up her mind to marry me. So ’tis thinking I am that I will be neither white, nor grey, nor sallow, nor toothless, nor bald maybe, after I have heard the story of the White Horse of Banba; or the Black Horse of Carrigmore, and he that took Shauneen the Cobbler away on his back on a dark and windy night and drowned him in the Lough at Cork, because he was cursed by the widow Maloney for spoiling the heel of her shoe.’“‘God forgive her for putting a curse on any poor man,’ ses he.“‘Amen,’ ses I.“‘Well,’ ses he, ‘if you think that you will be neither white, nor grey, nor one way nor another but the way you are at this present moment, I wouldn’t be boasting, if I were you, until the story is told. Because once it strikes your ears, you can never keep it out of your mind, whetheryou be sailing over the seas in a full-rigged clipper, or walking the lonely roads at home, or in foreign parts. ‘Twill be with you when you wake up in the morning, and when you are going to bed at night, and even when you are asleep and dreaming inself.’“‘If ’tis such a wonderful and astonishing story as all that, why don’t you write it down, and have it printed in a book?’ ses I.“‘Some of the best stories were never written,’ ses he. ‘And some of the wisest sayings are forgotten and the foolish ones remembered. But once the story of the White Horse of Banba is told, ‘twill keep ringing in your ears till the dawn of your doom.’“‘Really?’ ses I.“‘Yes,’ ses he. ‘’Tis the White Horse of Banba who comes in the dark of the night to carry us all from the Prison of Life to the Land of the Mighty Dead. And ’twas he stole the woman of my heart from me.’“‘Well,’ ses I, ‘maybe ’tis better that he should have stolen her than some worthless bla’guardwho couldn’t appreciate and treat her decently. There are more married than keep good house,’ ses I.“‘That’s true, but ’tis no comfort for a man to see the woman he loves the wife of another, unless she might have the devil of a temper, and no taste for anything but gallivanting through the streets,’ ses he. ‘And only for the White Horse of Banba, I might be the father of a fine large family, who would be able to earn enough to keep me idle in my old age. Then I wouldn’t have to be worrying and fretting, when I am walking behind a plough or a harrow, on a warm day, or searching the boreens, the long winding lanes, or the dusty roads, looking for a lost sheep or a wandering cow, and watering the green grass that grows under my feet with the sweat that does be falling from my brow. Not, indeed, that I couldn’t have more wives than I’d want. But ’tis too respectable a man I am to ever fall in love with more than one woman. And that’s something that very few can boast of, whether they be single or married, inself.’“‘And who told you about the White Horse of Banba?’ ses I.“‘I have seen him with my own two eyes,’ ses he.“‘Where?’ ses I.“‘In this very spot. And I have seen him in every nook and corner of the land from the Giants’ Causeway to the Old Head of Kinsale, and as many times as you forgot to keep your promises too, and he with the golden shoes and hoofs of ivory, and a long mane that reaches down to the ground and a neck more beautiful than a swan, and eyes that sparkle like glow-worms when night is as dark as pitch.’“‘And he will carry us all to the Land of the Mighty Dead?’“‘Yes, he will carry each and every one of us to the great country beyond the grave.’“‘’Tis strange indeed,’ ses I, ‘that you should see the White Horse of Banba so often.’“‘Some are more favoured than others,’ ses he. ‘But if you will wait until the lights in the city grow dim, and when the lights in the skysparkle and glimmer, and when the birds fall asleep on their perches, and the dogs begin to snore in their kennels, and all the tired people are stretched in their beds, then if you are lucky you may see him passing by here, and he flying through the night, the way you’d see a pigeon racing home, or a meteor shooting through space.’“‘And is it all alone that he does be?’ ses I.“‘No. There is always some one on his back, and the banshee follows at his heels, wailing and moaning the way you’d be scared out of your wits.’“‘But some people have no wits,’ ses I.“‘That’s so. But we all dread something. It may be the sea, fire, loneliness, the past, the present, the future, hereafter, a wife with an angel’s face and the tongue of the Devil, a rat maybe, or a shadow itself. There’s a weak spot in the strongest, and a strong spot in the weakest, even though it might be stubbornness. But there’s nothing to make a man more scared than the cry of the banshee that follows the WhiteHorse of Banba as he gallops along the dreary roads, where the ghosts themselves would be afraid to venture. And he always has some one on his back, holding on to his wavy mane, lest they might fall and be dashed to pieces on the cobbled roadway. Sometimes it does be an old man full of days with toothless gums and white hair that you’d see, and other times some comely maiden, with the virtue of purity and innocence stamped on her brow, and she more beautiful than Helen of Troy or the Queen of Sheba. And oftentimes it does be a little child with rosy cheeks and golden curls, or maybe an infant who just opened its eyes to get one peep at the world, and then closed them forever. It may be a young giant of a man that you’d see, or an old woman, wrinkled and feeble. And as he skelters by, the very trees themselves bow their heads, the corncrakes in the meadows and the toads in the marshes keep still, and you would hear no sound at all, except the clattering of hoofs on the stony roads and the wailing of the banshee. ’Tis along this very road that the White Horsecomes at the close of night and the birth of morn, and he races with the speed of the lightning flash, until he comes to the top of the cliff beyond, where he stands for a little while, sniffs the air and shakes his mane, turns his head and gives a knowing look at whoever does be on his back. Then a weird whinnying cry is heard, and he plunges into the sea, and he swims and swims through the surf and billows until he reaches the edge of the moon that does be rising out of the waters at the horizon. As quick as thought he shakes the water from his mane, stamps and prances and jumps from the top of the moon to the nearest star, and from star to star until he arrives at the Golden Gate of the Land of No Returning.“‘Then he walks through a beautiful avenue, sheltered by tall green trees and made fragrant with sweet blooms, until he is met by St. Peter and St. Patrick on the steps of a marble palace. And the stranger on his back dismounts and accompanies the Holy Apostles into the Sanctum Sanctorum where a record of our good and baddeeds is kept. And when the record book is found and the stranger’s fate discovered, St. Peter looks at St. Patrick, and St. Patrick looks at St. Peter, but no words at all are spoken. Then the stranger is hurried away by an attendant with a flaming sword in his hand.’“‘And where does the angel with the flaming sword carry the poor stranger?’ ses I.“‘Nobody knows,’ ses he. ‘And the pity of it all is that very few care. It was the White Horse of Banbawhotook my father away and my grandfather, and his father and grandfather, and his father before him again, and some night when we may least expect it he will take ourselves, and gallop along like the wind over the highways and byways, through the meadows and marshes, underneath bridges, and over the cobbled tracts on the mountain side. And a terrifying sight it is to see him as he thunders past. He spares no one at all, and takes those we love and those we hate. He stole the woman of my heart from me, and made me the lonely man that I am to-night.’“‘But isn’t it a foolish thing for you to remain a bachelor, and the world full of beautiful women waiting to be loved by some one?’ ses I.“‘A man only loves once,’ ses he, ‘and when the woman of your heart is dead who would want to be living at all?’“‘And now that the woman of your heart is dead, why don’t you try and forget her when you may never see her again?’“‘Of course I will see her again. Life is but the shadow of eternity, and before to-morrow’s sun will flood the East with dazzling light, I will see the woman of my heart.’“‘Where will you see her?’ ses I.“‘In a land farther away than the farthest star.’“‘And who will carry you there?’ ses I.“‘The White Horse of Banba,’ ses he.“‘But he may not pass this way to-night,’ ses I.“‘As sure as you will make some mistake to-morrow he will pass this way to-night,’ ses he.“‘How do you know?’ ses I.“‘We know lots of things that we have never been told,’ ses he. ‘And you will be wiser to-morrow than you are to-day. The hands of the clock are now together at the midnight hour, and I can hear the clattering of hoofs in the distance.’“‘Maybe the White Horse of Banba is coming,’ ses I.“‘He is,’ ses he, ‘and there is no one on his back this time, for he is looking for me.’“And as true as I’m telling you, a fiery steed rushed over the hill, and the stranger jumped on his back, and ses, ‘Good-by,’ ses he, ‘till we meet again in the Valley of the Dead on the Judgment Day.’“And then the White Horse of Banba scampered along the rugged pathway with the wailing banshee at his heels, until the top of the cliff was reached, and before I could realize what had happened, he plunged into the dark waters,’ said Padna.“‘I hope it will be many a long day before eitherof us will be taken to the world next door,” said Micus.“I hope so too,” said Padna.“I wonder is the decanter empty,” said Micus.“Not yet,” said Padna.

