Chapter V: Part 5

“Let you have patience, Muirne,” says I. “I’m going to Uachtar Ard after him.”

I struck the road. Going in the street of Uachtar Ard, I saw a great ruck of people. The bridge and the street before the chapel were black with people. People were making on the spot from every art. But, a thing that put terror on my heart, there wasn’t a sound out of that terrible gathering,--only the eyes of every man stuck in a little knot that was in the right-middle of the crowd. Soldiers that were in that little knot, black coats and red coats on them, and guns and swords in their hands; and among the black coats and red coats I saw a country boy, and bawneens on him. Coilin Muirne that was in it, and he in holds of the soldiers. The poor boy’s face was as white as my shirt, but he had the beautiful head of him lifted proudly, and it wasn’t the head of a coward, that head.

He was brought to the barracks, and that crowd following him. He was taken to Galway that night. He was put on his trial the next month. It was sworn that he was in the public-house that night. It was sworn that the black man was discoursing on the landlords. It was sworn that he said the lord would be coming that night to throw the people out of their holdings the next day. It was sworn that Coilin Muirne was listening attentively to him. It was sworn that Coilin said those words, “Murder him this night,” when Cuimin O’Niadh said, “What way can we stop the bodach?” It was sworn that the black man praised him for saying those words, that he shook hands with him, that they drank a glass together. It was sworn that Coilin remained in the shop after the going of the Rossnageeragh people, and that himself and the black man left the shop together five minutes after that. There came a peeler then, and he swore he saw Coilin and the black man leaving the town, and that it wasn’t the Rossnageeragh road they took on themselves, but the Galway road. At eight o’clock they left the town. At half after eight a shot was fired at the lord on the Galway road. Another peeler swore he heard the report of the shot. He swore he ran to the place, and, closing up to the place, he saw two men running away. A thin man one of them was, and he dressed like a gentleman would be. A country boy the other man was.

“What kind of clothes was the country boy wearing?” says the lawyer.

“A suit of bawneens,” says the peeler.

“Is that the man you saw?” says the lawyer, stretching his finger towards Coilin.

“I would say it was.”

“Do you swear it?”

The peeler didn’t speak for a spell.

“Do you swear it?” says the lawyer again.

“I do,” says the peeler. The peeler’s face at that moment was whiter than the face of Coilin himself.

A share of us swore then that Coilin never fired a shot out of a gun; that he was a decent, kindly boy that wouldn’t hurt a fly, if he had the power for it. The parish priest swore that he knew Coilin from the day he baptized him; that it was his opinion that he never committed a sin, and that he wouldn’t believe from anyone at all that he would slay a man. It was no use for us. What good was our testimony against the testimony of the police? Judgment of death was given on Coilin.

His mother was present all that time. She didn’t speak a word from start to finish, but her two eyes stuck in the two eyes of her son, and her two hands knitted under her shawl.

“He won’t be hanged,” says Muirne that night. “God promised me that he won’t be hanged.”

A couple of days after that we heard that Coilin wouldn’t be hanged, that it’s how his soul would be spared him on account of him being so young as he was, but that he’d be kept in gaol for the term of his life.

“He won’t be kept,” says Muirne. “O Jesus,” she would say, “don’t let them keep my son from me.”

It’s marvellous the patience that woman had, and the trust she had in the Son of God. It’s marvellous the faith and the hope and the patience of women.

She went to the parish priest. She said to him that if he’d write to the people of Dublin, asking them to let Coilin out to her, it’s certain he would be let out.

“They won’t refuse you, Father,” says she.

The priest said that there would be no use at all in writing, that no heed would be paid to his letter, but that he himself would go to Dublin and that he would speak with the great people, and that, maybe, some good might come out of it. He went. Muirne was full-sure her son would be home to her by the end of a week or two. She readied the house before him. She put lime on it herself, inside and outside. She set two neighbours to put a new thatch on it. She spun the makings of a new suit of clothes for him; she dyed the wool with her own hands; she brought it to the weaver, and she made the suit when the frieze came home.

We thought it long while the priest was away. He wrote a couple of times to the master, but there was nothing new in the letters. He was doing his best, he said, but he wasn’t succeeding too well. He was going from person to person, but it’s not much satisfaction anybody was giving him. It was plain from the priest’s letters that he hadn’t much hope he’d be able to do anything. None of us had much hope, either. But Muirne didn’t lose the wonderful trust she had in God.

“The priest will bring my son home with him,” she used say.

There was nothing making her anxious but fear that she wouldn’t have the new suit ready before Coilin’s coming. But it was finished at last; she had everything ready, repair on the house, the new suit laid on a chair before the fire,--and still no word of the priest.

“Isn’t it Coilin will be glad when he sees the comfort I have in the house,” she would say. “Isn’t it he will look spruce going the road to Mass of a Sunday, and that suit on him!”

It’s well I mind the evening the priest came home. Muirne was waiting for him since morning, the house cleaned up, and the table laid.

“Welcome home,” she said, when the priest came in. She was watching the door, as she would be expecting someone else to come in. But the priest closed the door after him.

