Chapter VI: Part 6

“O Jesus Christ, bless us and save us! O Jesus Christ, bless daddy and mama and Brideen, and keep us safe and well from accident, and from the harm of the year, if it is the will of my Saviour. O God, bless my uncle Padraic that’s now in America, and my Aunt Barbara--.” She stopped, suddenly, and put a shout of joy out of her.

“I have it! I have it, daddy!” says she.

“What have you, love? Wait till you finish your share of prayers.”

“My Aunt Barbara! She’s like my Aunt Barbara!”

“Who’s like your Aunt Barbara?”

“The little doll! That’s the name I’ll give her! Barbara!”

The father let a great shout of laughter before he remembered that the prayers weren’t finished. Brideen didn’t laugh, at all, but followed on like this:

“O God, bless my Uncle Padaric that’s now in America, and my Aunt Barbara, and (this is an addition she put to it herself), and bless my own little Barbara, and keep her from mortal sin! Amen, O Lord!”

The father burst laughing again. Brideen looked at him, and wonder on her.

“Brush off, now, and in into your bed with you!” says he, as soon as he could speak for the laughing. “And don’t forget Barbara!” says he.

“Little fear!” West with her into the room, and into the bed with her with a leap. Be sure she didn’t forget Barbara.

From that night out Brideen wouldn’t go to sleep, for gold nor for silver, without Barbara being in the bed with her. She wouldn’t sit to take food without Barbara sitting beside her. She wouldn’t go out making fun to herself without Barbara being along with her. One Sunday that her mother brought her with her to Mass, Brideen wasn’t satisfied till Barbara was brought, too. A neighbour woman wouldn’t come in visiting, but Barbara would be introduced to her. One day that the priest struck in to them, Brideen asked him to give Barbara his blessing. He gave his blessing to Brideen herself. She thought it was to the doll he gave it, and she was full-satisfied.

Brideen settled a nice little parlour for Barbara on top of the dresser. She heard that her Aunt Barbara had a parlour (in Uachtar Ard she was living), and she thought that it wasn’t too much for Barbara to have a parlour as good as anybody. My poor Barbara fell from the top of the dresser one day, as I have told already, and one of her legs was broken. It’s many a disaster over that happened her. Another day the dog grabbed her, and was tearing her joint from joint till Brideen’s mother came to help her. The one leg remained safe with the dog. She fell into the river another time, and she had like to be drowned. It’s Brideen’s father that came to her help this journey. Brideen herself was almost drowned, and she trying to save her from the riverbank.

If Barbara wasn’t too well-favoured the first day she came, it stands to nature it’s not better the appearance was on her after putting a year by her. But ’twas all the same to Brideen whether she was well-favoured or ill-favoured. She gave the love of her heart to her from the first minute she laid an eye on her, and it’s increasing that love was from day to day. Isn’t it the two of them used to have the fun when the mother would leave the house to their care, times she’d be visiting in a neighbour’s house! They would have the floor swept and the plates washed before her, when she’d return. And isn’t it on the mother would be the wonder, _mor ’eadh_!

“Is it Brideen cleaned the floor for her mama?” she’d say.

“Brideen and Barbara,” the little girl would say.

“_Muise_, I don’t know what I’d do, if it weren’t for the pair of you!” the mother would say. And isn’t it on Brideen would be the delight and the pride!

And the long days of summer they would put from them on the hillside, among the fern and flowers!--Brideen gathering daisies and fairy-thimbles and buttercups, and Barbara reckoning them for her (so she’d say); Brideen forever talking and telling tales that a human being (not to say a little doll) never heard the likes of before or since, and Barbara listening to her; it must be she’d be listening attentively, for there wouldn’t come a word out of her mouth.

It’s my opinion that there wasn’t a little girl in Connacht, or if I might say it, in the Continent of Europe, that was more contented and happy-like, than Brideen was those days; and, I declare, there wasn’t a little doll under the hollow of the sun that was more contented and happy-like than Barbara.

That’s how it stood till Niamh Goldy-Head came.

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II

Niamh Goldy-Head was a native of Dublin. A lady that came to Gortmore learning Irish promised before leaving that she’d send some valuable to Brideen. And, sure, she did. One day, about a week after her departure, Bartly the Postman walked in into the middle of the kitchen and laid a big box on the floor.

“For you, young woman,” says he to Brideen.

“_Ara_, what’s in it, Bartly?”

“How do I know? A fairy, maybe.”

“_O bhó!_ Where did you get it?”

“From a little green maneen, with a long blue beard on him, a red cap on his nob, and he riding a hare.”

“_Ora_, daddy! And what did he say to you, Bartly?”

“Devil a thing did he say only, ‘Give this to Brideen, and my blessing,’ and off with him while you’d be winking.”

I am doubtful if this story of Bartly’s was all true, but Brideen believed every word of it. She called to her mother, where she was inside in the room tidying the place after the breakfast.

“Mama, mama, a big box for Brideen! A little green maneen, with a long blue beard on him, that gave it to Bartly the Postman!”

The mother came out and Bartly gathered off.

“Mameen, mameen, open the box quick! Bartly thinks it’s maybe a fairy is in it! Hurry, mameen, or how do we know he won’t be smothered inside in the box?”