The White Horse of Banba

“Come in, come in, and make yourself at home; for the flowers of spring couldn’t be more heartily welcome,” said Micus Pat to his friend Padna Dan, as he held the latch of his cottage door. And when Padna crossed the threshold, Micus turned from his place by the hearth and said: “Close the door, take off your topcoat, and pull the blinds, while I will heap logs and faggots on the fire, for ’tis five feet of snow there may be on the ground before morning, I’m thinking. And who knows but the house itself may be covered up, and we may not be able to move from where we are for days and days, or a week inself.”“True for you,” said Padna. “We never know what good luck or bad luck the morrow mayhave for any of us. Howsomever, ’tisn’t grumbling we should be about anything, but take things as they come. The storm rages furiously without, and to-night, for all the wisest of us can tell, may be the very last night of the world. The end must come some time, and when the sun rises on the morrow, this earth of ours, with all its beauty and all its mystery, and all its splendour, may be reduced to particles of dust, that will find its way into the eyes of those who dwell on other spheres. If the gale continues, the world will be swirled from its course, and ‘twill surely strike some weighty satellite of the sun or moon with a mighty crash, and that will be the end of all joy and sorrow. Then the king will be no more than the beggar, and the beggar will be as much as the king.”“I will place the kettle on the hob,” said Micus, “for ’tis true courage we will want to put into our hearts with a good drop of poteen this blessed night. And a drop of poteen is a wonderful thing to drive away the melancholy thoughts that haunt and bother so many of us. We canfill glass after glass of steaming punch, until the jar in the cupboard is empty. For what is life to some but so many glasses of poteen, the best whiskey or brandy, or wine all the ways from France itself, and so many meals of food, a few good books to read, and maybe a congenial friend or two.”“Life is a rugged and a lonely road, but flowers always grow on the wayside,” said Padna.“And when you try to pluck a flower, ’tis a thorn you will find in your hand, maybe,” said Micus.“That is so, indeed. But let us forget the pitfalls that await us at every turn, and while the wind blows let us fill our pipes and fill our glasses, and sing a merry song if we should feel like doing so, for there is no use looking for the Devil to bid him good-morrow until we will meet him. And the best thing to do when he appears in person, or in disguise, is to pass him by the same as if he was no relation of yours at all,” said Padna.And then Micus heaped dried faggots andlogs on the glowing hearth, and as they crackled and blazed, red sparks flew up the chimney, and the shutters of the windows, and the latch of the door, and the loose tiles on the ridge, and the loose slates on the gable, shook and rattled, and trees were uprooted, and slates were blown from the roofs of houses and so was the golden thatch, and havoc was wrought in the city, the town, and the hamlet, on the mountain side, in the valley, and by the seashore. And as Micus and Padna settled themselves comfortably in two armchairs, the white dog and the black cat drew closer to their feet, while a thrush in his large white cage made of twigs, and a linnet in his small green cage made of wires and beechwood, closed their eyes and buried their heads beneath their wings.Flash after flash of lightning lit up the darkened countryside, and each peal of thunder was louder than its predecessor, and at times one thought that the whole artillery of hell with the Devil in command had opened fire, and that the fury of the elements would send all to perdition. But Padna and Micus looked on unperturbed atthe crackling faggots. And as the first glass of warm punch was raised on high, Micus up and said: “Here’s good luck to us all, the generous as well as the covetous, for ’tis little any of us know why we are what we are, or why we do the things we do, and don’t want to do. And as we can’t always be decent, we might at least be charitable when we can.”“But alas! alas! we seldom think before we act, and usually act without thinking, and that’s why there are so many strange doings and happenings,” said Padna. “Be all that as it may, neglect not your duty as my host to-night, and take charge of the decanter, and keep my glass well filled with punch, and my pipe well filled with tobacco, and I will tell you a story that may set your heart beating against your ribs, and your knees knocking together, and your hands may shake till the tumbler will fall from your fingers, and your teeth may rattle until the pipe will fall from your mouth.”“Tell it to me, for I’m filled with curiosity to hear a strange tale. And maybe ’tis a storyabout some beautiful woman, or the Aurora Borealis, or some monster of the deep,” said Micus.“It isn’t either one or the other, but the story of a horse,” said Padna.“A horse, is it?”“Aye, the White Horse of Banba,” said Padna.“And how came you to hear it?” said Micus.“It was an old man of dignified bearing, tall and stately he was, with a long flowing beard, clear grey-blue eyes, nicely chiseled features, keen wit, and a soft easy tongue, who told me the story.”“And where did you meet him?” said Micus.“On the high road overlooking the Glen of the Leprechauns, on a starlit night before the moon came up,” said Padna.“On with the story,” said Micus.“Well,” said Padna, as he lit his pipe, “three weeks ago, come Tuesday, I was strolling along the road for myself by the Bridge of the Seven Witches, thinking of nothing but the future ofthe children, when I heard strange footsteps behind me, and on looking over my shoulder, I espied a man I had never seen before. And as our eyes met, he up and ses: ‘Good night, stranger,’ ses he. ‘Good night kindly,’ ses I.“‘’Tis a fine night,’ ses he.“‘A glorious night, thank God,’ ses I.“‘Indeed it is that,’ses he. ‘And a night to be appreciated and enjoyed by ghosts, fairies, goblins and hobgoblins, gnomes and elves, owls and barroway-bats, and all the strange creatures of the earth, that does be scared to venture out in the broad daylight, as well as man himself.’“‘There’s no doubt whatever about what you say,’ ses I. ‘And a fine night for any one who likes to walk to the top of a mountain to see the moon rising, the stars twinkling, or for those who like to hear the soft wind blowing through the tall rushes in the bogs, and making music, the like of which would inspire a poet to write verses and have them printed in a book, for women to read and talk about, and hold disputatious arguments on modern poetry,’ ses I.“And so we walked and talked until we came to the great Cliff of Banba, that overlooks the ocean on the southwest coast. And as we sat down to rest our weary limbs, he looked from the sky to a high pinnacle of rock, and ses: ‘A beautiful sight is the Cliff of Banba when viewed from the ocean beyond, in a small boat, a sloop, or a four-masted ship. But the most beautiful of all sights is to see the White Horse of Banba himself.’“‘I never heard tell of him,’ ses I.“‘Why, you must be a queer man, not to have heard tell of the White Horse of Banba. Now,’ ses he, as he crossed his legs, and put his hand under his jaw, ‘fill your pipe,’ ses he, ‘and smoke, and smoke, and smoke until you will drive cold fear from your heart. For the story I am going to tell you this blessed night may turn every hair on your head as white as the drifting snow, and every tooth in your head may chatter, and rattle and fall out on the ground.’“‘Oh,’ ses I, ‘’twould take more than the mere telling of a story, no matter how long or how short, or a hundred stories about the living orthe dead to scare or frighten or disturb me in any way, and I a married man for more years than you could count on your own fingers and toes, and herself as stubborn and as contrary as the first day she made up her mind to marry me. So ’tis thinking I am that I will be neither white, nor grey, nor sallow, nor toothless, nor bald maybe, after I have heard the story of the White Horse of Banba; or the Black Horse of Carrigmore, and he that took Shauneen the Cobbler away on his back on a dark and windy night and drowned him in the Lough at Cork, because he was cursed by the widow Maloney for spoiling the heel of her shoe.’“‘God forgive her for putting a curse on any poor man,’ ses he.“‘Amen,’ ses I.“‘Well,’ ses he, ‘if you think that you will be neither white, nor grey, nor one way nor another but the way you are at this present moment, I wouldn’t be boasting, if I were you, until the story is told. Because once it strikes your ears, you can never keep it out of your mind, whetheryou be sailing over the seas in a full-rigged clipper, or walking the lonely roads at home, or in foreign parts. ‘Twill be with you when you wake up in the morning, and when you are going to bed at night, and even when you are asleep and dreaming inself.’