Chapter III (3)

"Denis wanted the lantern to look after the young lambs, and Patsy went into the house to get it for him. The smell o' the stirabout brought him to the fire, an' the sight o' the pot made him think o' the shindy every night an' 'For fear o' the worst,' says he an' took as much as he could lift in his hand of salt an' put it in the pot. Then he gave it a stir an' darted out with the lantern, for Denis was callin' to him to hurry.

"Peg was in the byre, milkin' away at her ease, an' says she to Nell, when she saw her passin' the door: 'Nell,' says she, 'run in quick an' stir the pot or the stirabout'll be burned to nothin'. I'll be in in a minute myself,' says she.

"Nell went in an' gave a rousin' fine stirrin' to the supper, and she was just goin' out again to see was Molly ready when she stopped. 'As sure as I'm alive,' says she, 'my mother never put a grain o' salt in it,' an' of course when she thought o' that she went to the salt-box an' done what the rest o' them were after doin' an' says she: 'My father won't have anythin' to say about it to-night,' an' she lightin' the candle.

"Then Peg came in an' put milk in the noggins an' lifted the pot off the fire an' gave it the last stir, an' Denis came in, an' Patsy an' Molly, an' they all as hungry as huntsmen, an' each o' them thinkin' o' the fine, tasty stirabout there was for the supper that night anyway.

"Denis sat down in his own place in the corner an' spread out his hands over the fire an' says he:

"'Give us a noggin o' that, Peg. I'm as hungry as Callaghan's cow when she ate the hay rope off Tom the Tramp's leg an' he asleep.' An' Peg filled up the noggin an' handed it over to him. 'That's the stuff for a hungry man,' says Denis, an' he dug his spoon into the noggin an' lifted a spoonful out of it that would nearly make a meal for a man nowadays, an' stuffed it into his mouth, an'----

"'Ugh! Ach! O Lord, I'm pisened!' yelled poor Denis springin' to his feet, an' he tryin' to get rid o' the stirabout, an' as soon as he could get his tongue into shape for talk he did talk, an' the abuse he gave poor Peg was terrible. He never said anythin' half as strong in his life before, an' that's sayin' a lot.

"'Musha! sorrow's on it for stirabout!' says poor Peg, an' she cryin' like the rain, 'it has my heart broke in two, so it has. When I don't put salt on it nobody can eat it, an' this evenin' when I put salt on it an' thought I had it right, it's worse than ever. Bad cess to it for stirabout!' An' indeed 'twas no wonder the poor woman 'd cry!

"'Arrah! don't be botherin' us with your cryin' an' wailin', an' you after makin' the stirabout like, like;---- An' then Denis thought o' the fistful o' salt he put in the pot himself an' he stopped. 'As true as I'm a livin' man,' says he, in his own mind, ''twas myself that made a lad o' the stirabout. But, sure, one fistful would never pisen it like that!' But he cooled down an' sat lookin' into the fire.

"Patsy thought it was himself that ruined the supper an' Molly thought 'twas she that settled it, an' Nell said to herself she was the rascal that was after doin' it, but they were all afraid to speak, an' they were so troubled an' knocked about, that they didn't even think of askin' for anythin' else to eat. Denis was thinkin' an' thinkin' for a long time, an' he lookin' into the fire an' at last says he:

"'There's no use in talkin', says he, 'there's some misfortune or bad luck on this house above every house in the parish. The stirabout is never the same with us as it is with any o' the neighbours no matter how it's made. Let us have done with it, once an' for all, an' have peace an' quietness in the house--what never was in it yet!'

"An', indeed, Peg was only too glad to hear him talkin' like that, for the same stirabout had her heart nearly broke. She bought two ounces o' tay in the shop the next mornin', an' from that day out there never was a bit o' stirabout made under Denis McCann's roof. An', sure, maybe that's the way the tay got into many another house as well, though I suppose if you said so to the women they wouldn't be over thankful to you.

"Bad cess to it for tay!"

A GLORIOUS VICTORY

_Adapted from the Irish of "An Seabhac" in "An Baile Seo 'Gainn-ne."_

There had been a big week's work in the forge, and Ned M'Grane, the blacksmith, had got a present of a whole pound of tobacco from his nephew in Dublin, and on account of these two happenings he was in the very best of humour, so we decided that the time was ripe for a story. We hadn't had such a treat from Ned for weeks past, so there was an edge on our appetite for one of his unrivalled stories that pleasant evening as we sat and smoked in the smithy.

"The like of it was never known in history before," said Joe Clinton, suddenly, with a challenging glance towards Bartle Nolan, who started as if he didn't expect the statement, and as if it hadn't been carefully planned beforehand at the Milking Field gate!

"Ach, nonsense, man!" said Bartle, with a withering look at Joe. "D'ye mean to say that there ever was an age or a century or a period o' history that women weren't kickin' up their heels about somethin' or other an' wantin' to boss the whole show. Why, the thing is out of all reason!" finished Bartle, with a fine show of indignation.