“I thought that it’s with yourself he’d come, Father,” says Muirne. “But, sure, it’s the way he wouldn’t like to come on the priest’s car. He was shy like that always, the creature.”

“Oh, poor Muirne,” says the priest, holding her by the two hands, “I can’t conceal the truth from you. He’s not coming, at all. I didn’t succeed in doing anything. They wouldn’t listen to me.”

Muirne didn’t say a word. She went over and she sat down before the fire. The priest followed her and laid his hand on her shoulder.

“Muirne,” says he, like that.

“Let me be, Father, for a little while,” says she. “May God and His Mother reward you for what you’ve done for me. But leave me to myself for a while. I thought you’d bring him home to me, and it’s a great blow on me that he hasn’t come.”

The priest left her to herself. He thought he’d be no help to her till the pain of that blow would be blunted.

The next day Muirne wasn’t to be found. Tale or tidings no one had of her. Word nor wisdom we never heard of her till the end of a quarter. A share of us thought that it’s maybe out of her mind the creature went, and a lonely death to come on her in the hollow of some mountain, or drowning in a boghole. The neighbours searched the hills round about, but her track wasn’t to be seen.

One evening myself was digging potatoes in the garden, when I saw a solitary woman making on me up the road. A tall, thin woman. Her head well-set. A great walk under her. “If Muirne ni Fhiannachta is living,” says I to myself, “it’s she that’s in it.” ’Twas she, and none else. Down with me to the road.

“Welcome home, Muirne,” says I to her. “Have you any news?”

“I have, then,” says she, “and good news. I went to Galway. I saw the Governor of the gaol. He said to me that he wouldn’t be able to do a taste, that it’s the Dublin people would be able to let him out of gaol, if his letting-out was to be got. I went off to Dublin. O, Lord, isn’t it many a hard, stony road I walked, isn’t it many a fine town I saw before I came to Dublin? ‘Isn’t it a great country, Ireland is?’ I used say to myself every evening when I’d be told I’d have so many miles to walk before I’d see Dublin. But, great thanks to God and to the Glorious Virgin, I walked in on the street of Dublin at last, one cold, wet evening. I found a lodging. The morning of the next day I enquired for the Castle. I was put on the way. I went there. They wouldn’t let me in at first, but I was at them till I got leave of talk with some man. He put me on to another man, a man that was higher than himself. He sent me to another man. I said to them all I wanted was to see the Lord Lieutenant of the Queen. I saw him at last. I told him my story. He said to me that he couldn’t do anything. I gave my curse to the Castle of Dublin, and out the door with me. I had a pound in my pocket. I went aboard a ship, and the morning after I was in Liverpool of the English. I walked the long roads of England from Liverpool to London. When I came to London I asked knowledge of the Queen’s Castle. I was told. I went there. They wouldn’t let me in. I went there every day, hoping that I’d see the Queen coming out. After a week I saw her coming out. There were soldiers and great people about her. I went over to the Queen before she went in to her coach. There was a paper, a man in Dublin wrote for me, in my hand. An officer seized me. The Queen spoke to him, and he freed me from him. I spoke to the Queen. She didn’t understand me. I stretched the paper to her. She gave the paper to the officer, and he read it. He wrote certain words on the paper, and he gave it back to me. The Queen spoke to another woman that was along with her. The woman drew out a crown piece and gave it to me. I gave her back the crown piece, and I said that it’s not silver I wanted, but my son. They laughed. It’s my opinion they didn’t understand me. I showed them the paper again. The officer laid his finger on the words he was after writing. I curtseyed to the Queen and went off with me. A man read for me the words the officer wrote. It’s what was in it, that they would write to me about Coilin without delay. I struck the road home then, hoping that, maybe, there would be a letter before me. Do you think, Sean,” says Muirne, finishing her story, “has the priest any letter? There wasn’t a letter at all in the house before me coming out the road; but I’m thinking it’s to the priest they’d send the letter, for it’s a chance the great people might know him.”

“I don’t know did any letter come,” says I. “I would say there didn’t, for if there did the priest would be telling us.”

“It will be here some day yet,” says Muirne. “I’ll go in to the priest, anyhow, and I’ll tell him my story.”

In the road with her, and up the hill to the priest’s house. I saw her going home again that night, and the darkness falling. It’s wonderful how she was giving it to her footsoles, considering what she suffered of distress and hardship for a quarter.

A week went by. There didn’t come any letter. Another week passed. No letter came. The third week, and still no letter. It would take tears out of the grey stones to be looking at Muirne, and the anxiety that was on her. It would break your heart to see her going in the road to the priest every morning. We were afraid to speak to her about Coilin. We had evil notions. The priest had evil notions. He said to us one day that he heard from another priest in Galway that it’s not more than well Coilin was, that it’s greatly the prison was preying on his health, that he was going back daily. That story wasn’t told to Muirne.

One day myself had business with the priest, and I went in to him. We were conversing in the parlour when we heard a person’s footstep on the street outside. Never a knock on the house-door, or on the parlour-door, but in into the room with Muirne ni Fhiannachta, and a letter in her hand. It’s with trouble she could talk.