“‘If ’tis such a wonderful and astonishing story as all that, why don’t you write it down, and have it printed in a book?’ ses I.“‘Some of the best stories were never written,’ ses he. ‘And some of the wisest sayings are forgotten and the foolish ones remembered. But once the story of the White Horse of Banba is told, ‘twill keep ringing in your ears till the dawn of your doom.’“‘Really?’ ses I.“‘Yes,’ ses he. ‘’Tis the White Horse of Banba who comes in the dark of the night to carry us all from the Prison of Life to the Land of the Mighty Dead. And ’twas he stole the woman of my heart from me.’“‘Well,’ ses I, ‘maybe ’tis better that he should have stolen her than some worthless bla’guardwho couldn’t appreciate and treat her decently. There are more married than keep good house,’ ses I.“‘That’s true, but ’tis no comfort for a man to see the woman he loves the wife of another, unless she might have the devil of a temper, and no taste for anything but gallivanting through the streets,’ ses he. ‘And only for the White Horse of Banba, I might be the father of a fine large family, who would be able to earn enough to keep me idle in my old age. Then I wouldn’t have to be worrying and fretting, when I am walking behind a plough or a harrow, on a warm day, or searching the boreens, the long winding lanes, or the dusty roads, looking for a lost sheep or a wandering cow, and watering the green grass that grows under my feet with the sweat that does be falling from my brow. Not, indeed, that I couldn’t have more wives than I’d want. But ’tis too respectable a man I am to ever fall in love with more than one woman. And that’s something that very few can boast of, whether they be single or married, inself.’“‘And who told you about the White Horse of Banba?’ ses I.“‘I have seen him with my own two eyes,’ ses he.“‘Where?’ ses I.“‘In this very spot. And I have seen him in every nook and corner of the land from the Giants’ Causeway to the Old Head of Kinsale, and as many times as you forgot to keep your promises too, and he with the golden shoes and hoofs of ivory, and a long mane that reaches down to the ground and a neck more beautiful than a swan, and eyes that sparkle like glow-worms when night is as dark as pitch.’“‘And he will carry us all to the Land of the Mighty Dead?’“‘Yes, he will carry each and every one of us to the great country beyond the grave.’“‘’Tis strange indeed,’ ses I, ‘that you should see the White Horse of Banba so often.’“‘Some are more favoured than others,’ ses he. ‘But if you will wait until the lights in the city grow dim, and when the lights in the skysparkle and glimmer, and when the birds fall asleep on their perches, and the dogs begin to snore in their kennels, and all the tired people are stretched in their beds, then if you are lucky you may see him passing by here, and he flying through the night, the way you’d see a pigeon racing home, or a meteor shooting through space.’“‘And is it all alone that he does be?’ ses I.“‘No. There is always some one on his back, and the banshee follows at his heels, wailing and moaning the way you’d be scared out of your wits.’“‘But some people have no wits,’ ses I.“‘That’s so. But we all dread something. It may be the sea, fire, loneliness, the past, the present, the future, hereafter, a wife with an angel’s face and the tongue of the Devil, a rat maybe, or a shadow itself. There’s a weak spot in the strongest, and a strong spot in the weakest, even though it might be stubbornness. But there’s nothing to make a man more scared than the cry of the banshee that follows the WhiteHorse of Banba as he gallops along the dreary roads, where the ghosts themselves would be afraid to venture. And he always has some one on his back, holding on to his wavy mane, lest they might fall and be dashed to pieces on the cobbled roadway. Sometimes it does be an old man full of days with toothless gums and white hair that you’d see, and other times some comely maiden, with the virtue of purity and innocence stamped on her brow, and she more beautiful than Helen of Troy or the Queen of Sheba. And oftentimes it does be a little child with rosy cheeks and golden curls, or maybe an infant who just opened its eyes to get one peep at the world, and then closed them forever. It may be a young giant of a man that you’d see, or an old woman, wrinkled and feeble. And as he skelters by, the very trees themselves bow their heads, the corncrakes in the meadows and the toads in the marshes keep still, and you would hear no sound at all, except the clattering of hoofs on the stony roads and the wailing of the banshee. ’Tis along this very road that the White Horsecomes at the close of night and the birth of morn, and he races with the speed of the lightning flash, until he comes to the top of the cliff beyond, where he stands for a little while, sniffs the air and shakes his mane, turns his head and gives a knowing look at whoever does be on his back. Then a weird whinnying cry is heard, and he plunges into the sea, and he swims and swims through the surf and billows until he reaches the edge of the moon that does be rising out of the waters at the horizon. As quick as thought he shakes the water from his mane, stamps and prances and jumps from the top of the moon to the nearest star, and from star to star until he arrives at the Golden Gate of the Land of No Returning.“‘Then he walks through a beautiful avenue, sheltered by tall green trees and made fragrant with sweet blooms, until he is met by St. Peter and St. Patrick on the steps of a marble palace. And the stranger on his back dismounts and accompanies the Holy Apostles into the Sanctum Sanctorum where a record of our good and baddeeds is kept. And when the record book is found and the stranger’s fate discovered, St. Peter looks at St. Patrick, and St. Patrick looks at St. Peter, but no words at all are spoken. Then the stranger is hurried away by an attendant with a flaming sword in his hand.’“‘And where does the angel with the flaming sword carry the poor stranger?’ ses I.“‘Nobody knows,’ ses he. ‘And the pity of it all is that very few care. It was the White Horse of Banbawhotook my father away and my grandfather, and his father and grandfather, and his father before him again, and some night when we may least expect it he will take ourselves, and gallop along like the wind over the highways and byways, through the meadows and marshes, underneath bridges, and over the cobbled tracts on the mountain side. And a terrifying sight it is to see him as he thunders past. He spares no one at all, and takes those we love and those we hate. He stole the woman of my heart from me, and made me the lonely man that I am to-night.’“‘But isn’t it a foolish thing for you to remain a bachelor, and the world full of beautiful women waiting to be loved by some one?’ ses I.“‘A man only loves once,’ ses he, ‘and when the woman of your heart is dead who would want to be living at all?’“‘And now that the woman of your heart is dead, why don’t you try and forget her when you may never see her again?’“‘Of course I will see her again. Life is but the shadow of eternity, and before to-morrow’s sun will flood the East with dazzling light, I will see the woman of my heart.’“‘Where will you see her?’ ses I.“‘In a land farther away than the farthest star.’“‘And who will carry you there?’ ses I.“‘The White Horse of Banba,’ ses he.“‘But he may not pass this way to-night,’ ses I.“‘As sure as you will make some mistake to-morrow he will pass this way to-night,’ ses he.“‘How do you know?’ ses I.“‘We know lots of things that we have never been told,’ ses he. ‘And you will be wiser to-morrow than you are to-day. The hands of the clock are now together at the midnight hour, and I can hear the clattering of hoofs in the distance.’“‘Maybe the White Horse of Banba is coming,’ ses I.“‘He is,’ ses he, ‘and there is no one on his back this time, for he is looking for me.’“And as true as I’m telling you, a fiery steed rushed over the hill, and the stranger jumped on his back, and ses, ‘Good-by,’ ses he, ‘till we meet again in the Valley of the Dead on the Judgment Day.’“And then the White Horse of Banba scampered along the rugged pathway with the wailing banshee at his heels, until the top of the cliff was reached, and before I could realize what had happened, he plunged into the dark waters,’ said Padna.“‘I hope it will be many a long day before eitherof us will be taken to the world next door,” said Micus.“I hope so too,” said Padna.“I wonder is the decanter empty,” said Micus.“Not yet,” said Padna.