"All the same I think Joe is right," said Tom M'Donnell. "I don't believe they ever carried things as far as to want to have votes an' seats on public boards, an' to be equal to the men in everythin'. I don't think anyone ever heard before of a woman goin' that far with the game."

"What's that, Tom?" said Ned, who had just thrust about two ounces of his store of tobacco into old Phil Callaghan's hand in a covert sort of way, and was now quietly teasing a pipeful for himself. "What is it you were talkin' about?"

"O, we were just discoursin', Ned, about them suffragettes an' the row they're makin' about gettin' votes an' the like o' that. Joe was sayin' that such a thing as a rumpus about equal rights between man an' woman was never known of in history before in any country in the world, an' some of us didn't agree with him. What do you say yourself, Ned?"

Ned teased the tobacco for a few moments in a dreamy manner that seemed hopeful, and then he looked thoughtfully at Joe Clinton.

"Would it surprise you to hear, Joe," he said at last, "that such a rumpus an' such a row as you speak about took place in this very townland o' Balnagore?"

We all laughed at Joe's confusion as he said sheepishly, "It would, indeed, Ned," and then Ned's eyes twinkled triumphantly.

Then we knew that we had carried our little scheme to success, and we waited as patiently and as quietly as we could while Ned filled and lighted his pipe. At last he spoke:

"It's forty year ago an' more since it happened, Joe, an' indeed it wasn't the woman was to blame at all, but the crankiest, contrariest, crossest old codger of a man that ever sat on a stool, and that was Dickey Moran that lived there below in the hollow, where Jimmy Kearney is livin' now. An' if every woman conducted her fight for a vote as cleverly as Peggy Moran conducted hers for peace an' quietness there 'd be a lot more respect an' support for them than there is. But what 'd be the use of advisin' a woman? You might as well be tryin' to catch eels with a mousetrap.

"Dickey an' Peggy were only a couple o' years married when she began to find out that he wasn't altogether as sweet as he used to be, an' from that time on until she played her trump card she never had an easy day with him. This wasn't done right, an' that was all wrong, an' who showed her how to boil a pig's pot, an' where did she learn to make stirabout, an' forty other growls that nearly put the poor woman out of her wits. An' what used to annoy her the most of all was that Dickey (he was fifteen years older than her) never stopped complainin' about all he had to do in the fields an' on the bog, an' about the little Peggy had to do in the house--a child buildin' a babby-house 'd have more to do, he used to say, an' then he'd put a whinin' rigmarole out of him about the way men had themselves wore to nothin' to keep a bit an' a sup with lazy women, an' so on, an' so on, until poor Peggy couldn't stand it any longer, an' she'd turn on him an' say things that 'd make Dickey twist like an eel an' feel when the shindy 'd be over that he was after gettin' more than he bargained for, an' a few rattlin' fine sharp wallops o' Peggy's tongue thrown in for luck.

"Well, it had to get worse or stop altogether, and the surprisin' part was that the two things happened at the same time.

"It happened one mornin' that Dickey was in an odious bad humour entirely, an' he goin' about the house with a face on him as long as a late breakfast an' as sharp as a razor, an' every growl out of him like a dog over a bone or a fox in a trap. He was tryin' to light the fire, but the turf was too wet, an' the draught was comin' the wrong way, an' accordin' as his temper got strong his tongue turned on poor Peggy, who was givin' a bottle to the child in the cradle--it was only seven months old at the time--an' she was sayin' nothin' at all, but there was a quare sort of a look in her eye that all as one as said that her mind was made up. Dickey was gettin' worse an' worse with his growlin' about all that men had to do an' the lazy ways of women an' what not, but all of a sudden, when he wasn't mindin', Peggy caught a grip of his arm in a way that made him jump, an' says she, in the voice of a County Court Judge givin' sentence, says she:

"'Let there be an end to this comparin' an' growlin' an' grumblin' once an' for all, Dickey Moran! You say men are run off their feet an' that women have nothin' to do. Well, here's the way to settle that. You stay here in the house an' do what's to be done in it, an' I'll look after the turf an' the praties an' oats an' things out in the fields, an' we'll soon see who has the most to do. That's the only way to put an end to your aggravatin' talk forever an' a day.'

"An' Dickey bein' in the temper he was in, agreed on the minute, an' they took their bit o' breakfast without another word, an' when it was down, Peggy tied her shawl round her shoulders an' gripped hold of an old reapin' hook that was hangin' on the wall an' started off to cut the bit of oats in the far field, an' Dickey sat down at the fire to have a pull o' the pipe before startin' the child's play, as he called the work that had to be done in the house.