“A letter from the Queen, a letter from the Queen!” says she.

The priest took the letter. He opened it. I noticed that his hand was shaking, and he opening it. There came the colour of death in his face after reading it. Muirne was standing out opposite him, her two eyes blazing in her head, her mouth half open.

“What does she say, Father?” says she. “Is she sending him home to me?”

“It’s not from the Queen this letter came, Muirne,” says the priest, speaking slowly, like as there would be some impediment on him, “but from the Governor of the gaol in Dublin.”

“And what does he say? Is he sending him home to me?”

The priest didn’t speak for a minute. It seemed to me that he was trying to mind certain words, and the words, as you would say, going from him.

“Muirne,” says he at last, “he says that poor Coilin died yesterday.”

At the hearing of those words, Muirne burst a-laughing. The like of such laughter I never heard. That laughter was ringing in my ears for a month after that. She made a couple of terrible screeches of laughter, and then she fell in a faint on the floor.

She was fetched home, and she was on her bed for a half year. She was out of her mind all that time. She came to herself at long last, and no person at all would think there was a thing the matter with her,--only the delusion that her son isn’t returned home yet from the fair of Uachtar Ard. She does be expecting him always, standing or sitting in the door half the day, and everything ready for his home-coming. She doesn’t understand that there’s any change on the world since that night. “That’s the reason, Coilin,” says my father to me, “that she didn’t know the railway was coming as far as Burnt House. Times she remembers herself, and she starts keening like you saw her. ’Twas herself that made yon keen you heard from her. May God comfort her,” says my father, putting an end to his story.

“And daddy,” says I, “did any letter come from the Queen after that?”

“There didn’t, nor the colour of one.”

“Do you think, daddy, was it Coilin that killed the lord?”

“I know it wasn’t,” says my father. “If it was he’d acknowledge it. I’m as certain as I’m living this night that it’s the black man killed the lord. I don’t say that poor Coilin wasn’t present.”

“Was the black man ever caught?” says my sister.

“He wasn’t, _muise_,” says my father. “Little danger on him.”

“Where did he belong, the black man, do you think, daddy?” says I.

“I believe, before God,” says my father, “that it’s a peeler from Dublin Castle was in it. Cuimin O’Niadh saw a man very like him giving evidence against another boy in Tuam a year after that.”

“Daddy,” says Seaneen suddenly, “when I’m a man I’ll kill that black man.”

“God save us,” says my mother.

My father laid his hand on Seaneen’s head.

“Maybe, little son,” says he, “we’ll all be taking tally-ho out of the black soldiers before the clay will come on us.”

“It’s time for the Rosary,” says my mother.

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IOSAGAN

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IOSAGAN

Old Matthias was sitting beside his door. Anyone going the road would think that it was an image of stone or of marble was in it--that, or a dead person--for he couldn’t believe that a living man could stay so calm, so quiet as that. He had his head high and an ear on him listening. It’s many a musical sound there was to listen to, for the person who’d have heed on them. Old Matthias heard the roar of the waves on the rocks, and the murmur of the stream flowing down and over the stones. He heard the screech of the heron-crane from the high, rocky shore, and the lowing of the cows from the pasture, and the bright laughter of the children from the green. But it wasn’t to any of these he was listening that attentively--though all of them were sweet to him--but to the clear sound of the bell for Mass that was coming to him on the wind in the morning stillness.

All the people were gathered into Mass. Old Matthias saw them going past, in ones and twos, or in little groups. The boys were running and leaping. The girls were chattering merrily. The women were conversing in low tones. The men were silent. Like this, they’d travel the road every Sunday. Like this, Old Matthias would sit on his chair watching them till they’d go out of sight. They went past him this morning as usual. The old man remained looking at them till there was an end to the noise and the commotion, till the last group cleared the top of the church hill, till there was nothing to be seen but a long, straight road stretching out, and it white, till there were none to be found in the village but an odd old person in his bed, or children tricking on the green, and himself sitting beside his door.

Old Matthias would not go to the chapel. He hadn’t heard “the sweet Mass” for over three score years. He was a strong, active youth the last time he blessed himself before the people, and now he was a withered, done old man, his share of hair grey-white, furrows in his brow, his shoulders bent. He hadn’t bent his knee before God for the length of those three score years; he hadn’t put a prayer to his Creator; he hadn’t given thanks to his Saviour. A man apart, Old Matthias was.

Nobody knew why he wouldn’t go to Mass. People said that he didn’t believe there was a God in it. Other people said that he committed some terrible sin at the start of his life, and when the priest wouldn’t give him absolution in confession, that a rage of anger came on him, and he swore an oath that he wouldn’t touch priest or chapel while he was living again. Other people said--but this was said only in a whisper by the fireside when the old people would be yarning by themselves after the children had gone asleep--these said that he sold his soul to a certain Great Man that he met once on the top of Cnoc-a’-daimh, and that this person wouldn’t allow him to frequent the Mass. I don’t know is it true or lying these stories are, but I do know that old Matthias wasn’t seen at God’s Mass in the memory of the oldest person in the village. Cuimin O’Niadh--an old man that got death a couple of years before this in his ninetieth year--said that he himself saw him there when he was a lump of a lad.