“Come in, come in, and make yourself at home; for the flowers of spring couldn’t be more heartily welcome,” said Micus Pat to his friend Padna Dan, as he held the latch of his cottage door. And when Padna crossed the threshold, Micus turned from his place by the hearth and said: “Close the door, take off your topcoat, and pull the blinds, while I will heap logs and faggots on the fire, for ’tis five feet of snow there may be on the ground before morning, I’m thinking. And who knows but the house itself may be covered up, and we may not be able to move from where we are for days and days, or a week inself.”

“True for you,” said Padna. “We never know what good luck or bad luck the morrow mayhave for any of us. Howsomever, ’tisn’t grumbling we should be about anything, but take things as they come. The storm rages furiously without, and to-night, for all the wisest of us can tell, may be the very last night of the world. The end must come some time, and when the sun rises on the morrow, this earth of ours, with all its beauty and all its mystery, and all its splendour, may be reduced to particles of dust, that will find its way into the eyes of those who dwell on other spheres. If the gale continues, the world will be swirled from its course, and ‘twill surely strike some weighty satellite of the sun or moon with a mighty crash, and that will be the end of all joy and sorrow. Then the king will be no more than the beggar, and the beggar will be as much as the king.”

“I will place the kettle on the hob,” said Micus, “for ’tis true courage we will want to put into our hearts with a good drop of poteen this blessed night. And a drop of poteen is a wonderful thing to drive away the melancholy thoughts that haunt and bother so many of us. We canfill glass after glass of steaming punch, until the jar in the cupboard is empty. For what is life to some but so many glasses of poteen, the best whiskey or brandy, or wine all the ways from France itself, and so many meals of food, a few good books to read, and maybe a congenial friend or two.”

“Life is a rugged and a lonely road, but flowers always grow on the wayside,” said Padna.

“And when you try to pluck a flower, ’tis a thorn you will find in your hand, maybe,” said Micus.

“That is so, indeed. But let us forget the pitfalls that await us at every turn, and while the wind blows let us fill our pipes and fill our glasses, and sing a merry song if we should feel like doing so, for there is no use looking for the Devil to bid him good-morrow until we will meet him. And the best thing to do when he appears in person, or in disguise, is to pass him by the same as if he was no relation of yours at all,” said Padna.

And then Micus heaped dried faggots andlogs on the glowing hearth, and as they crackled and blazed, red sparks flew up the chimney, and the shutters of the windows, and the latch of the door, and the loose tiles on the ridge, and the loose slates on the gable, shook and rattled, and trees were uprooted, and slates were blown from the roofs of houses and so was the golden thatch, and havoc was wrought in the city, the town, and the hamlet, on the mountain side, in the valley, and by the seashore. And as Micus and Padna settled themselves comfortably in two armchairs, the white dog and the black cat drew closer to their feet, while a thrush in his large white cage made of twigs, and a linnet in his small green cage made of wires and beechwood, closed their eyes and buried their heads beneath their wings.

Flash after flash of lightning lit up the darkened countryside, and each peal of thunder was louder than its predecessor, and at times one thought that the whole artillery of hell with the Devil in command had opened fire, and that the fury of the elements would send all to perdition. But Padna and Micus looked on unperturbed atthe crackling faggots. And as the first glass of warm punch was raised on high, Micus up and said: “Here’s good luck to us all, the generous as well as the covetous, for ’tis little any of us know why we are what we are, or why we do the things we do, and don’t want to do. And as we can’t always be decent, we might at least be charitable when we can.”