"When Peggy was gone a couple o' minutes she came back an' put her head in at the door, an' says she in a quiet an' easy way, as if she was only biddin' her man good mornin':

"'Listen here,' says she, 'the cow is in the byre still, an' it's time she was milked. An' don't forget to take every drop from her or it's milk fever she'll be havin' one o' these days. An' put a few handfuls o' poreens on the fire for the pigs an' give them to them soon because they're screechin' with the hunger. An' keep an eye to that black hen for fear she'd lay out, because if she does the dickens an egg you'll get to-morrow mornin'. Scald that churn well an' do the churnin' as soon as you can, because there's not a bit o' butter in the house an' this is Friday. An' make a cake o' bread, too, for if you don't there won't be a pick to eat with the colcannon; an' mind that you don't burn it. An' spin that pound o' wool over there that I have to make your socks out of for the winter, an' mind that you don't have it too thick or lumpy. An' wash up the delph, an' put a drop o' milk on the fire in that black saucepan for the child, an' give it to him at eleven o'clock. An' don't make it too hot for him, or you'll hear about it. An' sweep the floor, an' make the bed, an' get a couple o' cans o' water from the well, an' peel the praties for the dinner,' says Peggy, and she out o' breath, an' off she went to the far field.

"'Troth, then, I'll do that an' more, an' it won't trouble me much,' says Dickey, with a grunt, an' he fillin' the pipe for a good smoke, 'it's easier than breakin' one's back bendin' over a reapin' hook.' An' he reddened the pipe an' pulled away at his ease.

"The first thing he started into was the washin' o' the delph, an' he got along middlin' well till he caught hold o' Peggy's darlin' cup that belonged to her mother's aunt's great-grandmother, an' was as precious to her as gold. There was a crack in it down one side, an' half-way round the bottom, an' whatever the dickens happened Dickey, his fingers were too clumsy or somethin', he never felt till he had a piece o' the cup in each hand, an' there was another bit on the floor. He just looked at it an' said nothin', but he thought a lot.

"It couldn't be helped anyway, so he took the gallon can an' out with him to the byre to milk the cow. You'd think Peggy an' the cow had it made up between them, with the look that was in her eye when she saw Dickey comin' with the can, but she stood as quiet as you please an' chewed the cud, an' seemed to be terrible pleased with the song Dickey sang while he milked. An' the work was goin' on so grand that he forgot all about the cup he broke an' was wonderin' to himself was Peggy repentin' yet, an' was givin' a chuckle or two an' he drawin' the last drop o' milk into the can, when all of a sudden, without 'by your leave' or 'here's at you,' the rogue of a cow lifted her right hind leg an' gave one kick that sent Dickey an' the can o' milk sprawlin' all over the place. The milk was spilled over him, of course, an' the can was made a pancake of, an' he had a pain in his chest like lumbago, but what could he do only curse the cow an' go into the house without can or milk, an' I may tell you he wasn't chucklin'.

"Well, the pigs were yellin' like mad lions, an' nearly breakin' down the sty with the hunger, an' Dickey put the pot on the fire an' boiled a feed for them as fast as he could. An' when it was ready he went to the sty with it, but whatever misfortune was on him that mornin', an' the place bein' purty dark where the pigs were, he bumped his nose against the sharp corner of a board an' the blood began to come like as if there was somebody after it, an' Dickey flung the feed, bucket an' all to the pigs, an' ran into the house an' lay on the broad of his back tryin' to stop the blood an' it runnin' down his neck an' everywhere.

"He got it stopped at last, but he was as weak as a cat, an' then he thought o' the churnin', an' he started to do it as best he could, which wasn't much of a best. It's no joke to do a churnin' without help an' keep a child from cryin' at the same time, an' when Dickey was finished, I tell you, he didn't feel like runnin' a race or jumpin' over a stone wall. He was sweatin' like a fat pig at a fair on a summer's day.

"Then when the churnin' was finished, he went to the well for a can o' water, an' he brought the child with him as it was cryin' fit to lift the roof off the house, an' what do you think but when he was stoopin' to lift the water didn't he lose his footin' an' fall into the well, child an' all, an' only it wasn't too deep, Dickey's housekeepin' days were over. He was all wet anyway, an' the child was wet an' bawlin', which was no wonder, an' the water was runnin' out o' the two o' them an' they goin' back to the house.

"When he got to the door there was a stream o' fresh buttermilk runnin' out to meet him, an' nice little lumps o' butter floatin' on it, an' there was the churn upset in the middle o' the floor, an' the black pig drinkin' away at her ease, an' givin' a grunt o' contentment every now an' then, as much as to say, 'that's the stuff for puttin' a red neck on a pig.'

"For one full minute Dickey didn't know what to do he was that mad an' wet an' disappointed an' tired all at the one time, but when the minute was up he threw the wet child--an' it roarin' all the time, the poor thing--into the cradle, an' grabbed a new spade that was standin' at the cross-wall, an' made one lunge at the black pig as she darted out on the door, knowin' well there was trouble comin'. It caught her just at the back o' the ear, an' with one yell she staggered an' stretched out on the yard as dead as a door-nail.