It wasn’t thought that Old Matthias was a bad character. He was a man as honest, as simple, as natural as you would meet in a day’s walking. There wasn’t ever heard out of his mouth but the good word. He had no delight in drink or in company, no wish for gold or for property. He was poor, but it’s often he shared with people that were poorer than he. He had pity for the infirm. He had mercy for the wretched. Other men had honour and esteem for him. The women, the children, and the animals loved him; and he had love for them and for everything that was generous and of clean heart.

Old Matthias liked women’s talk better than men’s talk. But he liked the talk of boys and girls still better than the talk of men or women. He used say that the women were more discerning than the men, and that the children were more discerning than either of them. It’s along with the young folk he would spend the best part of his idle time. He would sit with them in a corner of the house, telling them stories, or getting stories out of them. They were wonderful, his share of stories. He had the “Adventures of the Grey Horse” in grandest way in the world. He was the one old body in the village who had the story of the “Hen-Harrier and the Wren,” properly. Isn’t it he would put fright on the children, and he reciting “_Fú Fá Féasóg_” (The Two-Headed Giant), and isn’t it he would take the laughs out of them discoursing on the doings of the piper in the Snail’s Castle! And the songs he had! He could coax an ailing child asleep with his:

“Shoheen, sho, and sleep, my pet;
The fairies are out walking the glen!”

or he could put the full of a house of children in fits of laughter with his:

“Hi diddle dum, the cat and his mother,
That went to Galway riding a drake!”

And isn’t it he had the funny old ranns; and the hard, difficult questions; and the fine riddles! As for games, where was the person, man, woman, or child could keep “_Lúrabóg, Lárabóg_,” or “_An Bhuidhean Bhalbh_” (The Dumb Band) going with him!

In the fine time it’s on the side of the hill, or walking the bog, you’d see Old Matthias and his little playmates, he explaining to them the way of life of the ants and of the woodlice, or inventing stories about the hedgehog and the red squirrel. Another time to them boating, the old man with an oar, some little wee boy with another one, and maybe a young girl steering. It’s often the people who’d be working near the strand would hear the shouts of joy of the children coming to them from the harbour-mouth, or, it might be, Old Matthias’s voice, and he saying:

“Oró! my curragheen O!
And óró! my little boat!”

or something like it.

There used come fear on a share of the mothers at times, and they’d say to each other that they oughtn’t let their children spend that much time with Old Matthias,--“a man that frequents neither clergy nor Mass.” Once a woman of them laid bare these thoughts to Father Sean. It’s what the priest said:

“Don’t meddle with the poor children,” says he. “They couldn’t be in better company.”

“But they tell me he doesn’t believe in God, Father.”

“There’s many a saint in heaven to-day that didn’t believe in God some time of his life. And, whisper here. If Old Matthias hasn’t love for God--a thing that neither you nor I know--it’s wonderful the love he has for the cleanest and most beautiful thing that God created,--the shining soul of the child. Our Saviour Himself and the most glorious saints in heaven had the same love for them. How do we know that it isn’t the children that will draw Old Matthias to the knee of our Saviour yet?”

And the story was left like that.

On this Sunday morning the old man remained listening till the bell for Mass stopped ringing. When there was an end to it he gave a sigh, as the person would that would be weary and sorrowful, and he turned to the group of boys that were sporting themselves on the plot of grass--the “green” Old Matthias would call it--at the cross-roads. Old Matthias knew every curly-headed, bare-footed child of them. He liked no pastime at all better than to be sitting there watching them and listening to them. He was counting them, seeing which of his friends were in it and which of them were gone to Mass with the grown people, when he noticed among them a child he never saw before. A little, brown boy, with a white coat on him, like was on every other boy, and he without shoes or cap, as is the custom with the children of the West. The face of this boy was as bright as the sun, and it seemed to Old Matthias that there were, as it would be, rays of light coming from his head. The sun shining on his share of hair, maybe.

There was wonder on the old man at seeing this child, for he hadn’t heard that there were any strangers after coming to the village. He was on the point of going over and questioning one of the little lads about him, when he heard the stir and chatter of the people coming home from Mass. He didn’t feel the time slipping by him while his mind was on the tricks of the boys. Some of the people saluted him going past, and he saluted them. When he gave an eye on the group of boys again, the strange boy wasn’t among them.

The Sunday after that, Old Matthias was sitting beside his door, as usual. The people were gathered west to Mass. The young folk were running and throwing jumps on the green. Running and throwing jumps along with them was the strange child. Matthias looked at him for a long time, for he gave the love of his heart to him on account of the beauty of his person and the brightness of his countenance. At last he called over one of the little boys:

“Who’s yon boy I see among you for a fortnight back, Coilin?” says he--“he there with the brown head on him,--but have a care that it’s not reddish-fair he is: I don’t know is it dark or fair he is, and the way the sun is burning on him. Do you see him now--that one that’s running towards us?”

“That’s Iosagan,” says the little lad.