“But alas! alas! we seldom think before we act, and usually act without thinking, and that’s why there are so many strange doings and happenings,” said Padna. “Be all that as it may, neglect not your duty as my host to-night, and take charge of the decanter, and keep my glass well filled with punch, and my pipe well filled with tobacco, and I will tell you a story that may set your heart beating against your ribs, and your knees knocking together, and your hands may shake till the tumbler will fall from your fingers, and your teeth may rattle until the pipe will fall from your mouth.”

“Tell it to me, for I’m filled with curiosity to hear a strange tale. And maybe ’tis a storyabout some beautiful woman, or the Aurora Borealis, or some monster of the deep,” said Micus.

“It isn’t either one or the other, but the story of a horse,” said Padna.

“A horse, is it?”

“Aye, the White Horse of Banba,” said Padna.

“And how came you to hear it?” said Micus.

“It was an old man of dignified bearing, tall and stately he was, with a long flowing beard, clear grey-blue eyes, nicely chiseled features, keen wit, and a soft easy tongue, who told me the story.”

“And where did you meet him?” said Micus.

“On the high road overlooking the Glen of the Leprechauns, on a starlit night before the moon came up,” said Padna.

“On with the story,” said Micus.

“Well,” said Padna, as he lit his pipe, “three weeks ago, come Tuesday, I was strolling along the road for myself by the Bridge of the Seven Witches, thinking of nothing but the future ofthe children, when I heard strange footsteps behind me, and on looking over my shoulder, I espied a man I had never seen before. And as our eyes met, he up and ses: ‘Good night, stranger,’ ses he. ‘Good night kindly,’ ses I.

“‘’Tis a fine night,’ ses he.

“‘A glorious night, thank God,’ ses I.

“‘Indeed it is that,’ses he. ‘And a night to be appreciated and enjoyed by ghosts, fairies, goblins and hobgoblins, gnomes and elves, owls and barroway-bats, and all the strange creatures of the earth, that does be scared to venture out in the broad daylight, as well as man himself.’

“‘There’s no doubt whatever about what you say,’ ses I. ‘And a fine night for any one who likes to walk to the top of a mountain to see the moon rising, the stars twinkling, or for those who like to hear the soft wind blowing through the tall rushes in the bogs, and making music, the like of which would inspire a poet to write verses and have them printed in a book, for women to read and talk about, and hold disputatious arguments on modern poetry,’ ses I.

“And so we walked and talked until we came to the great Cliff of Banba, that overlooks the ocean on the southwest coast. And as we sat down to rest our weary limbs, he looked from the sky to a high pinnacle of rock, and ses: ‘A beautiful sight is the Cliff of Banba when viewed from the ocean beyond, in a small boat, a sloop, or a four-masted ship. But the most beautiful of all sights is to see the White Horse of Banba himself.’

“‘I never heard tell of him,’ ses I.

“‘Why, you must be a queer man, not to have heard tell of the White Horse of Banba. Now,’ ses he, as he crossed his legs, and put his hand under his jaw, ‘fill your pipe,’ ses he, ‘and smoke, and smoke, and smoke until you will drive cold fear from your heart. For the story I am going to tell you this blessed night may turn every hair on your head as white as the drifting snow, and every tooth in your head may chatter, and rattle and fall out on the ground.’

“‘Oh,’ ses I, ‘’twould take more than the mere telling of a story, no matter how long or how short, or a hundred stories about the living orthe dead to scare or frighten or disturb me in any way, and I a married man for more years than you could count on your own fingers and toes, and herself as stubborn and as contrary as the first day she made up her mind to marry me. So ’tis thinking I am that I will be neither white, nor grey, nor sallow, nor toothless, nor bald maybe, after I have heard the story of the White Horse of Banba; or the Black Horse of Carrigmore, and he that took Shauneen the Cobbler away on his back on a dark and windy night and drowned him in the Lough at Cork, because he was cursed by the widow Maloney for spoiling the heel of her shoe.’

“‘God forgive her for putting a curse on any poor man,’ ses he.

“‘Amen,’ ses I.

“‘Well,’ ses he, ‘if you think that you will be neither white, nor grey, nor one way nor another but the way you are at this present moment, I wouldn’t be boasting, if I were you, until the story is told. Because once it strikes your ears, you can never keep it out of your mind, whetheryou be sailing over the seas in a full-rigged clipper, or walking the lonely roads at home, or in foreign parts. ‘Twill be with you when you wake up in the morning, and when you are going to bed at night, and even when you are asleep and dreaming inself.’

“‘If ’tis such a wonderful and astonishing story as all that, why don’t you write it down, and have it printed in a book?’ ses I.

“‘Some of the best stories were never written,’ ses he. ‘And some of the wisest sayings are forgotten and the foolish ones remembered. But once the story of the White Horse of Banba is told, ‘twill keep ringing in your ears till the dawn of your doom.’

“‘Really?’ ses I.

“‘Yes,’ ses he. ‘’Tis the White Horse of Banba who comes in the dark of the night to carry us all from the Prison of Life to the Land of the Mighty Dead. And ’twas he stole the woman of my heart from me.’

“‘Well,’ ses I, ‘maybe ’tis better that he should have stolen her than some worthless bla’guardwho couldn’t appreciate and treat her decently. There are more married than keep good house,’ ses I.

“‘That’s true, but ’tis no comfort for a man to see the woman he loves the wife of another, unless she might have the devil of a temper, and no taste for anything but gallivanting through the streets,’ ses he. ‘And only for the White Horse of Banba, I might be the father of a fine large family, who would be able to earn enough to keep me idle in my old age. Then I wouldn’t have to be worrying and fretting, when I am walking behind a plough or a harrow, on a warm day, or searching the boreens, the long winding lanes, or the dusty roads, looking for a lost sheep or a wandering cow, and watering the green grass that grows under my feet with the sweat that does be falling from my brow. Not, indeed, that I couldn’t have more wives than I’d want. But ’tis too respectable a man I am to ever fall in love with more than one woman. And that’s something that very few can boast of, whether they be single or married, inself.’

“‘And who told you about the White Horse of Banba?’ ses I.

“‘I have seen him with my own two eyes,’ ses he.

“‘Where?’ ses I.

“‘In this very spot. And I have seen him in every nook and corner of the land from the Giants’ Causeway to the Old Head of Kinsale, and as many times as you forgot to keep your promises too, and he with the golden shoes and hoofs of ivory, and a long mane that reaches down to the ground and a neck more beautiful than a swan, and eyes that sparkle like glow-worms when night is as dark as pitch.’

“‘And he will carry us all to the Land of the Mighty Dead?’

“‘Yes, he will carry each and every one of us to the great country beyond the grave.’