"An' that's the way things were when Peggy came up from the far field a few minutes later--Dickey nearly dead with fright, an' the child on the borders of a fit, the churnin' all through the house, the gallon can all battered up an' not a drop o' new milk to be seen, the fire out an' no sign of a dinner, the cow in the byre an' she ragin' with the hunger, one pig dead an' the other rootin' up the winter cabbage in the garden, an' the whole place like a slaughterhouse or a battlefield, with milk an' pig's blood an' well-water flowin' in all directions; an' to crown it all, Dickey sat down in the corner an' began to cry.

"Well, it was a nice how-d'ye-do sure enough, but Peggy was a sensible woman, an' she just figured it all out there in a second or two, an' she said to herself that peace was cheap at the price, an' she knew by the look o' Dickey that there was goin' to be peace, an' she just held her tongue, an' set about fixin' up the child an' Dickey an' the place as best she could. An' then she went for Andy Mahon, the herd over in Moyvore, an' got him to scrape the pig, an' salt the bacon an' pack it, an' before night you'd never know that anythin' strange was after takin' place about the house at all, at all. An' Dickey was as mute as a mouse.

"From that day out there was peace an' quietness an' comfort in that house, an' Dickey Moran was as kind an' cheerful a man as you'd meet in a day's walk. An' the only thing Peggy regretted was her darlin' cup that belonged at one time to her mother's aunt's great-grandmother.

"Boys, O boys, it's eleven o'clock!"

ON ELECTIONS

Ned M'Grane was reading the paper as Denis Monaghan came into the forge, with a hearty, "God save all here."

"God save you kindly, Denis," said Ned, "an' keep you from ever aspirin' to be a candidate at an election."

"What's your raison for sayin' such a thing as that, Ned?"

"Well, Denis, I was just turnin' over in me mind all the lies that does be scattered around an' all the trickery an' deceit an' humbug that comes into the world durin' election times, an' I was just sayin' to meself, 'I hope an' pray, Ned M'Grane, that neither you nor any of your friends or relations or dacint neighbours 'll ever be tempted be the divil to go up as candidate for election, either as a Poor Law Guardian, District Councillor, County Councillor, Mimber o' Parliament, or anythin' else that has to be voted for, because as sure as ever you do you'll have to turn on the tap o' the keg where every man keeps his store o' lies in case the truth ever fails him, an' let it flow like the Falls o' Niagara after a flood.' An' that's the raison, Denis, I put that tail on to 'God save you kindly,' because I don't want to see an old friend like yourself ever fallin' as low as that."

"I don't think there's much fear o' me, Ned."

"You never can tell, Denis; you never can tell. I seen sensibler men than Denis Monaghan--because, as you are well aware, you have a streak o' th' amadán in you, the same as meself--an' you'd think they'd never set the few brains they had trottin' an' twistin' about election honours, as they're called, an' then some fine day or another when th' Ould Boy finds it too hot to be at home an' takes to prowlin' an' meandrin' about the world he comes along an' shouts in a whisper into me honest man's brain box that it'd be a grand thing for him to have his name in the papers an' on big strips o' paper as wide as a quilt on every old wall an' gate post, an' to be elected as a councillor or a guardian an' be able to gabble round a table every week an' have people lookin' up to him an' thinkin' him a great fella, an' expectin' him to make the country a plot out o' the Garden of Eden, the same as is promised in every election address, and so me poor man, bein' maybe not on his guard, an' a bit seedy or sick or somethin' finds th' Ould Boy's palaver sweeter than the screechin' o' three hungry pigs, an' with his teeth waterin' he makes up his mind to go forward as a candidate. An' that's how the whole thing happens, Denis.

"You know yourself the blathers an' the humbugs dacint men make o' themselves when they set out on the road to a Council seat or to be a chip o' the Board o' Guardians or an M.P., or anythin' else that has to be voted for, an' you know all the lies an' tomfoolery that's pelted about like clods at such a time. One fella says that he'll cut the taxes across in the middle, the same as if you got a splash-hook at them, an' another fella promises to mend all the broken backed bridges in the barony, an' another is goin' to get a pound a week an' a two story house an' a farm o' land for every labourin' man that he's fond of, an' another is goin' to revive th' old ancient language of Ireland, although he doesn't know a word of it himself, an' another playboy 'll make it his business to see that every child gets a vote as soon as he's in short clothes an' weaned off the bottle, an' they go on romancin' out o' them an' makin' up lies that'd lift the skin off your head, let alone the hair, if you started to consider an' ponder over them, and there you have quiet, honest next-door neighbours callin' each other names an' tryin' to clip th' ears off each other with their ash poles for sake o' puttin' one or th' other o' the tricks I was talkin' about at the head o' the list on the day the election is on. An' when they get in the bridges may mend themselves an' the houses for the labourers may grow like mushrooms or daisies, an' the fairies may bring back th' old ancient language an' the women may go about breakin' the world up into little bits lookin' for votes, but the boyo that was goin' to do everythin' takes a sudden fit of forgettin' an' never gets over it until the next election whistles to say it's comin'. Every time I see an election, Denis, I can't help thinkin' that there's a terrible lot o' knaves an' goms in the world still, in spite o' the free libraries an' everythin'.