“Iosagan?”

“That’s the name he gives himself.”

“Who are his people?”

“I don’t know, but he says his father’s a king.”

“Where does he live?”

“He never told us that, but he says that it’s not far from us his house is.”

“Does he be along with you often?”

“Aye, when we do be spending time to ourselves like this. But he goes from us when a grown person is present. Look! he’s gone already!”

The old man looked, and there was no one in it but the boys he knew. The child, the little boy called Iosagan, was missing. The same moment, the noise and bustle of the people were heard returning from Mass.

The next Sunday everything fell out exactly as it fell on the two Sundays before that. The people gathered west as usual, and the old man and the children were left by themselves in the village. The heart of Old Matthias gave a leap in his middle when he saw the Holy Child among them again.

He rose. He went over and he stood near Him. After a time, standing without a move, he stretched his two hands towards Him, and he spoke in a low voice:

“Iosagan!”

The Child heard him, and He came towards him, running.

“Come here and sit on my knee for a little while, Iosagan.”

The Child put His hand in the thin, knuckly hand of the old man, and they travelled side by side across the road. Old Matthias sat on his chair, and drew Iosagan to his breast.

“Where do You live, Iosagan?” says he, speaking low always.

“Not far from this My House is. Why don’t you come on a visit to Me?”

“I’d be afraid in a royal house. It’s told me that Your Father’s a King.”

“He is High-King of the World. But there is no need for you to be afraid of Him. He is full of mercy and love.”

“I fear I haven’t kept His law.”

“Ask forgiveness of Him. I and My Mother will make intercession for you.”

“It’s a pity I didn’t see You before this, Iosagan. Where were You from me?”

“I was here always. I do be travelling the roads, and walking the hills, and ploughing the waves. I do be among the people when they gather into My House. I do be among the children they do leave behind them playing on the street.”

“I was too timid--or too proud--to go into Your House, Iosagan; but I found You among the children.”

“There isn’t any time or place that children do be amusing themselves that I am not along with them. Times they see Me; other times they do not see Me.”

“I never saw You till lately.”

“The grown people do be blind.”

“And it has been granted me to see You, Iosagan?”

“My Father gave Me leave to show Myself to you, because you loved His little children.”

The voices were heard of the people returning from Mass.

“I must go now from you.”

“Let me kiss the border of Your coat, Iosagan.”

“Kiss it.”

“Shall I see You again?”

“You will.”

“When?”

“This night.”

With that word He was gone.

“I will see Him this night!” says Old Matthias, and he going into the house.

* * * * *

The night came wet and stormy. The great waves were heard breaking with a booming roar against the strand. The trees round the chapel were swaying and bending with the strength of the wind. (The chapel is on a little hill that falls down with a slope to the sea.) Father Sean was on the point of closing his book and saying his Rosary when he heard a noise, as it would be somebody knocking at the door. He listened for a spell. He heard the noise again. He rose from the fire, went to the door, and opened it. A little boy was standing on the door-flag--a boy the priest didn’t mind ever to have seen before. He had a white coat on him, and he without shoes or cap. The priest thought that there were rays of light shining from his countenance, and about his head. The moon that was shining on his brown, comely head, it’s like.

“Who have I here?” says Father Sean.

“Put on you as quickly as you’re able, Father, and strike east to the house of Old Matthias. He is in the mouths of death.”

The priest didn’t want the second word.

“Sit here till I’m ready,” says he. But when he came back, the little messenger was gone.

Father Sean struck the road, and he didn’t take long to finish the journey, though the wind was against him, and it raining heavily. There was a light in Old Matthias’s house before him. He took the latch from the door, and went in.

“Who is this coming to me?” says a voice from the old man’s bed.

“The priest.”

“I’d like to speak to you, Father. Sit here beside me.” The voice was feeble, and the words came slowly from him.

The priest sat down, and heard Old Matthias’s story from beginning to end. Whatever secret was in the old body’s heart it was laid bare to the servant of God there in the middle of the night. When the confession was over, Old Matthias received communion, and he was anointed.

“Who told you that I was wanting you, Father?” says he in a weak, low voice, when everything was done. “I was praying God that you’d come, but I hadn’t any messenger to send for you.”

“But, sure, you did send a messenger to me?” says the priest, and great wonder on him.

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t? But a little boy came, and he knocked at my door, and he said to me that you were wanting my help!”

The old man sat up straight in the bed. There was a flashing in his eyes.

“What sort was the little boy was in it, Father?”

“A gentle little boy, with a white coat on him.”

“Did you take notice was there a haze of light about his head?”

“I did, and it put great wonder on me.”

Old Matthias looked up, there came a smile on his mouth, and he stretched out his two arms:

“Iosagan!” says he.

With that word, he fell back on the bed. The priest went hither to him softly, and closed his eyes.