“‘’Tis strange indeed,’ ses I, ‘that you should see the White Horse of Banba so often.’

“‘Some are more favoured than others,’ ses he. ‘But if you will wait until the lights in the city grow dim, and when the lights in the skysparkle and glimmer, and when the birds fall asleep on their perches, and the dogs begin to snore in their kennels, and all the tired people are stretched in their beds, then if you are lucky you may see him passing by here, and he flying through the night, the way you’d see a pigeon racing home, or a meteor shooting through space.’

“‘And is it all alone that he does be?’ ses I.

“‘No. There is always some one on his back, and the banshee follows at his heels, wailing and moaning the way you’d be scared out of your wits.’

“‘But some people have no wits,’ ses I.

“‘That’s so. But we all dread something. It may be the sea, fire, loneliness, the past, the present, the future, hereafter, a wife with an angel’s face and the tongue of the Devil, a rat maybe, or a shadow itself. There’s a weak spot in the strongest, and a strong spot in the weakest, even though it might be stubbornness. But there’s nothing to make a man more scared than the cry of the banshee that follows the WhiteHorse of Banba as he gallops along the dreary roads, where the ghosts themselves would be afraid to venture. And he always has some one on his back, holding on to his wavy mane, lest they might fall and be dashed to pieces on the cobbled roadway. Sometimes it does be an old man full of days with toothless gums and white hair that you’d see, and other times some comely maiden, with the virtue of purity and innocence stamped on her brow, and she more beautiful than Helen of Troy or the Queen of Sheba. And oftentimes it does be a little child with rosy cheeks and golden curls, or maybe an infant who just opened its eyes to get one peep at the world, and then closed them forever. It may be a young giant of a man that you’d see, or an old woman, wrinkled and feeble. And as he skelters by, the very trees themselves bow their heads, the corncrakes in the meadows and the toads in the marshes keep still, and you would hear no sound at all, except the clattering of hoofs on the stony roads and the wailing of the banshee. ’Tis along this very road that the White Horsecomes at the close of night and the birth of morn, and he races with the speed of the lightning flash, until he comes to the top of the cliff beyond, where he stands for a little while, sniffs the air and shakes his mane, turns his head and gives a knowing look at whoever does be on his back. Then a weird whinnying cry is heard, and he plunges into the sea, and he swims and swims through the surf and billows until he reaches the edge of the moon that does be rising out of the waters at the horizon. As quick as thought he shakes the water from his mane, stamps and prances and jumps from the top of the moon to the nearest star, and from star to star until he arrives at the Golden Gate of the Land of No Returning.

“‘Then he walks through a beautiful avenue, sheltered by tall green trees and made fragrant with sweet blooms, until he is met by St. Peter and St. Patrick on the steps of a marble palace. And the stranger on his back dismounts and accompanies the Holy Apostles into the Sanctum Sanctorum where a record of our good and baddeeds is kept. And when the record book is found and the stranger’s fate discovered, St. Peter looks at St. Patrick, and St. Patrick looks at St. Peter, but no words at all are spoken. Then the stranger is hurried away by an attendant with a flaming sword in his hand.’

“‘And where does the angel with the flaming sword carry the poor stranger?’ ses I.

“‘Nobody knows,’ ses he. ‘And the pity of it all is that very few care. It was the White Horse of Banbawhotook my father away and my grandfather, and his father and grandfather, and his father before him again, and some night when we may least expect it he will take ourselves, and gallop along like the wind over the highways and byways, through the meadows and marshes, underneath bridges, and over the cobbled tracts on the mountain side. And a terrifying sight it is to see him as he thunders past. He spares no one at all, and takes those we love and those we hate. He stole the woman of my heart from me, and made me the lonely man that I am to-night.’

“‘But isn’t it a foolish thing for you to remain a bachelor, and the world full of beautiful women waiting to be loved by some one?’ ses I.

“‘A man only loves once,’ ses he, ‘and when the woman of your heart is dead who would want to be living at all?’

“‘And now that the woman of your heart is dead, why don’t you try and forget her when you may never see her again?’

“‘Of course I will see her again. Life is but the shadow of eternity, and before to-morrow’s sun will flood the East with dazzling light, I will see the woman of my heart.’

“‘Where will you see her?’ ses I.

“‘In a land farther away than the farthest star.’

“‘And who will carry you there?’ ses I.

“‘The White Horse of Banba,’ ses he.

“‘But he may not pass this way to-night,’ ses I.

“‘As sure as you will make some mistake to-morrow he will pass this way to-night,’ ses he.

“‘How do you know?’ ses I.

“‘We know lots of things that we have never been told,’ ses he. ‘And you will be wiser to-morrow than you are to-day. The hands of the clock are now together at the midnight hour, and I can hear the clattering of hoofs in the distance.’

“‘Maybe the White Horse of Banba is coming,’ ses I.

“‘He is,’ ses he, ‘and there is no one on his back this time, for he is looking for me.’

“And as true as I’m telling you, a fiery steed rushed over the hill, and the stranger jumped on his back, and ses, ‘Good-by,’ ses he, ‘till we meet again in the Valley of the Dead on the Judgment Day.’

“And then the White Horse of Banba scampered along the rugged pathway with the wailing banshee at his heels, until the top of the cliff was reached, and before I could realize what had happened, he plunged into the dark waters,’ said Padna.

“‘I hope it will be many a long day before eitherof us will be taken to the world next door,” said Micus.

“I hope so too,” said Padna.

“I wonder is the decanter empty,” said Micus.

“Not yet,” said Padna.