The mother cut the string. She tore the paper from the box. She lifted the lid. What should be in it, lying nice and comfortably in the box, like a child would be in a cradle, but the grandest and the beautifullest doll that eye ever saw! There was yellow-golden hair on it, and it falling in ringleted tresses over its breast and over its shoulders. There was the blush of the rose on its cheek. It’s the likeness I’d compare its little mouth to--two rowanberries; and ’twas like pearls its teeth were. Its eyes were closed. There was a bright suit of silk covering its body, and a red mantle of satin over that outside. There was a glittering necklace of noble stones about its throat, and, as a top on all the wonders, there was a royal crown on its head.

“A Queen!” says Brideen in a whisper, for there was a kind of dread on her before this glorious fairy. “A Queen from Tir-na-nOg! Look, mama, she’s asleep. Do you think will she waken?”

“Take her in your hand,” says the mother.

The little girl stretched out her two hands timidly, laid them reverently on the wonderful doll, and at last lifted it out of the box. No sooner did she take it than the doll opened its eyes, and said in a sweet, weeny voice:

“Mam--a!”

“God bless us!” says the mother, making the sign of the cross on herself, “she can talk!”

There was a queer edge in Brideen’s eyes, and there was a queer light in her features. But I don’t think she was half as scared as the mother was. Children do be expecting wonders always, and when a wonderful thing happens it doesn’t put as much astonishment on them as it does on grown people.

“Why wouldn’t she talk?” says Brideen. “Can’t Barbara talk? But it’s sweeter entirely this voice than Barbara’s voice.”

My grief, you are, Barbara! Where were you all this time? Lying on the floor where you fell from Brideen’s hand when Bartly came in. I don’t know did you hear these words from your friend’s mouth. If you did, it’s surely they’d go like a stitch through your heart.

Brideen continued speaking. She spoke quickly, her two eyes dancing in her head:

“A Queen this is,” says she. “A fairy Queen! Look at the fine suit she’s wearing! Look at the mantle of satin is on her! Look at the beautiful crown she has! She’s like yon Queen that Stephen of the Stories was discoursing about the other night,--the Queen that came over sea from Tir-na-nOg riding on the white steed. What’s the name that was on that Queen, mama?”

“Niamh of the Golden Head.”

“This is Niamh Goldy-Head!” says the little girl. “I’ll show her to Stephen the first other time he comes! Isn’t it he will be glad to see her, mama? He was angry the other night when my daddy said there are no fairies at all in it. I knew my daddy was only joking.”

I wouldn’t like to say that Niamh Goldy-Head was a fairy, as Brideen thought, but I’m sure there was some magic to do with her; and I’m full-sure that Brideen herself was under a spell from the moment she came into the house. If she weren’t, she wouldn’t leave Barbara lying by herself on the floor through the evening, without saying a word to her, or even remembering her, till sleep-time; nor would she go to sleep without bringing Barbara into the bed with her, as was her habit. It’s with trouble you’d believe it, but it’s the young Queen that slept along with Brideen that night, instead of the faithful little companion that used sleep with her every night for a year.

Barbara remained lying on the floor, till Brideen’s mother found her, and lifted and put her on top of the dresser where her own little parlour was. Barbara spent that night on the top of the dresser. I didn’t hear that Brideen or her mother or her father noticed any lamenting from the kitchen in the middle of the night, and, to say truth, I don’t think that Barbara shed a tear. But it’s certain she was sad enough, lying up yonder by herself, without her friend’s arm about her, without the heat of her friend’s body warming her, without man or mortal near her, without hearing a sound but the faint, truly-lonesome sounds that do be heard in a house in the dead time of the night.

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III

It’s sitting or lying on the top of the dresser that Barbara spent the greater part of the next quarter. ’Twas seldom Brideen used speak to her; and when she would speak, she’d only say, “Be a good girl, Barbara. You see I’m busy. I must give attention to Niamh Goldy-Head. She’s a Queen, you know, and she must be attended well.” Brideen was getting older now (I believe she was five years past, or, maybe, five and a-half), and she was rising out of a share of the habits she learned at the start of her babyhood. It’s not “Brideen” she’d call herself now, for she knew the meaning that was in the little word “I,” and in those little tails “am” and “am not” when they’re put after “I.” She knew, too, that it’s great the respect and the honour due to a Queen, over what is due to a poor, little creatureen like Barbara.

I’m afraid Barbara didn’t understand this story at all. She was only a little wooden doll, and, sure, ’twould be hard for its likes to understand the heart of a girl. It was plain to her that she was cast to one side. It’s Niamh Goldy-Head would sleep along with Brideen now; it’s Niamh Goldy-Head would sit beside her at meal-time; it’s Niamh Goldy-Head would go out on the hill, foot to foot with her, that would lie with her among the fern, and would go with her gathering daisies and fairy-thimbles. It’s Niamh Goldy-Head she’d press to her breast. It’s Niamh Goldy-Head she’d kiss. Some other body to be in the place you’d be, some other body to be walking with the person you’d walk with, some other body to be kissing the mouth you’d long to kiss,--that’s the greatest pain is to be suffered in this world; and that’s the pain was in Barbara’s heart now, torturing her from morning till night, and tormenting her from night till morning.

I suppose it’ll be said to me that it’s not possible for these thoughts, or any other thoughts, to be in Barbara’s heart, for wasn’t she only a wooden toy, without feeling, without mind, without understanding, without strength? My answer to anybody who’d speak like this to me would be:--_How do we know?_ How do you or I know that dolls, and wooden toys, and the tree, and the hill, and the river, and the waterfall, and the little blossoms of the field, and the little stones of the strand haven’t their own feeling, and mind, and understanding, and guidance?--aye, and the hundred other things we see about us? I don’t say they have; but ’twould be daring for me or for anybody else to say that they haven’t. The children think they have; and it’s my opinion that the children are more discerning in things of this sort than you or I.

One day that Barbara was sitting up lonesomely by herself in her parlour, Brideen and Niamh Goldy-Head were in earnest conversation by the fireside; or, I ought to say, Brideen was in earnest conversation with herself, and Niamh listening to her; for nobody ever heard a word out of the Queen’s mouth but only “Mam-a.” Brideen’s mother was outside the door washing. The father was setting potatoes in the garden. There only remained in the house Brideen and the two dolls.

It’s like the little girl was tired, for she’d spent the morning washing (she’d wash the Queen’s sheet and blanket every week). It was short till sleep came on her. It was short, after that, till she dropped her head on her breast and she was in deep slumber. I don’t rightly understand what happened after that, but, by all accounts, Brideen was falling down and down, till she was stretched on the hearth-flag within the nearness of an inch to the fire. She didn’t waken, for she was sound asleep. It’s like that Niamh Goldy-Head was asleep, too, but, however, or whatever, the story is, she didn’t stir. There wasn’t a soul in the house to protect the darling little child from the death that was faring on her. Nobody knew her to be in peril, but only God and--Barbara.

The mother was working without, and she not thinking that death was that near the child of her heart. She was turning a tune to herself, and lifting it finely, when she heard a “plop”--a sound as if something was falling on the floor.

“What’s that, now?” says she to herself. “Something that fell from the wall, it’s a chance. It can’t be that Brideen meddled with it?”

In with her in a hurry. It’s barely the life didn’t drop out of her, with the dint of fright. And what wonder? Her darling child was stretched on the hearth, and her little coateen blazing in the fire!

The mother rushed to her across the kitchen, lifted her in her arms, and pulled the coat from her. She only just saved her. If she’d waited another little half-moment, she was too late.

Brideen was awake now, and her two arms about the neck of her mother. She was trembling with the dint of fear, and, sure enough, crying, though it isn’t too well she understood the story yet. Her mother was “smothering her with kisses and drowning her with tears.”

“What happened me, mama? I was dreaming. I felt hot, and I thought I was going up, up in the sky, and that the sun was burning me? What happened me?”

“It’s the will of God that my _stóirín_ wasn’t burnt,--not with the sun, but with the fire. O, Brideen, your mother’s little pet, what would I do if they’d kill you on me? What would your father do? ’Twas God spoke to me coming in that minute!--I don’t know what sort of noise I heard? If it weren’t for that, I mightn’t have come in at all.”

She looked round her. Everything was in its own place on the table, and on the walls, and on the dresser,--but stay! In front of the dresser she took notice of a thing on the floor. What was it? A little body without a head--a doll’s body.

“Barbara fallen from the dresser again,” says the mother. “My conscience, it’s she saved your life to you, Brideen.”

“Not falling she did it at all!” says the little girl, “but it’s how she saw I was in danger, and she threw a leap from the top of the dresser to save me. O, poor Barbara, you gave your life for my sake!”

She went on her knees, lifted the little corpse of the doll, and kissed it softly and fondly.

“Mama,” says she, sadly, “since Niamh Goldy-Head came, I’m afraid I forgot poor Barbara, and it’s greater the liking I put in Niamh Goldy-Head than in her; and see, it’s she was most true to me in the end. And she’s dead now on me, and I won’t be able to speak with her ever again, nor to say to her that I’d rather her a thousand times,--aye, a hundred thousand times--than Niamh.”

“It’s not dead she is at all,” says the mother, “but hurted. Your father will put the head on her again when he comes in.”

“If I’d fall from the top of the dresser, mama, and lose my head, would he be able to put it on me again?”

“He wouldn’t. But you’re not the same as Barbara.”

“I am the same. She’s dead. Don’t you see she’s not moving or speaking?”

The mother had to admit this much.

Nothing would convince Brideen that Barbara wasn’t killed, and that it wasn’t to save her she gave her life. I myself wouldn’t say she was right, but I wouldn’t say she wasn’t. I can only say what I said before: How do I know? How do you know?

Barbara was buried that evening on the side of the hill in the place where she and Brideen spent those long days of summer among the fern and the flowers. There are fairy-thimbles growing at the head of the grave, and daisies and buttercups plentifully about it.

Before going to sleep that night, Brideen called over to her mother.

“Do you think, mama,” says she, “will I see Barbara in heaven?”

“Maybe, by the King of Glory, you might,” says the mother.

“Do you think will I, daddy?” says she to her father.

“I know well you will,” says the father.

* * * * *

Those were the Adventures and Tragic Fate of Barbara up to that time.

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EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS

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EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS

A conversation that took place between Eoineen of the Birds and his mother, one evening of spring, before the going under of the sun. The song-thrush and the yellow-bunting that heard it, and (as I think) told it to my friends the swallows. The swallows that told the story to me.

“Come on in, pet. It’s rising cold.”

“I can’t stir a while yet, little mother. I’m waiting for the swallows.”

“For what, little son?”

“The swallows. I’m thinking they’ll be here this night.”

Eoineen was high on the big rock that was close to the gable of the house, he settled nicely on top of it, and the white back of his head against the foot of the ash-tree that was sheltering him. He had his head raised, and he looking from him southward. His mother looked up at him. It seemed to her that his share of hair was yellow gold where the sun was burning on his head.

“And where are they coming from, child?”

“From the Southern World--the place it does be summer always. I’m expecting them for a week.”

“And how do you know that it’s this night they’ll come?”

“I don’t know, only thinking it. ’Twould be time for them to be here some day now. I mind that it was this day surely they came last year. I was coming up from the well when I heard their twittering--a sweet, joyful twittering as they’d be saying: ‘We’ve come to you again, Eoineen! News to you from the Southern World!’--and then one of them flew past me, rubbing his wing to my cheek.”

There’s no need to say that this talk put great wonder on the mother. Eoineen never spoke to her like that before. She knew that he put a great wish in the birds, and that it’s many an hour he used spend in the wood or by the strand-side, “talking to them,” as he’d say. But she didn’t understand why there should be that great a wish on him to see the swallows coming again. She knew by his face, as well as by the words of his mouth, that he was forever thinking on some thing that was making him anxious. And there came unrest on the woman over it, a thing that’s no wonder. “Sure, it’s queer talk from a child,” says she in her own mind. She didn’t speak a breath aloud, however, but she listening to each word that came out of his mouth.

“I’m very lonely since they left me in the harvest,” says the little boy again, like one that would be talking to himself. “They had that much to say to me. They’re not the same as the song-thrush or the yellow-bunting that do spend the best part of their lives by the ditch-side in the garden. They do have wonderful stories to tell about the lands where it does be summer always, and about the wild seas where the ships are drowned, and about the lime-bright cities where the kings do be always living. It’s long, long the road from the Southern World to this country. They see everything coming over, and they don’t forget anything. I think long, wanting them.”

“Come in, white love, and go to sleep. You’ll be perished with the cold if you stay out any longer.”

“I’ll go in presently, little mother. I wouldn’t like them to come, and I not to be here to give them welcome. They would be wondering.”

The mother saw that it was no good to be at him. She went in, troubled. She cleaned the table and the chairs. She washed the vessels and the dishes. She took the brush, and she brushed the floor. She scoured the kettle and the big pot. She trimmed the lamp, and hung it on the wall. She put more turf on the fire. She did a hundred other things that she needn’t have done. Then she sat before the fire, thinking to herself.

The “piper of the ashes” (the cricket) came out, and started on his heartsome tune. The mother stayed by the hearthside, pondering. The little boy stayed on his airy seat, watching. The cows came home from the pasture. The hen called to her her chickens. The blackbird and the wren, and the other little people of the wood went to sleep. The buzzing of the flies was stopped, and the bleating of the lambs. The sun sank slowly till it was close to the bottom of the sky, till it was exactly on the bottom of the sky, till it was under the bottom of the sky. A cold wind blew from the east. The darkness spread on the earth. At last Eoineen came in.

“I fear they won’t come this night,” says he. “Maybe, with God’s help, they might come to-morrow.”

* * * * *

The morning of the next day came. Eoineen was up early, and he watching out from the top of the rock. The middle of day came. The end of day came. The night came. But, my grief! the swallows did not come.

“Maybe we might see them here to-morrow,” says Eoineen, and he coming in sadly that night.

But they didn’t see them. Nor did they see them the day after that, nor the day after that again. And it’s what Eoineen would say every night and he coming in:

“Maybe they might be with us to-morrow.”

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II

There came a delightful evening in the end of April. The air was clear and cool after a shower of rain. There was a wonderful light in the western heavens. The birds sang a strain of music in the wood. The waves were chanting a poem on the strand. But loneliness was on the heart of the boy and he waiting for the swallows.

There was heard, suddenly, a sound that hadn’t been heard in that place for more than a half-year. A little, tiny sound. A faint, truly-melodious sound. A pert, joyous twittering, and it unlike any other twittering that comes from the mouth of a bird. With fiery swiftness a small black body drove from the south. It flying high in the air. Two broad, strong wings on it. The shaping of a fork on its tail. It cutting the way before it, like an arrow shot from a bow. It swooped suddenly, it turned, rose again, swooped and turned again. Then it made straight for Eoineen, it speaking at the top of its voice, till it lay and nestled in the breast of the little boy after its long journey from the Southern World.

“O, my love, my love you are!” says Eoineen, taking it in his two hands and kissing it on the little black head. “Welcome to me from the strange countries! Are you tired after your lonely journey over lands and over seas? _Ora_, my thousand, thousand loves you are, beautiful little messenger from the country where it does be summer always! Where are your companions from you? Or what happened you on the road, or why didn’t ye come before this?”

While he was speaking like this with the swallow, kissing it again and yet again, and rubbing his hand lovingly over its blue-black wings, its little red throat and its bright, feathered breast, another little bird sailed from the south and alighted beside them. The two birds rose in the air then, and it is the first other place they lay, in their own little nest that was hidden in the ivy that was growing thickly on the walls of the house.

“They are found at last, little mother!” says Eoineen, and he running in joyfully. “The swallows are found at last! A pair came this night--the pair who have their nest over my window. The others will be with us to-morrow.”

The mother stooped and drew him to her. Then she put a prayer to God in a whisper, giving thanks to Him for sending the swallows to them. The flame that was in the eyes of the boy, it would put delight on the heart of any mother at all.

It was sound the sleep of Eoineen that night.

* * * * *

The swallows came one after another now--singly at first, in pairs then, and at last in little flocks. Isn’t it they were glad when they saw the old place again! The little wood and the brook running through it; the white, sandy beach; the ash-trees that were close to the house; the house itself and the old nests exactly as they left them half a year before that. There was no change on anything but only on the little boy. He was quieter and gentler than he used to be. He was oftener sitting than running with himself about the fields, as was his habit before that. He wasn’t heard laughing or singing as often as he used be heard. If the swallows took notice of this much--and I wouldn’t say they didn’t--it’s certain that they were sorry for him.

The summer went by. It was seldom Eoineen would stir out on the street, but he sitting contentedly on the top of the rock, looking at the swallows and listening to their twittering. He’d spend the hours like this. ’Twas often he was there from early morning till there came “_tráthnóna gréine buidhe_,”--the evening of the yellow sun; and going within every night he’d have a great lot of stories, beautiful, wonderful stories, to tell to his mother. When she’d question him about these stories, he’d always say to her that it’s from the swallows he’d get them.

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III.

The priest came in the evening.

“How is Eoineen of the Birds this weather, Eibhlin?” says he. (The other boys had nicknamed him “Eoineen of the Birds” on account of the love he had for the birds.)

“_Muise_, Father, he wasn’t as well for many a long day as he is since the summer came. There’s a blush in his cheek I never saw in it before.”

The priest looked sharply at her. He had noticed that blush for a time, and if he did, it didn’t deceive him. Other people had noticed it, too, and if they did, it didn’t deceive them. But it was plain it deceived the mother. There were tears in the priest’s eyes, but Eibhlin was blowing the fire, and she didn’t see them. There was a stoppage in his voice when he spoke again, but the mother didn’t notice it.

“Where’s Eoineen now, Eibhlin?”

“He’s sitting on the rock outside, ‘talking to the swallows,’ as himself says. It’s wonderful the affection he has for those little birds. Do you know, Father, what he said to me the other day?”

“I don’t know, Eibhlin.”

“He was saying that it’s short now till the swallows would be departing from us again, and says he to me, suddenly, ‘What would you do, little mother,’ says he, ‘if I’d steal away from you with the swallows?’”

“And what did you say, Eibhlin?”

“I said to him to brush out with him, and not be bothering me. But I’m thinking ever since on the thing he said, and it’s troubling me. Wasn’t it a queer thought for him, Father,--he going with the swallows?”

“It’s many a queer thought comes into the heart of a child,” says the priest. And he went out the door, without saying another word.

* * * * *

“Dreaming, as usual, Eoineen?”

“No, Father. I’m talking to the swallows.”

“Talking to them?”

“Aye, Father. We do be talking together always.”

“And whisper. What do ye be saying to one another?”

“We do be talking about the countries far away, where it does be summer always, and about the wild seas where the ships do be drowned, and about the lime-bright cities where the kings do be always living.”

The wonder of his heart came on the priest, as it came on the mother before that.

“It’s you do be discoursing on these things, and they listening to you, it’s like?”

“No, Father. They, mostly, that do be talking, and I listening to them.”

“And do you understand their share of talk, Eoineen?”

“Aye, Father. Don’t you understand it?”

“Not too well I understand it. Make room for me on the rock there, and I’ll sit a while till you explain to me what they do be saying.”

Up with the priest on the rock, and he sat beside the little boy. He put an arm about his neck, and began taking talk out of him.

“Tell me what the swallows do be saying to you, Eoineen.”

“It’s many a thing they do be saying to me. It’s many a fine story they do tell to me. Did you see that little bird that went past just now, Father?”

“I did.”

“That’s the cleverest storyteller of them all. That one’s nest is under the ivy that’s growing over the window of my room. And she has another nest in the Southern World--herself and her mate.”

“Has she, Eoineen?”

“Aye--another beautiful little nest thousands and thousands of miles from this. Isn’t it a queer story, Father?--to say that the little swallow has two houses, and we having one only?”

“It’s queer, indeed. And what sort is the country she has this other house in?”

“When I shut my eyes I see a lonely, awful country. I see it now, Father! A lonely, terrible country. There’s neither mountain, nor hill, nor valley in it, but it a great, level, sandy plain. There’s neither wood, nor grass, nor growth in it, but the earth as bare as the heart of your palm. Sand entirely. Sand under your feet. Sand on every side of you. The sun scorching over your head. Without a cloud at all to be seen in the sky. It very hot. Here and there there’s a little grassy spot, as it would be a little island in the middle of the sea. A couple of high trees growing on each spot of them. They sheltered from wind and sun. I see on one of these islands a high cliff. A terrible big cliff. There’s a cleft in the cliff, and in the cleft there’s a little swallow’s nest. That’s the nest of my little swallow.”

“Who told you this, Eoineen?”

“The swallow. She spends half of her life in that country, herself and her mate. Isn’t it the grand life they have on that lonely little island in the middle of the desert! There does be neither cold nor wet in it, frost nor snow, but it summer always.... And after that, Father, they don’t forget their other little nest here in Ireland, nor the wood, nor the brook, nor the ash-trees, nor me, nor my mother. Every year in the spring they hear, as it would be, a whispering in their ears telling them that the woods are in leaf in Ireland, and that the sun is shining on the bawn-fields, and that the lambs are bleating, and I waiting for them. And they bid farewell to their dwelling in the strange country, and they go before them, and they make neither stop nor stay till they see the tops of the ash-trees from them, and till they hear the voice of the river and the bleating of the lambs.”

The priest was listening attentively.

“O!--and isn’t it wonderful the journey they do have from the Southern World! They leave the big sandy plain behind them, and the high, bald mountains that are on its border, and they go before them till they come to the great sea. Out with them over the sea, flying always, always, without weariness, without growing weak. They see below them the mighty-swelling waves, and the ships ploughing the ocean, and the white sails, and seagulls, and the ‘black hags of the sea’ (cormorants), and other wonders that I couldn’t remember. And times, there rise wind and storm, and they see the ships drowning and the waves rising on top of each other; and themselves, the creatures, do be beaten with the wind, and blinded with the rain and with the salt water, till they make out the land at last. A while to them then going before them, and they looking on grassy parks, and on green-topped woods, and on high-headed reeks, and on broad lakes, and on beautiful rivers, and on fine cities, as they were wonderful pictures, and they looking on them down from them. They see people at work. They hear cattle lowing, and children laughing, and bells ringing. But they don’t stop, but forever going till they come to the brink of the sea again, and no rest to them then till they strike the country of Ireland.”

Eoineen continued speaking like this for a long time, the priest listening to every word he said. They were chatting till the darkness fell, and till the mother called Eoineen in. The priest went home pondering to himself.

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IV

August and September went. October was half out. As the days were getting shorter, Eoineen was rising sadder. ’Twas seldom he’d speak to his mother now, but every night before going to sleep he’d kiss her fondly and tenderly, and he’d say:

“Call me early in the morning, little mother. It’s little time I have now. They’ll be departing without much delay.”

A beautiful day brightened in the middle of the month. Early in the morning, Eoineen took notice that the swallows were crowding together on the top of the house. He didn’t stir from his seat the length of that day. Coming in in the evening, says he to his mother:

“They’ll be departing to-morrow.”

“How do you know, white love?”

“They told me to-day.... Little mother,” says he again, after a spell of silence.

“What is it, little child?”

“I can’t stay here when they’re gone. I must go along with them ... to the country where it does be summer always. You wouldn’t be lonely if I’d go?”

“O! treasure, my thousand treasures, don’t speak to me like that!” says the mother, taking him and squeezing him to her heart. “You’re not to be stolen from me! Sure, you wouldn’t leave your little mother, and go after the swallows?”

Eoineen didn’t say a word, but to kiss her again and again.

* * * * *

Another day brightened. The little, wee boy was up early. From the start of day hundreds of swallows were gathered together on the ridge of the house. From time to time one or two of them would go off and they’d return again, as if they’d be considering the weather. At last a pair went off and they didn’t return. Another pair went off. The third pair went. They were going one after another then, till there didn’t remain but one little flock only on the horn of the house. The pair that came first on yon evening of spring six months before that were in this little flock. It’s like they were loath to leave the place.

Eoineen was watching them from the rock. His mother was standing beside him.

The little flock of birds rose in the air, and they faced the Southern World. Going over the top of the wood a pair turned back,--the pair whose nest was over the window. Down with them from the sky, making on Eoineen. Over with them then, they flying close to the ground. Their wings rubbed a cheek of the little boy, and they sweeping past him. Up with them in the air again, they speaking sorrowfully, and off for ever with them after the other crowd.

“Mother,” says Eoineen, “they’re calling me. ‘Come to the country where the sun does be shining always,--come, Eoineen, over the wild seas to the Country of Light,--come, Eoineen of the Birds!’ I can’t deny them. A blessing with you, little mother,--my thousand, thousand blessings to you, little mother of my heart. I’m going from you ... over the wild seas ... to the country where it does be summer always.”

He let his head back on his mother’s shoulder and he put a sigh out of him. There was heard the crying of a woman in that lonely place--the crying of a mother keening her child. Eoineen was departed along with the swallows.

* * * * *

Autumn and winter went by and the spring was at hand again. The woods were in leaf, and the lambs bleating, and the sun shining on the bawn-fields. One glorious evening in April the swallows came. There was a wonderful light at the bottom of the sky in the west, as it was a year from that time. The birds sang a strain of music in the wood. The waves chanted a poem on the strand. But there was no little white-haired boy, sitting on the top of the rock under the shadow of the ash-trees. Inside in the house there was a solitary woman, weeping by the fire.

“... And, darling little son,” says she, “I see the swallows here again, but I’ll never, never see you here.”

The swallows heard her, and they going past the door. I don’t know did Eoineen hear her, as he was thousands of miles away ... in the country where it does be summer always.

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POEMS

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LULLABY OF A WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN

Little gold head, my house’s candle,
You will guide all wayfarers that walk this mountain.

Little soft mouth that my breast has known,
Mary will kiss you as she passes.

Little round cheek, O smoother than satin,
Jesus will lay His hand on you.

Mary’s kiss on my baby’s mouth,
Christ’s little hand on my darling’s cheek!

House, be still, and ye little grey mice,
Lie close to-night in your hidden lairs.

Moths on the window, fold your wings,
Little black chafers, silence your humming.

Plover and curlew, fly not over my house,
Do not speak, wild barnacle, passing over this mountain.

Things of the mountain that wake in the night-time,
Do not stir to-night till the daylight whitens!

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A WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN KEENS HER SON

Grief on the death, it has blackened my heart:
It has snatched my love and left me desolate,
Without friend or companion under the roof of my house
But this sorrow in the midst of me, and I keening.

As I walked the mountain in the evening
The birds spoke to me sorrowfully,
The sweet snipe spoke and the voiceful curlew
Relating to me that my darling was dead.

I called to you and your voice I heard not,
I called again and I got no answer,
I kissed your mouth, and O God how cold it was!
Ah, cold is your bed in the lonely churchyard.

O green-sodded grave in which my child is,
Little narrow grave, since you are his bed,
My blessing on you, and thousands of blessings
On the green sods that are over my treasure.

Grief on the death, it cannot be denied,
It lays low, green and withered together,--
And O gentle little son, what tortures me is
That your fair body should be making clay!

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O LITTLE BIRD

(A sparrow which I found dead on my doorstep on a day of winter.)

O little bird!
Cold to me thy lying on the flag:
Bird, that never had an evil thought,
Pitiful the coming of death to thee!

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WHY DO YE TORTURE ME?

Why are ye torturing me, O desires of my heart?
Torturing me and paining me by day and by night?
Hunting me as a poor deer would be hunted on a hill,
A poor long-wearied deer with the hound-pack after him?

There’s no ease to my paining in the loneliness of the hills,
But the cry of the hunters terrifically to be heard,
The cry of my desires haunting me without respite,--
O ravening hounds, long is your run!

No satisfying can come to my desires while I live,
For the satisfaction I desired yesterday is no satisfaction,
And the hound-pack is the greedier of the satisfaction it has got,--
And forever I shall not sleep till I sleep in the grave.

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LITTLE LAD OF THE TRICKS

Little lad of the tricks
Full well I know
That you have been in mischief:
Confess your fault truly.

I forgive you, child
Of the soft red mouth:
I will not condemn anyone
For a sin not understood.

Raise your comely head
Till I kiss your mouth:
If either of us is the better of that
I am the better of it.

There is a fragrance in your kiss
That I have not found yet
In the kisses of women
Or in the honey of their bodies.

Lad of the grey eyes,
That flush in thy cheek
Would be white with dread of me
Could you read my secrets.

He who has my secrets
Is not fit to touch you:
Is not that a pitiful thing,
Little lad of the tricks?

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O LOVELY HEAD

O lovely head of the woman that I loved,
In the middle of the night I remember thee:
But reality returns with the sun’s whitening,
Alas, that the slender worm gnaws thee to-night.

Beloved voice, that wast low and beautiful,
Is it true that I heard thee in my slumbers!
Or is the knowledge true that tortures me?
My grief, the tomb hath no sound or voice?

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LONG TO ME THY COMING

Long to me thy coming,
Old henchman of God,
O friend of all friends,
To free me from my pain.

O syllable on the wind,
O footfall not heavy,
O hand in the dark,
Your coming is long to me.

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A RANN I MADE

A rann I made within my heart
To the rider, to the high king,
A rann I made to my love,
To the king of kings, ancient death.

Brighter to me than light of day
The dark of thy house, tho’ black clay;
Sweeter to me than the music of trumpets
The quiet of thy house and its eternal silence.

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TO A BELOVED CHILD

Laughing mouth, what tortures me is
That thou shalt be weeping;
Lovely face, it is my pity
That thy brightness shall grow grey.

Noble head, thou art proud,
But thou shalt bow with sorrow;
And it is a pitiful thing I forbode for thee
Whenever I kiss thee.

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I HAVE NOT GARNERED GOLD

I have not garnered gold;
The fame I found hath perished;
In love I got but grief
That withered my life.

Of riches or of store
I shall not leave behind me
(Yet I deem it, O God, sufficient)
But my name in the heart of a child.

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I AM IRELAND

I am Ireland:
I am older than the Old Woman of Beare.

Great my glory:
I that bore Cuchulainn the valiant.

Great my shame:
My own children that sold their mother.

I am Ireland:
I am lonelier than the Old Woman of Beare.

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RENUNCIATION

Naked I saw thee,
O beauty of beauty,
And I blinded my eyes
For fear I should fail.

I heard thy music,
O melody of melody,
And I closed my ears
For fear I should falter.

I tasted thy mouth,
O sweetness of sweetness,
And I hardened my heart
For fear of my slaying.

I blinded my eyes,
And I closed my ears,
I hardened my heart
And I smothered my desire.

I turned my back
On the vision I had shaped,
And to this road before me
I turned my face.

I have turned my face
To this road before me,
To the deed that I see
And the death I shall die.

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THE RANN OF THE LITTLE PLAYMATE

Young Iosa plays with me every day,
_(With an óró and an iaró)_
Tig and Pookeen and Hide-in-the-Hay,
_(With an óró and an iaró)_
We race in the rivers with otters grey,
We climb the tall trees where red squirrels play,
We watch the wee lady-bird fly far away.
_(With an óró and an iaró and an úmbó éró!)_

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A SONG FOR MARY MAGDALENE

O woman of the gleaming hair,
(Wild hair that won men’s gaze to thee)
Weary thou turnest from the common stare,
For the _shuiler_ Christ is calling thee.

O woman of the snowy side,
Many a lover hath lain with thee,
Yet left thee sad at the morning tide,
But thy lover Christ shall comfort thee.

O woman with the wild thing’s heart,
Old sin hath set a snare for thee:
In the forest ways forspent thou art
But the hunter Christ shall pity thee.

O woman spendthrift of thyself,
Spendthrift of all the love in thee,
Sold unto sin for little pelf,
The captain Christ shall ransom thee.

O woman that no lover’s kiss
(Tho’ many a kiss was given thee)
Could slake thy love, is it not for this
The hero Christ shall die for thee?

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CHRIST’S COMING

I have made my heart clean to-night
As a woman might clean her house
Ere her lover come to visit her:
O Lover, pass not by!

I have opened the door of my heart
Like a man that would make a feast
For his son’s coming home from afar:
Lovely Thy coming, O Son!

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ON THE STRAND OF HOWTH

On the strand of Howth
Breaks a sounding wave;
A lone sea-gull screams
Above the bay.

In the middle of the meadow
Beside Glasnevin
The corncrake speaks
All night long.

There is minstrelsy of birds
In Glenasmole,
The blackbird and thrush
Chanting music.

There is shining of sun
On the side of Slieverua,
And the wind blowing
Down over its brow.

On the harbour of Dunleary
Are boat and ship
With sails set
Ploughing the waves.

Here in Ireland,
Am I, my brother,
And you far from me
In gallant Paris,

I beholding
Hill and harbour,
The strand of Howth
And Slieverua’s side,

And you victorious
In mighty Paris
Of the limewhite palaces
And the surging hosts;

And what I ask
Of you, beloved,
Far away
Is to think at times

Of the corncrake’s tune
Beside Glasnevin
In the middle of the meadow,
Speaking in the night;

Of the voice of the birds
In Glenasmole
Happily, with melody,
Chanting music;

Of the strand of Howth
Where a wave breaks,
And the harbour of Dunleary,
Where a ship rocks;

On the sun that shines
On the side of Slieverua,
And the wind that blows
Down over its brow.

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THE DORD FEINNE

_’Se do bheatha_, O woman that wast sorrowful,
What grieved us was thy being in chains,
Thy beautiful country in the possession of rogues,
And thou sold to the Galls,
_Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_,
_Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_,
_Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_,
Now at summer’s coming!

Thanks to the God of miracles that we see,
Altho’ we live not a week thereafter,
Gráinne Mhaol and a thousand heroes
Proclaiming the scattering of the Galls!
_Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_,
_Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_,
_Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_,
Now at summer’s coming!

Gráinne Mhaol is coming from over the sea,
The Fenians of Fál as a guard about her,
Gaels they, and neither French nor Spaniard,
And a rout upon the Galls!
_Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_,
_Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_,
_Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_,
Now at summer’s coming!

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THE MOTHER

I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge
My two strong sons that I have seen go out
To break their strength and die, they and a few,
In bloody protest for a glorious thing,
They shall be spoken of among their people,
The generations shall remember them,
And call them blessed;
But I will speak their names to my own heart
In the long nights;
The little names that were familiar once
Round my dead hearth.
Lord, thou art hard on mothers:
We suffer in their coming and their going;
And tho’ I grudge them not, I weary, weary
Of the long sorrow--And yet I have my joy:
My sons were faithful, and they fought.

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THE FOOL

Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool;
A fool that hath loved his folly,
Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses, or
their quiet homes,
Or their fame in men’s mouths;
A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing,
Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped
The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed;
A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all
Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the
reaping-hooks
And the poor are filled that were empty,
Tho’ he go hungry.

I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my
youth
In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil.
Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God.

I have squandered the splendid years:
Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again,
Aye, fling them from me!
For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not
hoard,
Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen,
Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’s
And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word?

The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces,
And said, “This man is a fool,” and others have said, “He
blasphemeth;”
And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life
In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things,
To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart
could hold.