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THE PRIEST

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THE PRIEST

It’s in yon little house you see in the glen below you, and you going down the road from Gortmore to Inver, that my Priest lives. Himself and his mother, and his little sister, and his little, small, wee brother,--those are the family in it. The father died before Taimeen, the youngest child of them, was born. There’s no time I do be in Rossnageeragh but I spend an evening or two along with them, for the Priest and Maireen (the little sister) and Taimeen are the dearest friends I have. A soft, youngish-looking woman the Priest’s mother is; she’s a bit headstrong, maybe, but if she is itself she’s as kind-hearted a woman as is living, after that. ’Twas she told me this story one evening that I was on a visit to her. She was washing the Priest, meanwhile, before the fire: a big tub of water laid on the floor beside her, the Priest and his share of clothes stripped from him, and she rubbing and scrubbing every inch of his body. I have my doubts that this work agreed too well with the Priest, for now and again he’d let a screech out of him. With every screech his mother would give him a little slap, and after that she’d kiss him. It’s hard for a mother to keep her hand off a child when she has him bare; and ’twould be harder than that for a mother, as loving as this mother, to keep her mouth from a wee, red moutheen as sweet as Paraig’s (Paraig’s my Priest’s name, you know). I ought to say that the Priest was only eight years old yet. He was a lovely picture, standing there, and the firelight shining on his well-knit body and on his curly head, and dancing in his grey, laughing eyes. When I think on Paraig, it’s that way I see him before me, standing on the floor in the brightening of the fire.

But in regard to the story. About a year before this it is it fell out. Nora (the mother) was working about the house. Maireen and Taimeen were amusing themselves on the floor. “_Fromsó Framsó_” they had going on. Maireen was trying to teach the words to Taimeen, a thing that was failing on her, for Taimeen hadn’t any talk yet. You know the words, I suppose?--they’re worth learning, for there’s true poetry in them:

“_Fromsó Framsó_,--
A woman dancing,
That would make sport,
That would drink ale,
That would be in time
Here in the morning!”

Nora wanted a can of water to make tea. It was supper-time.

“Where’s Paraig, Maireen?” says she. “He’s lost this half-hour.”

“He went into the room, mameen.”

“Paraig!” says the mother, calling loudly.

Not a word from within.

“Do you hear, Paraig?”

Never a word.

“What’s wrong with the boy? Paraig, I say!” says she, as loud as it was in her head.

“I’ll be out presently, mama,” says a voice from the room.

“Hurry with you, son. It’s tea-time, and devil a tear of water have I in the house.”

Paraig came out of the room.

“You’re found at last. Push on down with you,--but what’s this? Where did you get that shirt, or why is it on you? What were you doing?”

Paraig was standing in the door, like a stake. A shirt was fastened on him over his little coat. He looked down on himself. His face was red-burning to the ears.

“I forgot to take it off me, mama,” says he.

“Why is it on you at all?”

“Sport I was having.”

“Take it off you this minute! The rod you want, yourself and your sport!”

Paraig took off the shirt without a word and left it back in the room.

“Brush down to the well now and get a can of water for me, like a pet.” Nora already regretted that she spoke as harshly as that. It’s a woman’s anger that isn’t lasting.

Paraig took the can and whipped off with it. Michileen Enda, a neighbour’s boy, came in while he was out.

“It beats me, Michileen,” says Nora, after a spell, “to make out what Paraig does be doing in that room the length of the evening. No sooner has he his dinner eaten every day than he clears off in there, and he’s lost till supper-time.”

“Some sport he does have on foot,” says Michileen.

“That’s what he says himself. But it’s not in the house a lad like him ought to be stuck on a fine evening, but outside in the air, tearing away.”

“‘A body’s will is his delight,’” says Michileen, reddening his pipe.

“One apart is Paraig, anyhow,” says Nora. “He’s the most contrary son you ever saw. Times, three people wouldn’t watch him, and other times you wouldn’t feel him in the house.”

Paraig came in at this, and no more was said on the question. He didn’t steal away this time, but instead of that he sat down on the floor, playing “_Fromsó Framsó_” with Maireen and Taimeen.

* * * * *

The dinner was on the table when Paraig came home from school the next evening. He ate his share of stirabout and he drank his noggin of milk, thankfully and with blessing. As soon as he had eaten and drunk, he took his satchel of books and west with him into the room, as was his habit.

The mother didn’t let on that she was giving any heed to him. But, after a couple of minutes, she opened the door of the room quietly, and stuck the tip of her nose inside. Paraig didn’t notice her, but she had a view of everything that was going on in the room.

It was a queer sight. Paraig was standing beside the table and he dressed in the shirt again. Outside of this, and back over his shoulders, he was fixing a red bodice of his mother’s, that she had hanging on the wall. When he had this arranged properly, he took out the biggest book he had in his satchel--the “Second Book” it was, I believe--he opened it, and laid it before him on the table, propped against the looking-glass.

It’s then began the antics in earnest. Paraig stood out opposite the table, bent his knee, blessed himself, and began praying loudly. It’s not well Nora was able to understand him, but, as she thought, he had Latin and Gaelic mixed through other, and an odd word that wasn’t like Latin or Gaelic. Once, it seemed to her, she heard the words “_Fromsó Framsó_,” but she wasn’t sure. Whatever wonder was on Nora at this, it was seven times greater the wonder was on her when she saw Paraig genuflecting, beating his breast, kissing the table, letting on he was reading Latin prayers out of the “Second Book,” and playing one trick odder than another. She didn’t know rightly what he was up to, till he turned round and said:

“_Dominus vobiscum!_”

“God save us!” says she to herself when she saw this. “He’s pretending that he’s a priest and he reading Mass! That’s the Mass vestment he’s wearing, and the little Gaelic book is the book of the Mass!”