Rebellions“Come in and sit down by the fire, and don’t stand shivering there at the door,” said Padna Dan to his neighbor, Micus Pat. “One would think you were afraid to be natural.”“I’m only afraid of myself and my own foolishness,” answered Micus. “So I’ll go in and sit down. On a cold night, there’s nothing like a good fire, a pipe of tobacco, a cheerful companion, and a faithful dog to lie at your feet. ’Tis better than being married a hundred times. Marriage should be the last thought in any sensible man’s head.”“Married men,” said Padna, “are very tiresome people. They are ever either boasting about their wives and children or else abusing them. And married women are always worse than their husbands. A woman becomes a tyrantwhen she knows her husband is afraid of her, and a good wife when she is afraid of him, and when both are afraid of each other the children are afraid of neither. And children that aren’t afraid of their parents get married young and always to the wrong people. But as people who want to get married will get married, then let them get married and enjoy themselves if they like trouble. I’ve been trying to keep out of trouble all my lifetime, and no one has ever failed so successfully,” said Micus.“There’s only one way to keep out of trouble,” said Padna.“And what way is that?”“Well, by either drowning, hanging, or poisoning yourself.”“I’d rather fall from an aeroplane, or die a respectable death and have my name in the papers, than do anything so common as drowning or hanging myself, if I was trying to escape from marrying a widow.”“Wisha, when all is said and done, the longest life is so short that ’tis only a fool, or maybe a verywise man, that would make it any shorter. When we fall out of the cradle, we almost fall into the grave, so to speak, and unless we are either very bad or very good, we’re forgotten before the grass commences to sprout above us.”“A graveyard is a great place surely, for grass to grow and flowers to bloom, and for ghosts to take the fresh air for themselves, but the last place to go for a rest.”“And the only place for a poor man. Because there’s no rest in life, except for the very stupid people and the philosophers.”“And what’s the difference between a stupid man and a philosopher?”“The stupid man is naturally easy in his mind because of his wonderful gift from providence, and the philosopher pretends that you are a wise man, when you know that you are only one of the many poor fools sent astray in this world, without the least notion where your wandering footsteps may lead you to, or your preaching lead others.”“And isn’t it philosophy that keeps the world together?”“No, ’tis not philosophy, but pride, and pride that pulls it asunder, and pride that makes hell and heaven. Pride is the net that the Devil goes fishing with.”“The world must be full of fools then, because I can’t understand myself or any one else, and I never met any one who could understand me.”“If a man could understand himself, he’d die of wisdom, and if he could understand his friend, he’d become his enemy.”“And what would happen if a man could understand his enemy?”“Well, then, he’d be so wise that he’d never get married.”“We’ll try and forget the women for a while, and talk a little about the other wonders of the world. There’s nothing more extraordinary than the patience of married men. The world is full of wonders, police, clergy, and public houses. But what I do be wondering most about at the close of day is, how did all the stars get into the sky?”“Well, well, to be sure! There’s ignorance for you! Didn’t you ever hear tell of the night of the big wind?”“Of course, I did.”“That was the night the earth was blown about in the heavens the way you’d see a piece of paper in the month of March. She was carried from one place to another, until, lo and behold! she struck the moon a wallop and shattered her highest mountains into smithereens, and all the pieces that fell into the sky were turned into the stars you see floating about on frosty nights.”“And did she strike the sun at all in her travels?”“How could the earth strike the sun, you omadhaun?”“It should be as easy to strike the sun as the moon, but how she could strike either is more than any one will ever be able to understand, I’m thinking.”“‘Pon my word, but you’re the most ignorant man one could meet in a year of Saturdays. Don’t you know that the sun is a round hole inthe floor of Heaven through which all the fairies and politicians fell the night of the rebellion?”“And was there a rebellion in Heaven?”“Wisha, what kind of a man are you not to know all these things? Sure, there’s rebellions everywhere.”“What kind of a rebellion do you refer to?”“Well, there are only two kinds, though there’s no difference between them.”“And what are they?”“Rebellions with a reason and rebellions without a reason.”“And why should there be rebellions at all?”“Well, because when people get tired of being good they become bad, and when they get tired of being bad they become good.”“I hope I’ll never be in a rebellion,” said Micus.“Rebellions are the salt of life,” said Padna. “Only for the rebellion in Heaven, we wouldn’t be here to-day enjoying ourselves at the expense of our neighbors. Don’t you know that we are to take the place of the fallen angels and that we must win the respect of St. Peter and St. Patrickby our courageous behavior? I’m never happy only when I’m in the thick of battle, and the only music that charms me is the thunderous cannonading of the enemy. That’s the time that I have the courage of a lion, the grace and power of an elephant, and the fire of hell withal in my eye, ready to conquer or die for my convictions. The man who can’t feel and act like a hero should—What noise is that?”“Only your wife scolding some one outside the door,” answered Micus.“’Tis her voice, surely. Then be off with yourself by the back door, for ’tis ten by the clock, and mind the dog in the haggard while I’ll put out the light and go to bed,” said Padna.

Rebellions

“Come in and sit down by the fire, and don’t stand shivering there at the door,” said Padna Dan to his neighbor, Micus Pat. “One would think you were afraid to be natural.”“I’m only afraid of myself and my own foolishness,” answered Micus. “So I’ll go in and sit down. On a cold night, there’s nothing like a good fire, a pipe of tobacco, a cheerful companion, and a faithful dog to lie at your feet. ’Tis better than being married a hundred times. Marriage should be the last thought in any sensible man’s head.”“Married men,” said Padna, “are very tiresome people. They are ever either boasting about their wives and children or else abusing them. And married women are always worse than their husbands. A woman becomes a tyrantwhen she knows her husband is afraid of her, and a good wife when she is afraid of him, and when both are afraid of each other the children are afraid of neither. And children that aren’t afraid of their parents get married young and always to the wrong people. But as people who want to get married will get married, then let them get married and enjoy themselves if they like trouble. I’ve been trying to keep out of trouble all my lifetime, and no one has ever failed so successfully,” said Micus.“There’s only one way to keep out of trouble,” said Padna.“And what way is that?”“Well, by either drowning, hanging, or poisoning yourself.”“I’d rather fall from an aeroplane, or die a respectable death and have my name in the papers, than do anything so common as drowning or hanging myself, if I was trying to escape from marrying a widow.”“Wisha, when all is said and done, the longest life is so short that ’tis only a fool, or maybe a verywise man, that would make it any shorter. When we fall out of the cradle, we almost fall into the grave, so to speak, and unless we are either very bad or very good, we’re forgotten before the grass commences to sprout above us.”“A graveyard is a great place surely, for grass to grow and flowers to bloom, and for ghosts to take the fresh air for themselves, but the last place to go for a rest.”“And the only place for a poor man. Because there’s no rest in life, except for the very stupid people and the philosophers.”“And what’s the difference between a stupid man and a philosopher?”“The stupid man is naturally easy in his mind because of his wonderful gift from providence, and the philosopher pretends that you are a wise man, when you know that you are only one of the many poor fools sent astray in this world, without the least notion where your wandering footsteps may lead you to, or your preaching lead others.”“And isn’t it philosophy that keeps the world together?”“No, ’tis not philosophy, but pride, and pride that pulls it asunder, and pride that makes hell and heaven. Pride is the net that the Devil goes fishing with.”“The world must be full of fools then, because I can’t understand myself or any one else, and I never met any one who could understand me.”“If a man could understand himself, he’d die of wisdom, and if he could understand his friend, he’d become his enemy.”“And what would happen if a man could understand his enemy?”“Well, then, he’d be so wise that he’d never get married.”“We’ll try and forget the women for a while, and talk a little about the other wonders of the world. There’s nothing more extraordinary than the patience of married men. The world is full of wonders, police, clergy, and public houses. But what I do be wondering most about at the close of day is, how did all the stars get into the sky?”“Well, well, to be sure! There’s ignorance for you! Didn’t you ever hear tell of the night of the big wind?”“Of course, I did.”“That was the night the earth was blown about in the heavens the way you’d see a piece of paper in the month of March. She was carried from one place to another, until, lo and behold! she struck the moon a wallop and shattered her highest mountains into smithereens, and all the pieces that fell into the sky were turned into the stars you see floating about on frosty nights.”“And did she strike the sun at all in her travels?”“How could the earth strike the sun, you omadhaun?”“It should be as easy to strike the sun as the moon, but how she could strike either is more than any one will ever be able to understand, I’m thinking.”“‘Pon my word, but you’re the most ignorant man one could meet in a year of Saturdays. Don’t you know that the sun is a round hole inthe floor of Heaven through which all the fairies and politicians fell the night of the rebellion?”“And was there a rebellion in Heaven?”“Wisha, what kind of a man are you not to know all these things? Sure, there’s rebellions everywhere.”“What kind of a rebellion do you refer to?”“Well, there are only two kinds, though there’s no difference between them.”“And what are they?”“Rebellions with a reason and rebellions without a reason.”“And why should there be rebellions at all?”“Well, because when people get tired of being good they become bad, and when they get tired of being bad they become good.”“I hope I’ll never be in a rebellion,” said Micus.“Rebellions are the salt of life,” said Padna. “Only for the rebellion in Heaven, we wouldn’t be here to-day enjoying ourselves at the expense of our neighbors. Don’t you know that we are to take the place of the fallen angels and that we must win the respect of St. Peter and St. Patrickby our courageous behavior? I’m never happy only when I’m in the thick of battle, and the only music that charms me is the thunderous cannonading of the enemy. That’s the time that I have the courage of a lion, the grace and power of an elephant, and the fire of hell withal in my eye, ready to conquer or die for my convictions. The man who can’t feel and act like a hero should—What noise is that?”“Only your wife scolding some one outside the door,” answered Micus.“’Tis her voice, surely. Then be off with yourself by the back door, for ’tis ten by the clock, and mind the dog in the haggard while I’ll put out the light and go to bed,” said Padna.