"Did I ever tell you about the election that was over in the West--I think it was in Galway--a few years ago? It showed that there was one sensible man left in the world. There was a lot o' fellas up for election an' 'twas goin' to be a close fight, as close as a circus tumbler's shirt. One boyo hit on a plan of advertisin' himself, so he got up a big competition, as he called it, an' offered a ham to be won be the man that could give the best raison why he was to vote for this candidate above all th' others. Well, there was a terrible hub-bub an' hullabuloo over it, an' the night came to decide about the ham, an' every man for five miles around was packed into the town hall, an' everyone o' them wantin' to get his lie in first, an' the teeth waterin' with everyone o' them an' they lookin' up at the ham that was hangin' over the platform. An' when th' examination started every mother's son o' them had a raison as long as your arm, an' some o' them wrote down on paper--one fella said it was because he knew the country 'd be the better of it, an' another because he had a longin' after truth an' honesty, an' another because his conscience said it was the right thing to do, and so on, till it came to a little man that was that tight squeezed against the door at the far end o' the hall that his tongue was out, an' his face red, an' he twistin' like an eel in a cleeve. When it came to his turn: 'Well, me friend,' says the candidate, 'what's your raison for sayin' I ought to be elected?' 'Because I want that ham,' the little man squeaked out of him, an' it's all he was able to say on account o' bein' jammed so tight. But he got the ham."

NED'S TRIP TO DUBLIN

"Well, Ned, how d' you feel after your visit to Dublin, an' how did you like the city?"

"I feel very thankful that I'm alive at all," said Ned M'Grane, "that's how I feel; an' I may as well tell you straight out, 'ithout puttin' a gum in it--because I haven't a tooth--that I didn't like the city at all, good, bad or indifferent, an' I didn't feel aisy in me mind from the first minute I set foot in it, until the train whistled leavin' Amiens Street on the way back."

"An' how is that, Ned?"

"It's the quarest place you ever seen in your life, Denis, an' if you're wise you'll never see it. I can't make out why people are always trippin' over other runnin' up to Dublin an' half o' them 'd be better off at home if they 'd only work hard an' keep sober an' let other people's business alone. What they can see in the city to get fond of passes my understandin'. You'd want to keep one hand on your nose nearly all the time an' th' other in the pocket you had the few shillin's in, because the smell o' cabbage an' fish an' oranges an' things like that, that's qualified for th' old age pension, 'd nearly bid you the time o' day it's that strong, an' there's a lot o' professional pocket cleaners goin' about from mornin' till night, an' as soon as they get to know you're from the country--I don't know how they guess at it--they remember all of a sudden that they're sixth cousin to your mother-in-law's step-uncle, or some other relation that you never seen or heard about, an' if you open your mouth to spake to them they'll know your past history from cover to cover in five minutes an' your business an' all about you, an' if you once make friends with them the dickens a shillin' you'll have in your pocket when they get a sudden call to see a man on business outside in the street. Oh, I can tell you, 'shut your eyes and open your mouth' would not be much use to a man in Dublin.

"They don't walk at all up there--it 'd hurt their corns an' wear out their boots; but they're always runnin' after trams, an' then payin' money to be let sit in them to draw their breath. I didn't know what they were at the first time I seen them doin' it. I was walkin' down from me cousin's house to the chapel one mornin', an' not payin' much heed to anythin', when a fella darted out of a gate an' nearly knocked me down with the bump he gave into me. I was just goin' to grab hould of him or give him a kick when he muttered somethin' about bein' sorry, an' off he wint like forked lightnin' an' his hat in his hand an' he wavin' his arms like a tumblin' rake, an' he wasn't three perch runnin' when a lassie in a hobble skirt started to take buck jumps after him, like a lad in a sack race, an' then an old fat woman an' a middle-aged lad with a rheumatic hop joined in the race an' five or six more made after them as fast as they could leg it, an' they all flingin' their arms about the same as the first fella. 'Is it for a wager'? says I to a man that was walkin' in the same direction as meself. 'Is what for a wager?' says he. 'The race,' says I, pointin' to the crowd that was runnin'. He began to laugh an' looked at me in a way that said as plain as could be, 'You're a softy, anyway,' an' says he: 'Oh, they're only runnin' to catch the tram.' 'An' why wouldn't they wait for this other one that's comin' up now?' says I. 'They never wait for a tram in Dublin,' says he; 'they always run after the one that's ahead o' them, an' then if they can't catch it they spend the rest o' the day writin' letters to all the papers complainin' o' the rudeness o' the tram boys that wouldn't wait for them.' An' some o' the same people, when they were at home in the country two or three year ago wouldn't think a traneen about walkin' five mile to a football match an' five back, or trampin' into the town on a fair day or a market day, an' the dickens a bunion or a corn or a welt on their feet they had that time no more than there'd be on the leg of a creepy stool or on the spout of a kettle. I suppose if there were trams down here the women 'd want to go in them to milk or to cut nettles for the ducks an' the men 'd be runnin' after them on their way to the bog or to the hay field, an' they 'd be all writin' letters to the papers if the tram man wouldn't wait for them till they 'd be after aitin' their dinner or gettin' a drink o' buttermilk.

"You won't get a hand's turn done in Dublin 'ithout payin' for it. If you send a lad for a farthin' box o' matches you must give him a ha'penny for goin' an' maybe his tay when he comes back, an' if you haven't any change till the next day he'll charge you interest on it, an' if you don't pay him he'll make it hot for you the next time you go out, unless you ask a peeler to go along with you an' give him half-a-crown for mindin' you.

"Quare is no name for it. It bates out all that ever came across me, an' I seen some strange holes an' corners in me day. Why, the town over there, the biggest fair day ever it seen, or the finest day of a races 'd be no more to Dublin any day in the week than a tin whistle 'd be to the double-barrelled bugle of a brass band! You'd think that every man, woman an' child in Dublin took a pledge every mornin' to make somebody bothered before night with the fair dint o' noise, or die in the attempt. Such screechin' an' yellin' an' creakin' an' groanin' from old women an' young childre an' dogs an' cats an' drays an' fowls an' motors an' trams an' everythin' was never heard this side o' London or the place beyond it, where Ould Nick keeps his furnace in full blast night an' day. Why, a whisper in Dublin 'd call a man home from the bog to his dinner down here, it has to be that loud, an' if you don't screech for anythin' you want you won't get it at all. I don't wonder that the half of them up there is hoarse, an' th' other half bothered in both ears, an' that not one in every hundred has an inch o' win' to blow out a candle with. I suppose that's why they have the gas an' electric light an' keep the win' for blowin' them out under tap. I think if a man in Dublin had to quench six candles every night he'd die of heart disease in less than a week.

"The looks o' the peelers that they have for keepin' up the corners o' the streets in Dublin 'd make you laugh only you wouldn't like to be seen makin' a fool o' yourself in a crowd. They're for all the world like packs o' wool tied in the middle, an' whenever they have to run after a bould gossoon or a mad dog or a flyin' machine or anythin' like that, you'd see them shakin' like a movin' bog or a dish o' that flip-flop stuff they do have at weddin's an' dinners an' parties an' places like that--I think it's jelly they call it. I suppose the poor fellas never get anythin' to eat an' less to drink, an' the win' comin' round the corners gets into them an' blows them out like the bladder of a football. If a man was comin' to after sickness it'd put him to the pin of his collar to walk round one o' them. I'd like to see them wheelin' turf on a bog one o' these hot days. You could catch as much ile as 'd grease your brogues an' the' axle o' th' ass's dray for a twelve-month. It must take a quare lot o' stuff to make a suit o' clothes for one o' them.

"If you seen the houses that some o' the swanks o' lads live in on th' edge o' the city you'd have nightmares for a week. When one o' them goes idle there's a notice about it in the papers to catch th' eye o' some lad that wants to change out o' the place he's in, an' you'd think by readin' it that it wasn't a house but a mansion that was waitin' for a tenant. You'll always read in the notices that there's a 'garden front an' rere,' but you'd want a telescope or somethin' like that to see the gardens. You could lift the front one on a good wide shovel, an' a goat couldn't turn round in the big one at the back 'ithout puttin' her feet up on the wall! An' then if you were to see the size o' the rooms in the houseen that you'd have to pay the rent of a farm o' land for. If you were sittin' in the middle o' the kitchen eatin' a pig's crubeen, an' if you came to a rale grizzly bit that wanted a good chuck to get it away from the bone, you'd soon get a whack o' the wall that 'd show you a beautiful movin' picture o' the whole sky on a starry night. An' it wouldn't do to have a dream about tumblin' the wild-cat an' you in bed in any o' them rooms, as they call them, or the same thing 'd happen you, or maybe you'd be out on top o' your head through the French winda with the Venetian blind and the Manchester curtains. An' then they call rows o' huts like that Prince o' Wales' Terrace, or Dreadnought Villa, or Empire Avenue, or somethin' like that, an' the poor foolish lads that has plenty o' room to walk an' sit an' sleep down here in the country think they'll never get away quick enough to Dublin to live in villas or terraces or avenues, and be swanks, God bless the mark!

"I could tell you a lot more about Dublin, boys, an' maybe I would, too, sometime, but you're after hearin' enough to know that it's the dickens own quare an' comical place out an' out."

THE LAWYER FOR THE DEFENCE

_Adapted from the Irish of "An Seabhac" in "An Baile Seo 'Gainn-ne."_

One St. Patrick's Night the Gaels were gathered together in their own special corner of Heaven (Ned McGrane told us on a certain evening in the Forge), and were having a glorious time of it. They were there in tens of thousands--Fionn and the Fianna, Brian Boru, the O'Neills and O'Donnells and O'Sullivans and MacCarthys, and every other O and Mac who ever looked upon Ireland as the one and only small nationality that claimed his heart and hand.

They were all clustered round a fine-looking, white-haired old man, who was nearly worn out acknowledging their congratulations and felicitations and hearty words of cheer and greeting. It was because of him the diversion had been set on foot, for he was none other than Padraig, the Patron Saint and Apostle of Ireland, but the poor man looked as if he hoped it would soon be at an end. For no sooner had he recovered from the shock given to his nerves by the handshake of some big, tall chieftain of the North than his limp arm was wrung almost to wrenching point by a towering Gael from some of the other provinces, until in the end he didn't know whether he was in Heaven or on the summit of Cruach Padraig.

At last, to his great relief, a bout of dancing was arranged for between Goll MacMorna, one of the famous Fianna of Fionn, and a celebrated Feis prize-winner, who had only arrived from Ireland a few days previously. Fifty fiddlers and fifty pipers played for them and it was a surprise to the new arrival to see that all the musicians were in perfect agreement, and that all had the same version of the tune. There was terrific excitement as the dance progressed, and Goll MacMorna, carried away by the enthusiasm, finished up with such a jump and a clatter that he broke a piece out of the floor, and sent it hurtling down among the stars. He nearly went after it himself, and was only just saved by being gripped in time by the Blacksmith of Limerick, who was nearest to him at the moment.

The skelp out of the floor kept falling and falling until it vanished from sight altogether. And you'll be surprised to hear where it landed.

Just at that very moment a young son of Belzebub--I forget what the little devil's name was, but it doesn't matter--was playing with a heap of recruiting posters down on the floor of--of--the other place, you know. The nurse was talking to a peeler at the gate and was just telling him about the latest novelette when the yelling and roaring and the noise were heard inside. In she dashed and found the young master flattened out like a pancake on the floor, and a big lump of a rock resting itself on top of him. Then the row started, and the talk that went about and the curses that careered around in column formation would make this book smell of brimstone if I were to set them down.

"Who threw the stone?" asked Belzebub for the twentieth time, "that's the question."

"It was down it came," says a man standing near him. He had no horns and no hoof, but he was well scorched.

"How do you know?" says Belzebub.

"I have a way of knowing all such things," says the man. "As you may remember, I used to be a Crown witness in Ireland before I came here."

"This stone," says another man exactly like the last speaker, "this stone came a long way. It came as far as it could come. It didn't grow in this country or near it--the heat is too great. I know the sort of stone it is, because I used to be a Department expert in Ireland long ago. It grew in no other place than in Heav--I mean where the goo--I beg your pardon, I mean the--the--the place where people go who don't come here."

"It was Peter killed my child!" shouted Belzebub, as he switched his tail and blew clouds of brimstone smoke from his nostrils.

"Wait a moment," says another well-scorched man--a sleek-looking fellow with a rogue's eye and a hangdog appearance, "I know who the culprits are. I used to be a felon-setter in Ireland before my services were transferred here, and I ought to know. This is St. Patrick's Night. The Irish crowd up in the other place are always allowed to hold demonstrations on this night--a most illegal and seditious gathering it usually is, too--and it's their unruly conduct that has sent this missile flying down here. If you get into communication with the _Freeman_ over the private wire, you'll find----"

"But it's in Peter's place they are," shouted Belzebub, "and Peter is responsible for their actions. Will you bear witness to it?"

"We will, certainly," they all shouted, "but to what?"

"To the fact that Peter is responsible for my son's death."

"We're ready to take twenty oaths on it."

"Is there any lawyer here who is willing to take up the case?" asked Belzebub.

"There is!" came the shout from thousands of throats, and every corner in the place echoed back the roar of it.

"Count them," said Belzebub to his confidential clerk, who had once been Chief Secretary in Ireland, and was well up in figures. The clerk began, but when he had used up all the paper in the place and all the figures he knew, he came to Belzebub and said there were still ten divisions and a battalion of lawyers to be counted.

"Shut your eyes and pick out any one at all," says Belzebub, "they're all the same. Is there a bailiff here?"

There came an immense crowd of them.

"Go," says Belzebub to one fellow, "and serve a writ on Peter."

The bailiff did as he was ordered, and when the writ reached poor St. Peter he was perturbed. He brought it to St. Patrick.

"See the mess you people have landed me in," he said, "the night you had the ceilidh--your feast night--the piece that your champion dancer knocked out of the floor fell on Belzebub's son and killed him." The Gaels weren't the least bit sorry. The only comment was made by Conan Maol.

"Pity it wasn't on the father it fell," says he.

"O dear, O dear," says St. Peter, with a sigh, and off he went to look for legal advice.

Everybody noticed that for the next few days he was terribly troubled, that he was searching for something or somebody, high up and low down, going here, there and everywhere.

The court day came. Belzebub and his big staff of lawyers and witnesses were in attendance, but St. Peter wasn't up to time.

They waited for him a long time. They were impatient. Then came a messenger.

"He'll be here shortly," says the messenger. "He seems to be looking for something. He has the whole place above nearly turned upside down."

They waited on and waited on, but there was no sign of St. Peter. The judge was getting vexed. At last they saw somebody coming, running, perspiration dropping from him, his face and figure showing signs of haste and worry. It was St. Peter. He only put his head in at the door.

"Wait a few minutes longer, if you please," says he to the judge, "I may be able to do it yet." And away he raced again.

A half hour passed, then an hour, then two hours, but there was no sign of St. Peter. A messenger was sent out to watch for him. At long last the messenger shouted in through the open window:

"Here he comes!"

They all looked out and saw him coming. But it was a slow-moving, dispirited, disappointed-looking St. Peter they saw. You'd think that everyone belonging to him had just died or that he had heard some sorrowful tidings. He stopped at the door and looked sadly at the judge. Everyone was silent. St. Peter spoke.

"I give it up," says he, shaking his head, "there's no use in going on with it. I've searched Heaven seven times over, from top to bottom, from end to end and from side to side, here, there and everywhere, but in any part or portion of it I couldn't find lawyer of any description that I might ask to plead my case for me."

Then he turned on his heel and walked back as he had come.

THE FIRST PLUM PUDDING

It was drawing near Christmas and we were gathered one night in the Forge, joking and laughing and smoking, and discussing various matters of no importance with Ned M'Grane, the jovial and kindly blacksmith of Balnagore. After a time the talk naturally turned on the great festival that was near at hand, and all the old and new observances that came with it as sure as sparks came when the smith's sledge hit the heated steel or iron on the anvil. And Ned, who was in his best form, was willing to talk in his own humorous fashion about everything connected with Christmas, from three-foot high candles to penny bugles, and from plum puddings to holly and ivy.

"I wonder who invented the sort of a Christmas we have nowadays?" said Ned, as he lighted his pipe and laid the sledge on the anvil. "I'm told that in the big towns an' the cities they start buyin' Christmas presents in the middle o' summer, so as to get them cheap, an' that some people go near losin' their mind tryin' to think o' what to give this person an' that an' strivin' to figure out what they're goin' to get themselves from their friends. Long ago the people thought it good enough to give an' get a Christmas greetin' at the fair or market or comin' home from Mass or goin' the road, but now you have to go to the town or send away to Dublin or London or somewhere for a bit of a card with a green robin redbreast on it, an' holly berries, an' about five feet o' snow, an' you must put it in a letter an' stamp it an' post it to the man or woman that lives next door to you, an' that you'll be talkin' to five minutes before an' after he gets it. An' he must do the same thing for you, an' if his card looks cheaper than yours, although you're after sendin' him a printed verse about good-will an' eternal friendship an' charity an' peace, you won't stop talkin' about his meanness for a month o' Sundays. I don't know what Christmas is comin' to at all."

"I wonder who thought o' the first plum puddin'," said Joe Clinton, as he looked meditatively into the big turf fire that Ned kept burning in a huge open grate for our special benefit. "Whoever he was, he didn't think he'd sicken so many people before the end o' the world. Some o' the things they call plum puddin's are a holy terror. An' the fun of it is that they never put as much as the skin of a plum in one o' them."

"Well, Joe," answered Ned, "I don't know who took out the plum puddin' patent first in the world, but I know who was the first who tried to make one in Balnagore, an' I know what happened to it, an' how often it was laughed over for many a long day after." And Ned chuckled softly as he coaxed mighty clouds of blue and white smoke from his veteran pipe. We saw at once that there was a story behind his remark, for Ned's brain was a storehouse for yarns, and our hearts thumped with excitement as we waited breathlessly for Joe Clinton to say the word that would set Ned's tongue working.

"Who was that, Ned--I never heard of it," said Joe at last.

"It was Judy Connell," Ned answered, as he looked away into the shadows as if his gaze was fixed on a cinematograph picture that had suddenly appeared on the far wall of the forge, "an' I remember it the same as if 'twas only yesterday, though it's a good twenty-five years since it happened. In them times the only sort of a puddin' people had at Christmas was a bit o' rice an' a few currants in it, an' it was a bigger luxury than you'd imagine, because it's little o' sweets or dainties the old people bothered their heads about: an' signs on it there wasn't a fellow for pullin' teeth an' stuffin' teeth at every fair an' market, nor bottles by the score in every 'pothacary's shop window for the cure o' constipation an' twenty other 'ations' an' 'isms' that the people o' them days knew nothin' about. An' sure nearly every man brought a full set o' teeth to the grave with him an' left them there to be dug up when some other man was goin' down on top of him. Nowadays every second man you meet has teeth made out o' melted lead or somethin' tied on to his gums with wire, an' some people have plum puddin' for their tay every time a friend or relation comes to see them, an' they have to keep on the dresser a bottle o' somethin' or other to shift the plum puddin' out of their stomach the next day. That's how things has changed in this country since I was a gossoon.

"But I'm ramblin' away from Judy Connell's plum puddin'.