It’s no exaggeration to say that Nora was scared. She came back to the kitchen and sat before the fire. She didn’t know what she ought to do. She was between two advices, which of them would be seemliest for her--to put Paraig across her knee and give him a good whipping, or to go on her two knees before him and beg his blessing!

“How do I know,” says she to herself, “that it’s not a terrible sin for me to let him make a mimic of the priest like that? But how do I know, after that, that it’s not a saint out of heaven I have in the house? And, sure, it would be a dreadful sin to lay hand on a saint! May God forgive it to me, it’s often I laid the track of my fingers on him already! I don’t know either way. I’m in a strait, surely!” Nora didn’t sleep a wink that night with putting this question through other.

The next morning, as soon as Paraig was cleared off to school, Nora put the lock on the door, left the two young children under the care of Michileen’s mother, and struck the road to Rossnageeragh. She didn’t stop till she came to the parish priest’s house and told her story to Father Ronan from start to finish. The priest only smiled, but Nora was with him till she drew a promise from him that he’d take the road out to her that evening. She whipped home then, satisfied.

The priest didn’t fail her. He struck in to her in the evening. Timely enough, Paraig was in the room “reading Mass.”

“On your life, don’t speak, Father!” says Nora. “He’s within.”

The two stole over on their tiptoes to the room door. They looked inside. Paraig was dressed in the shirt and bodice, exactly as he was the day before that, and he praying piously. The priest stood a spell looking at him.

At last my lad turned round, and setting his face towards the people, as it would be:

“_Orate, fratres_,” says he, out loud.

While this was saying, he saw his mother and the priest in the door. He reddened, and stood without a stir.

“Come here to me,” says Father Ronan.

Paraig came over timidly.

“What’s this you have going on?” says the priest.

“I was reading Mass, Father,” says Paraig. He said this much shyly, but it was plain he didn’t think that he had done anything out of the way--and, sure, it’s not much he had. But poor Nora was on a tremble with fear.

“Don’t be too hard on him, Father,” says she. “He’s only young.”

The priest laid his hand lightly on the white head of the little lad, and he spoke gently and kindly to him.

“You’re too young yet, Paraigeen,” says he, “to be a priest, and it’s not granted to anyone but to God’s priest to say the Mass. But whisper here to me. Would you like to be serving Mass on Sunday?”

Paraig’s eyes lit up and his cheek reddened again, not with shyness this time but with sheer delight.

“_Ora_, I would, Father,” says he; “I’d like nothing at all better.”

“That will do,” says the priest. “I see you have some of the prayers already.”

“But, Father, _a mhuirnín_”--says Nora, and stopped like that, suddenly.

“What’s on you now?” says the priest.

“Breeches nor brogues he hasn’t worn yet!” says she. “I think it early to put breeches on him till--”

The priest burst out laughing.

“I never heard,” says he, “that there was call for breeches. We’ll put a little cassock out over his coat, and I warrant it’ll fit him nicely. As for shoes, we’ve a pair that Martin the Fisherman left behind him when he went to Clifden. We’ll dress you right, Paraig, no fear,” says he. And like that it was settled.

* * * * *

When the priest was gone, the mother stooped down and kissed her little son.

“My love you are!” says she.

Going to sleep that night, the last words she said to herself were: “My little son will be a priest! And how do I know,” says she, closing her eyes, “how do I know that it’s not a bishop he might be by-and-by?”

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BARBARA

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BARBARA

Barbara wasn’t too well-favoured, the best day she was. Anybody would admit that much. The first cause of it,--she was purblind. You’d say, to look at her, she was one-eyed. Brideen never gave in that she was, however. Once when another little girl said, out of sheer spite on them both, that Barbara had only “one blind little eye, like the tailor’s cat,” Brideen said angrily that Barbara had her two eyes as good as anybody, but it’s how she’d have one eye shut, for the one was enough for her (let it be blind), to do her share of work. However it was, it couldn’t be hidden that she was bald; and I declare a bald head isn’t a nice thing in a young woman. Another thing, she was a dummy; or it would be more correct for me to say, that she didn’t ever speak with anybody, but with Brideen only. If Brideen told truth, she had a tasty tongue of Irish, and her share of thoughts were the loveliest in the world. It’s not well she could walk, for she was one-legged, and that one leg itself broken. She had two legs on a time, but the dog ate one of them, and the other was broken where she fell from the top of the dresser.

But who’s Barbara, say you, or who’s Brideen? Brideen is the little girl, or, as she’d say herself, the little slip of a woman, that lives in the house next the master’s,--on the left-hand side, I think, going up the road. It’s likely you know her now? If you don’t, I can’t help you. I never heard who her people were, and she herself said to me that her father has ne’er a name but “Daddy.” As for Barbara,--well, it’s as good for me to tell you her adventures and travels from start to finish.