“Come in and sit down by the fire, and don’t stand shivering there at the door,” said Padna Dan to his neighbor, Micus Pat. “One would think you were afraid to be natural.”

“I’m only afraid of myself and my own foolishness,” answered Micus. “So I’ll go in and sit down. On a cold night, there’s nothing like a good fire, a pipe of tobacco, a cheerful companion, and a faithful dog to lie at your feet. ’Tis better than being married a hundred times. Marriage should be the last thought in any sensible man’s head.”

“Married men,” said Padna, “are very tiresome people. They are ever either boasting about their wives and children or else abusing them. And married women are always worse than their husbands. A woman becomes a tyrantwhen she knows her husband is afraid of her, and a good wife when she is afraid of him, and when both are afraid of each other the children are afraid of neither. And children that aren’t afraid of their parents get married young and always to the wrong people. But as people who want to get married will get married, then let them get married and enjoy themselves if they like trouble. I’ve been trying to keep out of trouble all my lifetime, and no one has ever failed so successfully,” said Micus.

“There’s only one way to keep out of trouble,” said Padna.

“And what way is that?”

“Well, by either drowning, hanging, or poisoning yourself.”

“I’d rather fall from an aeroplane, or die a respectable death and have my name in the papers, than do anything so common as drowning or hanging myself, if I was trying to escape from marrying a widow.”

“Wisha, when all is said and done, the longest life is so short that ’tis only a fool, or maybe a verywise man, that would make it any shorter. When we fall out of the cradle, we almost fall into the grave, so to speak, and unless we are either very bad or very good, we’re forgotten before the grass commences to sprout above us.”

“A graveyard is a great place surely, for grass to grow and flowers to bloom, and for ghosts to take the fresh air for themselves, but the last place to go for a rest.”

“And the only place for a poor man. Because there’s no rest in life, except for the very stupid people and the philosophers.”

“And what’s the difference between a stupid man and a philosopher?”

“The stupid man is naturally easy in his mind because of his wonderful gift from providence, and the philosopher pretends that you are a wise man, when you know that you are only one of the many poor fools sent astray in this world, without the least notion where your wandering footsteps may lead you to, or your preaching lead others.”

“And isn’t it philosophy that keeps the world together?”

“No, ’tis not philosophy, but pride, and pride that pulls it asunder, and pride that makes hell and heaven. Pride is the net that the Devil goes fishing with.”

“The world must be full of fools then, because I can’t understand myself or any one else, and I never met any one who could understand me.”

“If a man could understand himself, he’d die of wisdom, and if he could understand his friend, he’d become his enemy.”

“And what would happen if a man could understand his enemy?”

“Well, then, he’d be so wise that he’d never get married.”

“We’ll try and forget the women for a while, and talk a little about the other wonders of the world. There’s nothing more extraordinary than the patience of married men. The world is full of wonders, police, clergy, and public houses. But what I do be wondering most about at the close of day is, how did all the stars get into the sky?”

“Well, well, to be sure! There’s ignorance for you! Didn’t you ever hear tell of the night of the big wind?”

“Of course, I did.”

“That was the night the earth was blown about in the heavens the way you’d see a piece of paper in the month of March. She was carried from one place to another, until, lo and behold! she struck the moon a wallop and shattered her highest mountains into smithereens, and all the pieces that fell into the sky were turned into the stars you see floating about on frosty nights.”

“And did she strike the sun at all in her travels?”

“How could the earth strike the sun, you omadhaun?”

“It should be as easy to strike the sun as the moon, but how she could strike either is more than any one will ever be able to understand, I’m thinking.”

“‘Pon my word, but you’re the most ignorant man one could meet in a year of Saturdays. Don’t you know that the sun is a round hole inthe floor of Heaven through which all the fairies and politicians fell the night of the rebellion?”

“And was there a rebellion in Heaven?”

“Wisha, what kind of a man are you not to know all these things? Sure, there’s rebellions everywhere.”

“What kind of a rebellion do you refer to?”

“Well, there are only two kinds, though there’s no difference between them.”

“And what are they?”

“Rebellions with a reason and rebellions without a reason.”

“And why should there be rebellions at all?”

“Well, because when people get tired of being good they become bad, and when they get tired of being bad they become good.”

“I hope I’ll never be in a rebellion,” said Micus.

“Rebellions are the salt of life,” said Padna. “Only for the rebellion in Heaven, we wouldn’t be here to-day enjoying ourselves at the expense of our neighbors. Don’t you know that we are to take the place of the fallen angels and that we must win the respect of St. Peter and St. Patrickby our courageous behavior? I’m never happy only when I’m in the thick of battle, and the only music that charms me is the thunderous cannonading of the enemy. That’s the time that I have the courage of a lion, the grace and power of an elephant, and the fire of hell withal in my eye, ready to conquer or die for my convictions. The man who can’t feel and act like a hero should—What noise is that?”

“Only your wife scolding some one outside the door,” answered Micus.

“’Tis her voice, surely. Then be off with yourself by the back door, for ’tis ten by the clock, and mind the dog in the haggard while I’ll put out the light and go to bed,” said Padna.

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