THE ADVENTURES OF BARBARA HERE.

One day when Brideen’s mother got up, she gave their breakfasts to Brideen and to her father, to the dog, to the little cat, to the calves, to the hens, to the geese, to the ducks, and to the little robin redbreast that would come to the door at breakfast-time every morning. When she had that much done, she ate her own breakfast. Then she began readying herself for the road.

Brideen was sitting on her own little stool without a word out of her, but she putting the eyes through her mother. At long last she spoke:

“Is mama going from Brideen?”

“She’s not, _a stóir_. Mama will come again in the evening. She’s going to Galway.”

“Is Brideen going there, too?”

“She’s not, _a chuid_. The road’s too long, and my little girl would be tired. She’ll stay at home making sport for herself, like a good little girl would. Won’t she stay?”

“She will.”

“She won’t run out on the street?”

“She won’t.”

“Daddy’ll come in at dinner-time, and ye’ll have a meal together. Give mama a kiss, now.”

The kiss was given, and the mother was going. Brideen started up.

“Mama!”

“What is it _a rúin_?”

“Won’t you bring home a fairing to Brideen?”

“I will, _a chuid_. A pretty fairing.”

The mother went off, and Brideen remained contented at home. She sat down on her little stool. The dog was curled before the fire, and he snoring. Brideen woke him up, and put a whisper in his ear:

“Mama will bring home a fairing to Brideen!”

“Wuff!” says the dog, and went asleep to himself again. Brideen knew that “Wuff!” was the same as “Good news!”

The little cat was sitting on the hearth. Brideen lifted it in her two arms, rubbed its face to her cheeks, and put a whisper in its ear:

“Mama will bring home a fairing to Brideen!”

“Mee-ow!” says the little cat. Brideen knew that “Mee-ow!” was the same as “Good news!”

She laid the little cat from her, and went about the house singing to herself. She made a little song as follows:

“O little dog, and O little dog!
Sleep a while till my mama comes!
O little cat, and O little cat!
Be purring till she comes home!
O little dog, and O little cat!
At the fair O! my mama is,
But she’ll come again in the little evening O!
And she’ll bring home a fairing with her!”

She tried to teach this song to the dog, but it’s greater the wish the dog had for sleep than for music. She tried to teach it to the little cat, but the little cat thought its own purring sweeter. When her father came in at midday, nothing would do her but to say this song to him, and make him to learn it by heart.

The mother returned home before evening. The first word Brideen said was:

“Did you bring the fairing with you, mama?”

“I did, _a chuisle_.”

“What did you bring with you?”

“Guess!” The mother was standing in the middle of the floor. She had her bag laid on the floor, and her hands behind her.

“Sweets?”

“No!”

“A sugar cake?”

“No, _muise_! I have a sugar cake in my bag, but that’s not the fairing.”

“A pair of stockings?” Brideen never wore shoes or stockings, and she had been long coveting them.

“No, indeed! You’re too young for stockings a little while yet.”

“A prayer book?” There’s no need for me to say that Brideen wasn’t able to read (for she hadn’t put in a day at school in her life), but she thought she was. “A prayer book?” says she.

“Not at all!”

“What is it, then?”

“Look!”

The mother spread out her two hands, and what did she lay bare but a little doll! A little wooden doll that was bald, and it purblind; but its two cheeks were as red as a berry, and there was a smile on its mouth. Anybody who’d have an affection for dolls, he would give affection and love to it. Brideen’s eyes lit up with joy.

“_Ora_, isn’t it pretty! _Ara_, mama, heart, where did you get it? _Ora ó_! I’ll have a child of my very own now,--a child of my very owneen own! Brideen will have a child!”

She snatched the little doll, and she squeezed it to her heart. She kissed its little bald head, and its two red cheeks. She kissed its little mouth, and its little snub nose. Then she remembered herself, raised her head, and says she to her mother:

“Kith!” (like that Brideen would say “Kiss.”)

The mother stooped down till the little girl kissed her. Then she must kiss the little doll. The father came in at that moment, and he was made do the same.

There wasn’t a thing making Brideen anxious that evening but what name she’d christen the doll. Her mother praised “Molly” for it, and her father thought the name “Peggy” would be apt. But none of these were grand enough, it seemed to Brideen.

“Why was I called Brideen, daddy?” says she after supper.

“The old women said that you were like your uncle Padraic, and since we couldn’t christen you ‘Padraic,’ you were christened ‘Brigid,’ as that, we thought, was the thing nearest it.”

“Do you think is she here” (the doll), “like my uncle Padraic, daddy?”

“O, not like a bit. Your uncle Padraic is fair-haired,--and, I believe, he has a beard on him now.”

“Who’s she like, then?”

“_Muise_, ’twould be hard to say, girl!--’twould be hard, that.”

Brideen meditated for a while. Her father was stripping her clothes from her in front of the fire during this time, for it was time for her to be going to sleep. When she was stripped, she went on her knees, put her two little hands together, and she began like this: