FUN O' THE FORGE

STORIES

BY

BRIAN
O'HIGGINS

All Rights Reserved

DUBLIN
WHELAN AND SON
17 UPPER ORMOND QUAY

Cahill & Co., Ltd., Printers, Dublin.

FOREWORD

In addition to many other blessings, God has given to us, Gaels of the Irish land, the priceless gift of humour, the saving grace of laughter. May we never lose them! They have been good friends to us in the days of darkness; let it be one of our duties to nurture and strengthen them in the brighter day that has already dawned in Eirinn. Throughout the land, in forge and workshop, in field and by fireside, there is many a Ned McGrane—witty, wise and laughter-loving—who has the power to pull aside the gloomy curtains of melancholy and moodiness and to pour into the hearts of all who will listen to him the sunshine of merriment and mirth, while never saying a word that would offend the most sensitive ear or leave a bad impression on the most susceptible mind. In this, as in a thousand other ways, we differ from the enemy that is still within our gates. His best humour is coarse or smutty, his heartiest laughter is jarring and hurtful, his outlook on life is very different to that of the genial blacksmith of Balnagore. God speed the day when the smutty wit of the Sasanach shall be heard no longer in our land, when the laughter of the open-hearted, clean-minded Gael shall ring from end to end of Eirinn, lighting every mind, lifting up every heart, and softening for all who have suffered the memory of those sadder days that they have known.

Brian O hUiginn.

Samhain, 1917.

CONTENTS

PAGE
THE BLACKSMITH'S CHARM | 9
HOW JIMMY SETTLED THE SOJER | 24
THE CONFISCATED BACON | 35
"BOW-WOW" | 50
HOW JOHNNIE GOT HIS DEGREE | 61
THE BEST OF A BARGAIN | 71
WHEN DENIS TURNED TO THE TAY | 78
A GLORIOUS VICTORY | 85
ON ELECTIONS | 94
NED'S TRIP TO DUBLIN | 98
THE LAWYER FOR THE DEFENCE | 104
THE FIRST PLUM PUDDING | 110

FUN O' THE FORGE.

THE BLACKSMITH'S CHARM

I.

The smithy in which Ned M'Grane carried on his trade was close to the roadside, about a quarter of a mile from the head of the glen. There was no house very close to it on any side, though old Peggy Hogan's cottage was not so far away but that Ned could hear Peggy's shrill "Chuck, chuck, chuck," every evening at sundown, as she called her hens and chickens home to roost. The smithy was sheltered by the big beeches which overhung the road from Rowan's demesne, and when the fire was in full glow it was as fine a place for a seanchus among the "boys" as you'd find in any corner of the broad land of Eireann; and well did the boys know that, because there was scarcely a night during the whole winter on which they didn't gather around the cheery fire in the forge, and discuss in breezy fashion and with a good deal of wit, almost every subject of interest under the sun, while they watched Ned M'Grane at his work, and openly admired the strength of his shapely arms.

Ned was as famous for his wit as for his proficiency in all the mysteries of the trade, and he could tell stories, old and new, that would draw laughter from the loneliest heart that ever beat. He was a favourite with old and young, and there wasn't a boy in the countryside who, sometime or other, didn't make a confidant of the genial blacksmith, and ask the advice which he was always willing to give. To help a man out of a scrape, to stand by a comrade in distress, to make glad a company with clean and ready wit, to resent an evil deed or to show whole-hearted appreciation of a good one, there wasn't in all Ireland a man who could out-match Ned M'Grane, the laughing, jovial, generous blacksmith of Balnagore.

One night, just a week before Shrove (no matter whether 'twas last year or the year before or ten years ago) the smithy was, for a wonder, deserted by all its usual visitors, and the smith was alone with his work and his thoughts, which latter found expression in the snatches of song he sung in the intervals between placing the piece of iron upon which he was working in the fire and the taking out of it again, to be pounded on the anvil. He was just finishing a song, the last verse of which ran like this:

"No! no! across the thundering waves the answer rings full high!
No! no! re-echoes many a heart beneath the Irish sky
The land shall wake, her exiled sons across the sea shall sail
Once more to set a coronet on queenly Grainne Mhaol."

and was giving the finishing touches to a new horse-shoe, when he heard a voice at the door say, "God bless the work," and on looking up his eyes met the open, honest, handsome face of his cousin and dearest friend and comrade, Seumas Shanley of Drumberagh.

"An' you, too, a mhic o," answered Ned M'Grane, with a welcoming smile. "You're the very man I was thinkin' about a few minutes ago, an' I'm glad you're by yourself. Any change in the plan of campaign? Is Old Crusty as determined as ever?"

"Worse than ever," said Seumas Shanley, as he picked up a piece of a broken match-box from the floor, set it blazing at the forge fire, and lighted his pipe with it. "Nannie says that he got into a tearin' rage out an' out last night when she refused again to marry Jack the Jobber, an' he won't let her leave his sight for a minute. All she could do was to send me a note with old Kitty Malone to-day. Kitty was down in it, washin', an' she says Larry has his mind made up that Nannie must marry Flanagan before Shrove. I was over with Father Martin to-day."

"An' what did he say?" asked Ned M'Grane.

"He said 'twould be a cryin' shame to have a sweet little girl like Nannie Boylan tied for life to a man like Jack Flanagan, who never comes home sober from a fair, an' who has no thought for anythin' only cattle, an' money, an' drink. Father Martin is dead against the match-makin', you know, an' he said he'll marry us if we go to him, runaway or no runaway, consent or no consent."

"Faith, then, by my grandfather's whiskers, Seumas Shanley, if that's the case, I'll see you married—yourself an' Nannie—before Shrove yet, an' that's only this day week!" said the blacksmith, as he flung the hammer he held in his hand into a corner, and put the bolt on the forge door, so that no one might enter or interrupt their conversation. "I have the plan in my head all day," he added, "an' if it doesn't work out all right the fault won't be Ned M'Grane's."

"What's the plan?" asked Seumas, in a tone the eagerness of which he could not conceal, although he made an effort to suppress it. He knew that no man in Ireland could devise a plan or carry it through, better than Ned M'Grane, and the hope that had been ebbing out of his heart as Shrove drew near and the danger of losing his cailin ban became every day more apparent, that hope grew as bright as the glow of the forge fire, and leapt into his kindly, dark eyes as he waited for the blacksmith to speak.

"Well, 'tis a simple plan enough, an' there's no great mystery about it at all," said Ned, "an' if you an' Nannie do your share of the work right I give you my word that it'll be the most complete night-cap ever was put on Old Crusty or any match-makin' miser like him. You know the way he goes nearly mad with that old front tooth of his when it begins to pain him for all his miserly ways an' his trickeries, an' you know as well, I suppose, the pishrogues the women do have about every blacksmith havin' a charm for the cure of the toothache. Well, if Nannie can set Old Crusty's tooth tearin' mad before Sunday—let her give him somethin' real sweet to eat an' it's off—I'll guarantee to take him out of the way for three hours, at any rate, an' any Christian with the head set right on him could very easy be married to the girl of his heart in three hours—couldn't he?"

"He could, Ned—God bless you!" said Seumas, in a voice that was a wee bit husky, as he grasped the blacksmith's hand in a firm grip. "I was nearly in despair, an' so was Nannie, an' we couldn't think of a plan at all. We'll not forget it to you, never fear."

"O, it's not over yet," said Ned, as if to put a check on the other's impulsiveness. "You'll have to see Nannie some way or other, an' tell her all you intend to do, an' have her on her guard. She must give a sort of a promise to marry Flanagan, an' then ask Old Crusty to leave her free until after Lent; an' she must have some grievance or other against you. Do you understand? An' there must be nothin' done to make the old lad suspicious, an' you must have everything ready, so that there'll be no fluster or delay. An' above all, the tooth must be set ragin' mad.

"Off you pop now, a mhic o, an' more power to you. It'll be as good as a thousand pound to me to see Old Crusty's face when he finds out the whole thing. Come over Friday night an' tell me how the game is goin'. Good night, now, an' God speed you."

"Good night, Ned. I'll not fail, please God, an' I'll not forget it to you as long as I live."

And Seumas Shanley went, the glow of a great hope lighting all the way before him.

II.

When Ned M'Grane lifted the latch of Larry Boylan's kitchen door and walked into the spacious kitchen itself on the following Sunday afternoon there was a look of concern on his usually jovial face, and when Larry turned his gaze from the fire to greet the visitor, the look of concern on Ned's face deepened very considerably and perceptibly, and he seemed very much perturbed. Larry sat in a crouching attitude quite close to the big fire of blazing turf-sods, a red handkerchief covering his chin, his jaws, and his ears, and knotted on top of his head. He held his hand over his mouth, and now and then he groaned most miserably and lugubriously. An old woman—the same Kitty Malone mentioned by Seumas Shanley—was working about the kitchen; no one else was to be seen.

The blacksmith was a pretty frequent and always a welcome visitor at Larry Boylan's. He was Nannie Boylan's godfather, and old Larry as well claimed relationship with the M'Grane family—usually when he wanted some work done at the forge. He was, therefore, glad to see Ned on the present occasion.

"I'm sorry to see the enemy is at you again, Larry," said Ned, as he seated himself on the stool placed before the fire for him by Kitty. "I wondered when I didn't see you at Mass to-day, an' I didn't know what was up until I met Kitty there, on the road, an' she said it was the tooth. Is it bad? It must be a cold you got."

"Oh, it's a terror, Ned," groaned Larry, as a twinge of pain passed over his weazened face. "I never had it as bad before. I'm nearly cracked with it, an' the head is like to fly off me. Nannie that brought home a curran' cake from the market yesterday, an' sweet, white stuff on the top of it, an' we ate it with the tay, an' about an hour after the old tooth gave one jump, an' it's at me ever since. I never slept a wink all night with it. Nannie herself got the toothache about a couple of hours ago, an' she's mortial bad with it, too. She had to go to bed a while ago."

"The poor thing," said Ned M'Grane, sympathetically. "I'm sorry in troth, for both of you, an' glad that I came down. I might as well not be at home at all, because Seumas Shanley wanted me to go with him over to Knockbride after Mass. He was goin' over to see some of his mother's people that came home from America. I think they're goin' to have a spree or a flare-up of some kind over there to-night. I was near goin' only I knew I'd have to be up early in the mornin' to shoe the Major's horses."

"The same bucko is no loss by goin' to Knockbride or anywhere else," said Larry, with a frown; and then in a whisper, and forgetting the toothache for a moment, he said: "I'm thinkin' he's after some lassie in that direction. When he seen I wouldn't let Nannie throw over a well-to-do, comfortable man like Jack Flanagan for a scamp like him, I suppose he took after some other decent man's daughter. He was stravagin' about the market yesterday with some strange girl, an' wouldn't even look at us. I think my lassie," jerking his thumb towards the door of the little bedroom to which Nannie had retired, "had a wish for him up to that, but she saw then it wasn't her, but the place, he was after. And I'm glad she got sense, because it isn't every day she could get married into a place like Jack Flanagan's—an' it's little fortune he wants either. We made the match for after Lent yesterday."

"Is that a fact?" said Ned. "Well, your mind ought to be easy now."

"So it is, Ned; so it is. When it came to the finish, Nannie didn't go against my wishes, an' all she asked was that I'd leave her free until after Lent; an' sure there's no use in rushin' it—is there, Ned?"

"Divil a use," said Ned.

At this juncture the tooth began to ache again worse than ever, and Larry squirmed in his seat with pain.

"I was tellin' Mr. Boylan to-day," said old Kitty Malone to Ned, "that every blacksmith has a charm for the toothache, an' I was wantin' him to go up to you an' see, but he said maybe you haven't it at all. Have you it, Mr. M'Grane?"

"Well, I must be an amadán out an' out not to think of it before now," said Ned. "To be sure I have it. Every blacksmith in the world has it, but it's no use to him outside his own forge. Troth it's many a one came to me with the toothache, an' any o' them that followed my advice hadn't the pain very long."

"Do you tell me so, Ned?" asked Larry, between his groans.

"Aye, indeed," said Ned. "But some o' them is that foolish that they must run away to one o' them lads that pulls teeth, an' get themselves half murdered, an' then pay dear for it. I saw on the paper where a man died after gettin' a tooth pulled, an' I saw where a great doctor said that if you let the pain o' the toothache go on for five days one after the other, or get the tooth pulled wrong, you're liable to drop dead at any minute."

"Lord bless an' save us!" said old Kitty Malone, in tones of awe and fear.

Larry looked startled.

"An' do you have the charm always, Ned?" he asked, with evident anxiety in his voice.

"Of course I do," answered Ned. "It's in my possession from the day I have my trade learned until the day I die, but I can't make use of it anywhere only in my own forge, an' with no one next or nigh me but the person I'm goin' to cure."

"Does it hurt much, Ned?"

"That's the beauty of it entirely, Larry—it doesn't hurt at all. You might as well be asleep when the charm is working on you, for all the bother or pain it gives you."

"Couldn't you do it here, Ned?"

"Not if I was to get all Ireland, an' England, an' Scotland put together, an' the Isle of Man threw on top of them. I couldn't do it anywhere only in my own forge above.

"Do you know what you'll do, Larry? Just keep that handkerchief on your head, an' put your overcoat on you an' come up to the forge with me, an' I promise you that in a couple of hours' time you'll be back here, safe an' sound, an' not as much pain or ache in that tooth as there is in the hearthstone there."

"Aye do, Mr. Boylan," chimed in Kitty. "It's a terrible thing to think of what'd happen if it keeps at you for five days, an' sure it's wearin' you down already."

"An' is it no harm to work the charm on a Sunday, Ned?" asked Larry, who was evidently giving way.

"Not the least bit o' harm in the world," said Ned. "Sunday or Monday, night, noon or mornin', it's all the same."

"Troth, then," said Larry, as he rose, "I think I'll go. Get me that coat, Kitty. If it sticks to Nannie until to-morrow she'll have to go, too."

"The bed is the best place for her at present," said Ned M'Grane, as he passed out after Larry, "but don't let her stay too long in it, Kitty."

And Kitty's nod, in answer to the wink which accompanied this remark, was sufficient to prove that she fully understood.

III.

When they reached the forge it was just nightfall, but Ned lighted a lamp or lantern which hung on the wall, bolted the door, closed the window shutters, and then proceeded to light the fire. Larry watched him with the greatest interest, while he himself moaned and groaned and stamped about with the fierce pain of the big, shaking tooth.

It was one of the front teeth and very prominent. A tooth on each side of it had long since departed, and so it stood out in bold relief, grim and determined-looking. The pain was so constant and so annoying now that Larry would have suffered any torture to get rid of it.

"How do you work the charm, Ned?" he asked at length, when there was no likelihood of the mystic rite being put into practice.

"Oh that's a secret that can't be given away to any man or mortal," said Ned, as he divested himself of his coat and proceeded, slowly and carefully, to roll up his shirt sleeves. "'Twould be a big risk for me to let anyone know that; I might be on the look-out for some terrible punishment. In fact, I hardly know myself how it works. It takes place by some power beyond my knowledge entirely, Larry. I'm only like the means of settin' it in motion, an' then it does all the rest itself in a strange an' mysterious manner.

"Now, I want you, Larry, before I start at all, to give me your solemn word that you'll wait, real patient, until the charm is ready to work, an' that you'll make no complaint either before or after the charm takes place. Some people get impatient an' make some complaint or other, an' then, instead of the charm workin', the pain o' the toothache gets worse than ever, an' sometimes they die that very night. Do you promise, Larry?"

"I promise, Ned, that no matter how severe or how long the workin' o' the charm is I'll not make the least complaint, because I'd suffer anythin' to ease the pain o' this infernal tooth. Sure it'll never annoy me again, Ned?"

"Never," said Ned M'Grane, decisively, as he took from a small box a long, thin strand of flaxen thread, and pulled and jerked it in every conceivable fashion to test its strength. Then he stretched it three times along the anvil, and three times along the sledge hammer, and three times along a bar of iron, uttering all the time in a weird, solemn tone, strange, inarticulate sounds, which silenced Larry's groans and made him feel awed and frightened.

"Now, Larry," said the blacksmith, when this ceremony was over, "you'll have to suffer a little pain while I get this magic band round the achin' tooth. Open your mouth now."

Larry did as he was directed, and in a minute the smith deftly wound the flaxen thread round the tooth, and knotted it tightly.

"Put your hands on your knees now, like a good man, and bend down towards the anvil here," said Ned. "That's just right. Stay that way now for a while, an' don't stir an' don't look up. You'll be all right soon."

Whilst speaking he was tying the two ends of the flaxen thread tightly and securely to the horn of the anvil. When this was accomplished he put the bar of iron into the fire, gathered the glowing embers around it, and commenced to blow the bellows vigorously.

It was a comical picture altogether.

There was Larry, his hands resting on his knees, his head bent down until his nose was within a foot of the horn of the anvil, a stream of water running from his open mouth, his eyes fixed upon the floor, while he tried to groan cheerfully, in fear lest he might be taken as complaining.

Ned now and then blew the bellows, pulled out the bar of iron, looked at it, thrust it back again into the glowing fire, went about the forge uttering the same inarticulate sounds that had so awed Larry at first, and treading very softly, perhaps because he did not wish to drive away the spirit of the charm. In one of his excursions he softly undid the bolt, opened the door, peered out into the night, listened, and smiled.

All this went on for a full hour at least, and then the blacksmith came over and stood beside the anvil, sledge in hand, while he commenced to blow the bellows more vigorously than ever.

At last he broke the silence by saying that he hoped Larry was not in very great pain, and assuring him that relief could not be very far off now.

Larry could only groan in reply, and then Ned went on to tell, with evident pride, of all the wonderful cures he had effected, and all the poor sufferers he had literally snatched from the jaws of death. And all Larry could do was groan and moan as cheerfully as possible, while he wondered if the time for his cure would ever come.

It came when he least expected it. The smith was in the middle of a wonderful story about a miraculous cure he had once been instrumental in effecting, when suddenly he whipped the bar of iron from the fire, placed it on the anvil, and brought down the sledge upon it with such force and vigour, three times in rapid succession, that showers of sparks—millions of them—flew in all directions through the forge!

Larry was taken completely by surprise. He gave one yell of terror as he suddenly jerked backwards, and the next moment he lay stretched at full length on the floor, the eyes almost starting from his head with fright, and a little stream of blood trickling over his chin from his mouth. The tooth hung from the horn of the anvil, suspended by the strand of flaxen thread. The charm had been successful.

Ned M'Grane laughed long and heartily, as he looked at the prostrate and terror-stricken Larry.

"Gorra, it worked the grandest ever I saw," he said, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes; "'twas the neatest job I ever did, an' you're a powerful brave man, Larry."

Larry could hardly speak he was so frightened.

"Is—is it out, Ned?" he said at last, scarcely knowing whether he ought to be vexed or pleased.

"Out!" cried Ned; "don't you see it, man? Didn't I tell you I'd give you relief? Here, wash out your mouth with this sup o' soft water. An' I don't think your appearance is improved very much by you lyin' there on the floor. Now, is it?"

Larry rose and rinsed his mouth, as he had been bidden.

"Do you know what, Ned," he cried, "you're the finest doctor in Ireland, an' that's the greatest charm I ever heard of in my life. I dunno how you done it, but I must send up Nannie to you to-morrow."

At that moment a young lad thrust his head in at the door.

"All right—an hour ago," he cried, and disappeared as quickly as he had come.

"What did he say?" asked Larry, as he saw a look of the utmost pleasure come across Ned M'Grane's face.

"He said," answered Ned, as he folded his arms and leaned his broad shoulder against the wall, "that you've got the best son-in-law in Ireland, an' that Seumas Shanley has the purtiest an' the sweetest little wife that ever stepped in shoe leather!"

"What do you mean, man; what do you mean?" cried Larry in an angry and excited tone, as he gripped the blacksmith by the arm. "Are you mad, Ned M'Grane?"

"No, Larry, my decent man; I'm not mad, an' I only mean what I say, an' that is that the best part o' the charm that's after bein' worked is that while you were gettin' the pain taken out o' your jaw here, your daughter and Seumas Shanley were gettin' the pain taken out o' their hearts by Father Martin above at the chapel—long life to them!

"The boys an' girls o' Drumberagh are dancin' at their weddin' for the last half-hour, an' every tongue in the country is talkin' o' the Blacksmith's Charm."

HOW JIMMY SETTLED THE SOJER

It would be very unjust to say that Ned M'Grane was insufferably vain on account of his storytelling abilities, or that he was a bore who insisted, whenever he could find an audience, on relating some of his wonderful and thrilling experiences, as a goodly number of those who pose as storytellers are in the habit of doing. That wasn't the way with Ned at all: he had acquired all his pleasant stories, or most of them, while he was a boy, unspoiled by travel or by contact with the "clever" world; and it never struck him that he occupied a unique or exalted position in the Glen on account of this, because the gift had come to him naturally, and had been cultivated at a time when there was a seanchaidhe by every hearth, and life and vivacity in the country to provide plenty of material for stories. And in reference to the second matter—the supposition or suspicion in the minds of my readers that Ned was a bore—if such a suspicion exists, there is no foundation whatever for it. Ned M'Grane was not a bore by any means: I never knew him to volunteer the telling of a story, and I think that if we were to remain in the forge for hours each evening and not ask for a story we should never have heard one. I firmly believe that if Ned were to think for a moment that while we listened to his stories we were under the impression, in our own minds, that he was "showin' off" all he knew—I firmly believe that then and there he would have made a vow never again to tell us a story, and I know he would have kept that vow, because Ned M'Grane was a man of his word. Whenever an occasion arose that would suggest a story (we never asked him direct for one) we cautiously felt our way, and then, if we saw that we were on safe ground, we asked him as delicately as we could, to give us the pleasure of listening to one of his stories, and I have never known him to deny us that pleasure. He knew that we hungered for the tales, and his heart was too big and too kind to allow him to refrain from an act that was likely to give pleasure to anyone. There never beat a warmer, kinder heart than that which throbbed beneath Ned M'Grane's torn and soot-stained coat.

Joe Clinton was telling us one evening about a narrow escape he and Tom Brangan and a couple more of the boys had the night before in Rowan's demesne when they went to set their rabbit-snares, and very nearly fell into the hands of the police from Castletown, who had been told by the old Major to keep a look-out for poachers.

"We were just gettin' across the wall below at the dark avenue," Joe told us; "Tom was inside in the wood an' I was on top o' the wall, an' Phil Geraghty an' Andy Reilly was on the road, when we heard the sprigs cracklin' an' breakin' in the wood an' out comes a sheep, runnin' like from the lawn as if somethin' was after frightenin' her, an' then when the moon came out a bit from behind a cloud, didn't we see the two boyos tryin' to steal unknownst to us, along the brink o' the wood. I'm sure they heard me talkin' down to the lads on the road—an' Tom had only time to climb up the wall an' jump down after me, when we heard them tearin' in thro' the leaves an' brosna, an' sure we ran like a go-as-you-please race, an' the dickens a one of us was to be seen when they got as far as the wall."

"Only for the sheep you'd be nabbed," said Seumas Shanley.

"Oh, they had us as neat as could be, an' our darlin' han'ful o' new snares along with us," said Joe, "only that they frightened the sheep in the right time. She was a lucky sheep for us anyway."

"Sheep an' goats must be good to poachers always," said Ned M'Grane, as he let the hammer rest on the anvil, and cast the horse-shoe on which he had been working into the trough, "for 'twas Tim Brogan's old white goat that nearly thumped the life out o' the Scotch game-keeper that was in Archdale's, an' he runnin' after young Joe Magee long ago, an' 'twas a ram that saved Jimmy the Thrick when the Sojer M'Keon came at him an' he after killin' the two hares above on the Mullagh. The sheep an' goats must have a grâdh for the poachers, I'm thinkin'."

At the mention of "Jimmy the Thrick" we cocked our ears, because we knew that whenever Ned spoke of Jimmy he had a story to tell about him, and we knew that a story in which Jimmy figured was sure to be a good one. So we cocked our ears while Joe Clinton was asking Ned how the ram managed to save Jimmy from his enemies, and we were, I need hardly say, delighted when we noticed that Ned took out his pipe and commenced to fill it before he made any reply.

"There wasn't in all Ireland, I think, a poacher that had as much darin' in him as Jimmy the Thrick when he was a young fellow. There wasn't a hare or a rabbit in the country safe from him, an' neither gamekeeper nor peeler could ever lay hands on him. He was within an ace o' bein' caught as often as he has fingers an' toes on his body, an' every time, by hook or by crook, he'd dodge the peelers an' get away from them, an' every gamekeeper in the country 'd swear to you at the time that if there ever was a divil in Ireland that divil was Jimmy Malone. A hundred times they set traps for him an' failed to catch him. He'd take the hares an' rabbits from under their very noses almost, an' he often had a snare set above at Rowan's hall-door, but catch or catch they couldn't do on him. He could run as fast as a hare himself, an' he had more tricks an' dodges an' plans in his head than any hare that ever lay in a form. Sure one day an' the huntsmen an' the beagles in full cry after a hare below in Hoey's Bottom, didn't he watch beside a little gap in the wall that he knew she'd go through, and had a sack opened, with the mouth of it round the hole, an' when the poor hare came along at full speed thro' the gap, where did she go only right into the sack, an' Jimmy had her at home in his own house before the huntsmen knew that the hounds were after losin' the trail. Oh, he was a holy terror, the same Jimmy, but he was that lively an' full o' divilment an' fun, but with no bad turn in him, that the dickens a one in the country 'd say a word against him or give a hint o' where he'd be to peeler or anyone else.

"Well, one summer there came home a fellow that was after bein' a sojer out in India or somewhere—his name was Jack M'Keon, but no one called him anythin' only the Sojer M'Keon—an' o' course none o' the young fellows about 'd be seen in his company an' he after takin' John Bull's shillin' an' fightin' against them that never done him or his country any harm, so who did he get in with only Tony Smith that was gamekeeper in Rowan's at the time, an' it seems Tony promised to get him a job as a sort of under-gamekeeper after a while, because he used to do anythin' Tony 'd ask him to do; an' one o' the things was to pimp after and watch Jimmy Malone, an' to nab him in the act o' poachin' if he could.

"'Twas easy enough to make the Sojer do that, because he hated Jimmy from the time they used to be goin' to school in Kilfane together, an' had some row or other, an' along with that, too, M'Keon began skulkin' after a girl that Jimmy was fond of—Julia Dermody, that's his wife this thirty years nearly—an' that made the two o' them bitter enemies. M'Keon had some money after comin' home, wherever he got it—some used to say he robbed it, but no one was certain—an' old Hugh Dermody was more inclined to give him Julia than he was to give her to Jimmy Malone, because Jimmy was poor, an' old Dermody was a miser always. Julia 'd marry no one only Jimmy, but M'Keon thought that if he got him into jail for poachin' she'd be so much ashamed of it that she'd give him up an' marry himself. So you might say it was a bitter bit o' dodgin' between the peelers an' old Tony Smith an' the Sojer M'Keon against poor Jimmy the Thrick, an' only for he was the man he was, he'd spend many a long day in jail for his poachin'. But it was easier to catch a hare than to catch Jimmy Malone, so it was, an' many a hard run the Sojer M'Keon had after him for nothin', an' many a laugh there was through the country over Jimmy an' his tricks. An' the best of it was that the Sojer himself used to be poachin' as much as Jimmy, an' well the peelers knew that, an' the dickens a much of a grádh they had for him.

"Well, one fine July mornin' about four o'clock, Jimmy went over to the off side o' the Mullaghs to the farthest field next to Appleby's land—'twas called the Sheep Field that time as well as now, an' the Mullaghs belonged to the Rowans o' course—to look at a few snares he was after settin' in it the night before, an' didn't he get two darlin' fine hares an' they just nearly dead with the pullin' an' tuggin' they had to get away. Jimmy wasn't long finishin' them, and he was crossin' back next the wood again when all of a sudden he heard the racin' up behind him, an' before he could turn round he got a bump that lifted him off his feet, and then another, an' the next minute he was sprawlin' on the ground an' a big black-faced ram o' the old Major's standin' over him an' lookin' at him as much as to say, 'You're downed at last, Jimmy Malone!' Jimmy used to tell me after that he could read the very words in the ram's eyes the same as if he was sayin' them.

"'Your behaviour was very unfair, sir,' says Jimmy to the boyo, an' he risin' to his feet, 'but I'll be expectin' your salute the next time, an' I don't think you'll have the pleasure o' givin' it. Just gi'me a fair start, an' see which of us'll be at the wood first. Now, one, two, three, an' off we go.' An' Jimmy started to run quicker nor ever he went before, but he wasn't two minutes runnin' when he got the thump again an' down he had to flop a second time in spite of himself, an' there was the ram standin' over him an' his eyes sayin', 'It's not the Sojer M'Keon or the peelers that's in it this time, Jimmy,' an' all my poor Jimmy could do was groan an' feel himself where he was sore.

"'This won't do for Jimmy Malone, if he doesn't want to be caught, so you'll allow me to lead you to the ditch,' says Jimmy, catchin' hold o' the ram's horns, an' startin' to drag him along as well as he could, an' the bucko draggin' against him. If he got him as far as the wood he knew he'd be all right, because he could manage to get away from him, but in the open field there was no chance. So there was Jimmy with his two hands grippin' the ram's horns, an' the hares tied round his waist, an' he tryin' to coax the lad over to the edge o' the wood till he'd get away from him.

"He was about three hundred yards from the wood, an' the ram stickin' his feet in the ground an' refusin' to budge an inch, when who did he see comin' across the field at full trot only the Sojer M'Keon an' he leerin' like a monkey. Jimmy got a bit of a start when he saw him first, because he thought the peelers 'd be with him, but when he knew there was only the Sojer in it, he was delighted instead o' bein' afraid.

"The Sojer came up to him, an' a big stick in his hand an' he chucklin' an' grinnin' with delight.

"'Ha, ha, Mister Malone,' says he to Jimmy, 'you're nabbed at last. 'Twasn't enough to be snarin' the Major's hares an' rabbits, but you must turn to stealin' his mountainy sheep. Gettin' a likin' for mutton, is that it, Mister Malone? They'll hardly give you any mutton in jail, though, unless Julia an' myself sends you a bit o' what we'll have at the weddin'. No girl 'd like to marry a sheep-stealer; would she, Mister Malone?'

"Jimmy was ragin', but he knew that if it came to a fight with M'Keon the Sojer 'd beat him, because he was a powerful big man, an' along with that if the peelers came an' they squabblin', M'Keon 'd accuse him o' sheep-stealin' an' poachin' an' he'd be done for. So he kept his temper, an' says he, real quiet an' humble like:

"'You have me this time, Jack,' says he, 'but what's the use o' tormentin' a fellow. I gave the whole lot o' you a good run for it, anyway, an' I'm not goin' to cry over it. An' sure if Julia Dermody doesn't want me she can have the man that caught me, an' welcome. There's your friends, the peelers, comin', an' you can call them to arrest me.'

"'Where?—where are they? Where are they?' says the Sojer, turnin' round, an' he real excited an' like as if he was frightened.

"As soon as he turned round, Jimmy let go his hold o' the ram's horns an' away with him for the wood, racin' faster than ever he went in his life before. M'Keon got as big a surprise as the 'sheep,' as he took Jimmy's gentleman friend to be, but as soon as he saw the dodge, off he started after him an' he shoutin' to him to stop. He couldn't run well, though, because he was stiff an' lazy, an' the dickens a very far he went when he got a thump from the ram's horns that made him yell, an' the next minute there he was stretched at full length on the grass, an' the ram standin' over him as mild as you please. The Sojer gave him a string of army curses an' up he jumps again an' after Jimmy—the boyo was within a few perch o' the wood an' he runnin' for the bare life an' never lookin' behind him—but the dickens a far Mister M'Keon went till the ram was up with him an' had him stretched on the grass the same as before, an' he cursin' for all he was worth.

"When Jimmy got into the shelter o' the wood he drew his breath an' looked round, an' there he saw my brave Sojer an' he havin' a hold o' the ram's horns the same as he was himself a few minutes before that an' he pullin' at his best an' the ram pullin' against him, an' risin' with every jump now an' again that nearly lifted the Sojer off his feet.

"Jimmy couldn't help laughin' if all the peelers in Ireland was in the wood behind him, when he saw the way the ram had the life frightened out o' the Sojer.

"'So you're goin' to have mutton at the weddin', Mister M'Keon,' says he, 'an' you'll maybe send a bit to the sheep-stealer an' he in jail? That's very kind o' you entirely, an' I must tell Julia when I see her, in case you'd forget it. I'm afraid a ram 'd be middlin' tough eatin' though—even for a sojer. Will you stay there till I go home for my camera, an' I'll take your photograph an' show it to Julia? Ah! can't you let the poor old ram go; sure he can't give evidence against the notorious sheep-stealer, Jimmy Malone. Let him go, an' come over here, an' I'll give you the hares. You won't? Well, I'll have to be sayin' good mornin', Mister M'Keon, an' I hope you'll enjoy the game-keepin' if you get it. If I see your friends, the peelers, I'll send them to your assistance. Good mornin', Mister M'Keon.'

"An' off went Jimmy as fast as he could leg it, an' 'twas well for him he did, because the peelers wasn't as far away as he thought they were. The Major sent for them to come over early that mornin' to see where some one tore up a lot o' young trees that he was after gettin' planted above on the side o' the Mullagh, an' when himself an' them came into the Sheep Field didn't they see the Sojer M'Keon an' he beatin' the Major's prize ram with a big stick an' tryin' to drag him over to the ditch. The Sojer was in such a temper with the ram that he never saw them until they were up beside him, an' sure he nearly fell with the start he got when the Major roared at him to let go the ram. Only for the peelers the Major 'd kill him. The Sojer went to tell the story o' catchin' Jimmy Malone, but sure they thought it was all a make-up, an' they arrested him on the spot for abusin' the ram, an' along with that he had a couple o' score o' snares tied round his waist an' a fine big hare under his coat. It was found out, too, that it was him rooted up the young trees an' sold them to a man in Castletown, an' 'gorra if he didn't get six months in jail, an' only he was a sojer they'd give him five years. He never came back here again, an' the dickens a one was sorry for him, because he was a bad weed.

"An' that's how Jimmy settled the Sojer."

THE CONFISCATED BACON

The coaxing of a story from Ned M'Grane, the blacksmith, was sometimes the easiest matter in the world, and sometimes a task in the accomplishing of which all the tact and diplomacy of a Government Ambassador would be absolutely essential. It all depended on the humour he was in at the time. If things had gone well with him during the day; if he hadn't been disappointed in getting coal from the town or if nobody had come to ask him in an aggrieved tone, "Why the blazes aren't you doin' them wheels for me?" or if nobody had told him that another penny in the pound had been added to the taxation of Ireland or that some Englishman had said the Irish were only a pack of savages until the English, out of pure charity, came over and civilised them. If none of these things occurred to rile Ned M'Grane, we had no difficulty whatever in getting a story from him whenever we went to the forge; and that was almost every evening throughout the winter months, and sometimes in the summer, too, when the ground was too wet for the hurling.

'Twas easy to know when he was in bad humour. He hardly seemed to hear our conversation at all, but worked away in silence, broken now and then by short and vigorous comments on the matter that had vexed him during the day, such as "Who the dickens cares about him or his wheels? I'd be rich if I was dependin' on his custom—heh!" or "What'll they do next, I wonder? Make us pay rates for every time we say our prayers?—the pack o' robbers. I wish I had some o' their heads under this!" And then there would be a crashing blow on the anvil that shook the forge and awakened memories of the Blacksmith of Limerick who crushed the heads of the Williamites with his sledge, long ago. On such occasions we never attempted to engage Ned in conversation until his work for the day was finished, and the pipe and tobacco were called into requisition. Even then, if we saw by his manner or his countenance that a dark memory of the matters that had disturbed him during the day remained in his mind, we wisely refrained from beating about the bush for a story.

Ned's dark moods, however, were rare, and his grand, hearty laughter and sparkling wit and delightful stories, when in his usual form, more than compensated for them, and never allowed us to adversely criticise them, no matter how dark or fierce they might be; and then we, young fellows, loved Ned M'Grane as devotedly and as warmly as he loved us.

One evening in the springtime we were gathered as usual in the forge, after a good, long day's work in the fields, and Ned was very busy with plough accessories and harrow pins and other farming implements, but he was in the best of humour all the same. He joked some of us about getting married, sang snatches of songs in his big, rich voice, and laughed at some of the news we had brought him with the gay vivacity of a boy. There wasn't a subject under the sun but was debated in the forge, and Ned's witticisms remained in all our minds long after the matters debated had been forgotten.

"I wonder how many'll take the advice Father Martin gave last Sunday about the killin' o' the pigs," said Matty Reilly, as he fiddled with a lot of horse-shoe nails in a box.

"It's all very fine to be talkin'," said Jim Cassidy, "but if the people kill their own pigs, what are they goin' to pay the rent with?"

"Didn't he tell them what they could do it with?" said Jack Dunne, as he cleared the stem of his pipe with a very fine piece of wire which Ned always kept by him for that purpose; "didn't he tell them that they could pay the rent with the money they give to the shopkeepers for bad American bacon that's pisinin' their blood an' that there's no nourishment in? An' sure he said the truth. You might as well be eatin' roasted beech-leaves as some o' the bacon you'd get in shops. The divil another bit of it'll come into our house, if we were never to pay the rent."

"If you saw Peadar Byrne," said Bartle Gormley, from a corner, "when Father Martin was talkin' about the killin' o' the pigs, an' the savin' o' the money. He could only catch an odd word, an' he had the bothered ear cocked in a way that I never saw it at the readin' o' the Gospel."

"Maybe," said Ned, with a comical look, "maybe he thought there was pigs goin' for nothin', an' that he'd miss one if he didn't listen."

The discussion ended in a laugh, as all discussions usually did when Ned M'Grane had spoken, and every man started to light his pipe. Ned worked on in silence for a while, and after a long spell, during which there came no remark from him, he said, in careless fashion:

"I wonder was Jimmy Malone—Jimmy the Thrick—listenin' to Father Martin talkin' about the bacon?"

"He was then," said Bartle Gormley, "because I saw him leanin' over the seat down near the door an' whisperin' somethin' to Andy Cregan, an' whatever it was the two o' them was laughin' over it when they came out on the road."

"I know what he was whisperin' about," said Ned, "an' so well he might laugh, because the bacon he used to get above twenty years ago was better an' cheaper than ever he ate since. He wouldn't get anyone simple enough now to give him bacon for nothin'."

"An' how did he get it for nothin' that time, Ned?" asked Bartle, and as he spoke all other conversation was suspended, and we gathered in close to the anvil, apparently careless, but every mother's son of us eager as could be for the story which we knew from experience lay at the back of Ned's remark on Jimmy Malone's behaviour.

"Do you remember Neddy an' Phil M'Govern that died within a week of each other, just this time two years?" asked Ned.

Of course we had all known the two old brothers and their eccentric ways, and had often peeped in at them as they argued by the fire, and we told Ned as much.

"Well, they were just as odd an' as comical in their ways when they were close on fifty years of age as when eighty was drawin' near them, an' if I could only remember them, I know as many stories about Neddy an' Phil as would keep me talkin' for a whole week without stoppin'. They were the queerest couple ever walked in shoe leather or bare feet—may God be good to them this night. At the time I'm goin' to tell you about they didn't live together, as they did when you knew them. Phil lived with an old uncle o' his beyond at Hogan's well, where you'll see the walls o' the house standin' still, and Neddy lived by himself in the house on the hill there above, where they died, an' where Tom M'Dermott, their sister's son, is livin' now. Neither one nor th' other o' them ever got married, because I suppose no girl 'd have them (you needn't laugh)—some people 'd say because they'd begrudge spendin' any money on the weddin', but I don't believe that, as hard as they were—and the way they had o' livin' was as comical as ever you knew. Jimmy the Thrick, to give him the name he was best known by in his young days, lived over there on the hill, not far away from Neddy—that was, of course, before he married into the wife's place—an' he'd tell you stones about Neddy's housekeepin' that'd make you laugh if you had the toothache. An' the best o' them all is the story that Jimmy himself had most to do with.

"Jimmy, you must know, was a terrible playboy at that time an' nobody was safe from his tricks. He couldn't rest at night unless he was after makin' a fool o' somebody, or after playin' some trick durin' the day. He was never easy, mornin', noon or night.

"The people long ago used to kill their own pigs, an' you'd never see backs of American bacon hangin' up in country houses like you do now, an' signs on it, everyone was twice as healthy. 'Twas the talk about what Father Martin said last Sunday that put this story about Neddy an' Phil an' Jimmy into my head. On account of only the two o' them an' the old uncle bein' in it, they used only kill one pig between them every year an' divide it. Neddy'd kill one this year, an' send the half of it over to Phil an' the uncle, an' whatever he had too much after that he'd give to the sister that was married in Knockbride; then the next year Phil 'd kill a pig an' send the half of it to Neddy, an' so on.

"This year, anyway, that I'm talkin' about, it happened that it was Neddy's turn to kill the pig, an' what do you think but one o' the shopkeepers in Castletown said to him that if he was thinkin' o' killin' a pig that year an' didn't want it all, that he had a customer that wanted a piece o' home-cured bacon, an' would give the highest price for it. Neddy wasn't very rich, an' he thought to himself when he came home that if he could get out o' the obligation o' givin' half the pig to Phil, he'd be all right. He could make a couple o' pound for himself an' have enough o' bacon for the year as well. What was he to do at all? The only thing he could think of was to pretend to sell it along with the other pig at the fair that was near at hand. But then Phil 'd be at the fair an' helpin' to make the bargain, an' he'd see that only one o' the pigs was sold. He couldn't hit on a plan of any kind that'd be good enough, an' he was goin' to give up in despair when who comes in but my brave Jimmy Malone—'twas evenin' time—to have a smoke an' to warm his shins at Neddy's fire.

"Neddy knew that Jimmy was never at a loss for a plan for anythin' an' he ups an' tells him the story o' the pig an' the terrible puzzle he was in. Jimmy listened with great attention, an' was very simple an' solemn-lookin', but the divilment came into his head, an' says he to Neddy, when he heard the whole story:

"'It'd be a mortial shame, Neddy,' says he, 'for you to lose the couple o' pound an' you wantin' it so badly, an' especially when you say that Phil's two pigs is better nor your own an' that he didn't divide fair with you last year. It'd be a terrible shame, Neddy, an' I'm goin' to get you out o' the hobble or know for what. I'll just tell you in a few words the best thing for you to do. Kill the pig unknownst to Phil, an' scrape it, an' clean it out, an' then hang it up at the gable end o' the house, an' leave it there when you're goin' to bed. Then the first thing in the mornin' get up before anyone else thinks o' risin' an' bring in the pig and salt it, an' put it above in the room, an' cover it as much as you can; an' then go round the whole townlan' from this to Larry Boylan's beyond, an' clap your hands an' cry an' moan an' be in a terrible state, an' tell everybody that someone took your pig down from the gable—an' sure that'll be no lie for you—an' no matter what Phil or your uncle or anyone else says, keep on lamentin' and cryin' an' sayin' that your pig is gone from the gable, an' that poor Phil 'll have to be eatin' American bacon this year; an' if that doesn't work all right an' leave your pig with you, my name is not Jimmy Malone.'

"Neddy kep' showerin' blessin's down on top o' Jimmy's head for half-an-hour, an' sayin' he was the cleverest man in Ireland, an' that he ought to be a lawyer, an' there was the boyo, drinkin' it all in as solemn as you please, an' assurin' Neddy that he'd do anythin' for a good neighbour. At last he got up to go home an' the word he said to Neddy an' he goin' out on the door was: 'Remember, Neddy, no matter what anyone says to you keep on cryin' and sayin' that the pig is gone. Don't forget that. In any case, I'll be down again to remind you of it.'

"Neddy said he wouldn't forget anythin', an' away went Jimmy the Thrick up to his own house, an' he laughin' to himself at the way he was goin' to hoax old Neddy M'Govern.

"Phil was away at the bog beyond for the turf the next day—the old uncle never used to stir out o' the house, and along with that he was bothered—an' my brave Neddy sent up for Jimmy Malone an' for Tom Molloy, the herd that was in Rowan's, an' Tom killed the pig, an' went off, an' then Neddy an' Jimmy cleaned it out, an' Jimmy went home, after goin' over the instructions again to Neddy, an' puttin' him on his guard to keep on cryin' the pig, no matter what any man, woman or child in the townland'd say to him.

"About ten o'clock that night—the people used to go to bed early them times—Neddy put a big holdfast the length o' your arm into the gable end o' the house, and tied the pig's hind crubeens together, an' histed it on his back—there wasn't a stronger man in the country than Neddy—an' brought it out an' hung it there, with its snout just tippin' the ground, an' back he goes an' into bed with him, leavin' the pig hangin' there for any dog that might have a fancy for fresh bacon.

"The dogs didn't get much of a chance, though, because Neddy wasn't half-an-hour in bed when down comes Jimmy the Thrick from his own house an' he creepin' along the same as if he didn't want to waken the birds, an' when he came to the gable-end o' Neddy's house he just rubbed down the pig with his hands to see if it was dry enough, an' then got in under it, an' histed it on his back, an' away with him up the path along the hedge to his own house an' he staggerin' under the weight o' the pig.

"He stayed up all that night cuttin' the bacon an' saltin' it—he was the best hand in the whole country at doin' up a pig—an' when he had it all cut he packed it in a big box that he had for turf in a corner o' the kitchen, an' then he went to bed an' slept like a top.

"The daylight was only in it when up gets Neddy an' out he goes to fetch in the pig, but it wasn't an easy job to do, because there was no pig at the gable. He looked all round the place, thinkin' maybe somebody took it down for a joke; but it was nowhere to be seen, an' Neddy ran like a madman over to Phil's, an' nothin' only his shirt an' trousers on him, an' wakened him up, an' accused him of takin' the pig. Phil got into a tearin' rage for he sayin' that at all, an' there was the two o' them into it at five o'clock in the mornin', bargin' away like two old women, an' callin' each other all the names they could think of. At last, Phil an' the uncle hunted Neddy, an' he went round all the neighbours clappin' his hands an' tellin' about some daylight robber stealin' his darlin' pig in the middle o' the night; an' everyone thought Neddy M'Govern was after goin' cracked entirely, an' they gave him no satisfaction at all, only told him to go home an' go to bed or to put the rest of his clothes on him, an' sorra consolation and sorra trace o' the pig Neddy could get, high up or low down; and back he comes to his own house, an' searched round twice as sharp as before in every hole an' corner, but dickens a sight or light o' the pig he could see anywhere.

"Then he thought o' Jimmy Malone, an' that maybe Jimmy could help him, an' away he went up to Jimmy's house an' he like a man out of his mind. Jimmy saw him comin', but he never pretended he was up out o' bed at all, and when Neddy began to knock at the door an' kick it, Jimmy shouted from the room like as if he was only wakenin' out of his sleep:

"'Who's that?'

"'It's me, Jimmy; I want you. Get up!'

"Jimmy put his head out o' the window.

"'Oh, is it you, Neddy?' says he, as if he wasn't expectin' Neddy at all. 'Well, did that work all right?' says he, rubbin' his eyes and yawnin'.

"'The pig is gone, Jimmy! Some robber stole him last night!'

"''Gorra, Neddy, you're a topper! That's the very way I wanted you to say it. What did Phil say, or did you go to him yet?'

"'Phil the divil, man!' shouted Neddy. 'The pig was stole last night, I tell you, an' I can't get sight or light of it.'

"'Good, Neddy, good! There's not an actor in Dublin could do it better than that. Stick at it, my boyo, an' there's not a man in the townland but 'll believe you lost the pig!'

"'Jimmy, will you listen to me, or are you gone mad like the rest o' them? I'm tellin' no lie at all. The pig wasn't there when I came out this mornin', an' tale or tidin's of it I can't find anywhere. What am I to do at all, at all?'

"''Gorra, Neddy, that's grand! An' only I'm in my shirt I'd go out an' clap you on the back. If you could only see your face this minute, you'd nearly believe yourself that the pig is gone. You lost it that didn't go with a circus when you were young, Neddy; you'd be a rich man to-day. Only go round the townland an' your face like that, an' the divil a bit o' the pig Phil 'll ever taste!'

"Jimmy kept on like that, an' Neddy kept fumin' an' pleadin' an' cursin' and lamentin' outside in the yard until he saw it was no use to stay there any longer, an' home he went again, tearin' an' swearin' an' he nearly crazy.

"In a few hours after that, Jimmy the lad strolled down as unconcerned as you please, an' there was Neddy with his Sunday clothes on him an' he just ready for a journey.

"'Where are you goin', Neddy?' says he, the same as if he got a terrible surprise.

"'I'm goin' over to Castletown to tell the peelers, an' to get them to look for the thief that stole my pig!' says Neddy, very uncivil like, because he wasn't at all thankful to Jimmy for his plan, when he saw the way it turned out.

"'Ah, that's goin' too far with it, Neddy,' says the Thrick. 'Doesn't Phil believe you yet about the stealin' o' the pig—the plan we made up? You'll only get found out if you go as far as tellin' the peelers.'

"'But, tundher an' ouns, man,' shouted poor Neddy, 'is there any use in tellin' you the pig was stole? See is he in the house, sure, if you don't believe me!'

"Jimmy looked round the house an' he winkin' at Neddy all the time, as much as to say, 'You're the king o' tricks, Neddy,' but at long last he was convinced that Neddy did lose the pig, an' he had great sympathy for him, by the way, an' 'twas no wonder any man to be vexed over such a dirty, mean deed, an' if he had the thief there he'd do this, that an' th'other to him as sure as his name was Jimmy Malone.

"'An' is it any wonder I'm goin' for the peelers, Jimmy?' says Neddy to him.

"'Not a bit o' wonder in the world, Neddy; but I'd advise you not to go.'

"'An why wouldn't I go, man? How do you think I'm goin' to catch the robber if I don't go?'

"'You oughtn't to go for the peelers,' says Jimmy, an' he lookin' about him an' speakin' very low, 'because I think I know who took the pig!'

"'Who?' says Neddy. 'Who, Jimmy?'

"'Sh!' says Jimmy, 'don't talk that loud. I'm thinkin' 'twas the good people—the fairies. Did you ever do anythin' to them—anythin' to vex them?'

"'Never!' says Neddy, 'that I know of!'

"'Are you sure, now?' says Jimmy, 'because they never do anythin' to anyone that doesn't offend them. Did you cut the grass round the lone bush in the Fort Field above last summer, an' you mowin' the meadow?'

"'I did, sure enough!' says Neddy; 'but I didn't touch the tree.'

"'Aye, but you cut the grass, Neddy, an' they claim the grass that grows round every lone bush in the land. It's the fairies that took the pig, Neddy, but that was only to warn you, an' I'm sure they'll give it back. Instead o' goin' for the peelers or anyone else, wait until to-morrow night—it's May Eve—at twelve o'clock, an' go up to the fort an' walk round the lone bush three times, an' you'll be sure to hear somethin' about the bacon. But tell no one, an' let no one see you goin' or you're done for. An' if the fairies speak to you, answer them very respectful, an' do whatever they tell you an' you'll be all right. It's only twice in the year they'd speak to any livin' person—at May Eve an' at Hollantide—an' you ought to make the most of your chance, considerin' that the fort is on your own land.'

"''Gorra, I'll chance it, anyway, Jimmy!' says Neddy, and down he sits himself at the fire, an' says no more about the peelers or the thief.

"Well, to make a long story short, Neddy was at the fort the next night at a quarter to twelve. As soon as Jimmy saw him goin'—for he was watchin' him—he lifts the box o' bacon on to a wheelbarrow—he was after greasin' the axle for twenty minutes so that it wouldn't screech—an' down he goes with it along the path an' left it where he got it, at the gable-end o' Neddy's house, an' then he left the barrow back an' stole away up along the hedges till he was standin' within half a perch o' Neddy, only that the big hedge was between them.

"When Neddy thought it was twelve o'clock he started an' walked three times round the lone bush, an' then he stopped an' listened an' he afraid of his life to look one side or th' other of him.

"'Neddy M'Govern!' says a queer, strange voice from the far side o' the hedge, an' when Neddy heard it he shivered from head to foot.

"'Yes, your Majesty,' says Neddy.

"'We're displeased with you, Neddy M'Govern,' says the voice, an' Neddy thought it was out o' the air it came this time, but he was afraid to look up; 'we're displeased with you, because last summer you cut the grass round this bush that's our property, an' for that reason we confiscated your pig. Are you sorry for cuttin' the grass, Neddy M'Govern?'

"'I am, indeed, your Majesty!' says Neddy, an' his voice shakin'.

"'Will you promise never to cut it again, Neddy M'Govern, an' will you give us your solemn word of honour to carry out all the commands an' conditions we're pleased to impose on you now?'

"'I will, your Majesty!' says Neddy, 'I'll do anything your Majesty wants.'

"'Very well, Neddy M'Govern, we'll give you back your pig on three conditions. You're to divide the bacon as usual with your brother, Phil!'

"'Yes, your Majesty.'

"'There's a decent, honest, respectable man livin' near you, called James Malone. You're to give him the biggest an' best ham off this pig an' off every pig you kill in future!'

"'Yes, your Majesty.'

"'An' you're never to open your lips to anybody about your visit here to-night, nor to tell livin' man or mortal anythin' we're after sayin' to you.'

"'No, your Majesty.'

"'That'll do, Neddy M'Govern. Now, walk round that bush three times again, an' then straight across to the gap an' down the boreen to your own house, an' look neither up in the air, nor behind you, nor to either side o' you, an' when you go home you'll find your pig in the place it was when we confiscated it. It's cut an' salted an' packed, an' will be fit for use in ten days an' ten nights. Remember your promises, Neddy M'Govern!'

"'Yes, your Majesty,' says Neddy again, an' then he done what he was told, an' when he went back there was the bacon at the gable-end o' the house where 'his Majesty,' Jimmy the Thrick, was after leavin' it. Neddy, of course, was delighted, an' he shared the bacon with Phil, an' gave the biggest ham to Jimmy—there was one ham cut very big—an' from that until he died there wasn't a pig he killed but Jimmy got a ham off it, an' no one knew anythin' about it until Jimmy himself told Father Martin about it the day o' Neddy's funeral, an' I dunno how they settled the matter between them. An' that's the whole story about Jimmy Malone an' the bacon."

"BOW-WOW"

Nobody could listen to Ned M'Grane's laughter and refrain from laughing himself; it was so airy, so wholehearted, so pleasant, that it became, after the initial explosion, contagious, and if the forge were full of young fellows—as it generally was—the smith's hearty "Ha, ha, ha-ah!" set them all in tune, and there would be a chorus of laughter under that old roof fit to rouse the most despondent heart that ever made its owner believe he was in the blues, and that caused passers-by to stand for a moment on the road and listen, and they usually murmured, as they wagged their heads and walked on, "Ned must be after tellin' a good one now." It was, I think, the most cheering and exhilarating thing I have ever heard—the laughter of Ned M'Grane, the blacksmith of Balnagore.

No wonder, then, that we chimed in with Ned's more than usually vigorous "Ha, ha, ha-ah!" when Andy Murtagh was telling the smith about the "tallyvangin'," as he called it, that old Maire Lanigan, of the Red Bog, had given to Larry Boylan of our own townland, at the inquiry in Castletown, under the Old Age Pensions Act. The smith, as Andy proceeded with the story, had laid down the hammer on the anvil, had taken off his cap and wiped his perspiring brow with the back of his hand, and had laughed until we caught the contagion, and were obliged to join him, though as to the real cause of his merriment we were at the time ignorant.

"What else did she say?" he inquired, the tears which the laughter had called forth streaming down his dust-covered cheeks. "I'm sure Old Crusty was sweatin', an' divil mend him! What's the likes of him wantin' with a pension anyhow?"

"She said 'twas a ticket for the next world he ought to be lookin' for an' not an old age pension," said Andy, "an' when she had everyone laughin' at him she said somethin' like the way an old dog'd bark, an' went off with herself, an' whatever it was it made Larry twice as mad as all the tallyvangin' o' the tongue she gave him. He was ragin'."

"Ha, ha, ha-ah!" shouted Ned M'Grane again, and of course we had to join in, though we couldn't see that there was very much to laugh at in Andy's story after all.

When Ned had laughed in boisterous fashion for a minute or two he resumed his work, but every now and then he would give a short chuckle of delight to himself, as he made the sparks fly in showers from the burning iron upon which he was working.

"It's not the first time she set Old Crusty mad," he said at length, more to himself than to us, as he gave the finishing short, sharp taps to the article he was shaping, and cast it from him into the trough beside the anvil to cool. We were beginning to guess from this remark and from his behaviour while Andy was telling him of the encounter between the old pair at the inquiry, that there was a story in Ned's head which we had not yet heard, and as he proceeded to fill his pipe, after donning his coat, I ventured to say:

"Why, what did she do to him before to-day, Ned?"

"What didn't she do to him?" Ned asked, in return. "She made him the maddest man I ever saw in my life, an' as small as—as that bit o' tobacco. I don't wonder what she said an' she goin' off to-day left him vexed enough; it put him in mind o' when she made him a laughin'-stock for the whole county—that's what it did."

"When was that, Ned?" we all asked, in a breath. "Was it long ago?"

"'Twas long ago, sure enough, but not long enough to make Larry forget it," said Ned, as he teased the tobacco in the hollow of his hand, and then packed his pipe.

"Gi' me a match, some o' you, an' when I have a few draws o' this I'll tell you all about it."

Everybody fumbled in all his pockets for matches, and soon Ned had a supply sufficient to last for a week. He carefully lighted his pipe, took a few pulls, and then seated himself on a box in which there had been horse-shoe nails—the only easy-chair the forge contained.

"Let me see," he said, as he took the pipe from his mouth for a minute and gazed intently into the bowl, as if his inspiration lay therein. "It's nearer to thirty years ago than it is to twenty, an' the oldest o' you here was only toddlin' from the fire to the dresser an' back again. I was a lump of a gossoon at the time, an' I remember it as well as yesterday, an' good reason I have to remember it, because every man, woman, an' child in the country was talkin' about it, an' laughin' at Larry, as well they might.

"Maire Lanigan, you must know, was a bigger play-actor of a woman when she was younger than she is now. She was as tricky as a fox, an' no one could match her in every kind o' cleverness, though you'd think to look at her that she was only a gom. She an' old Charley the husband—God be good to him!—had that little farm o' the Lynches at that time, an' were middlin' well off, havin' neither chick nor child to bother about. They used to rear calves an' pigs an' sell them at good prices, but the dickens a one o' them ever Charley sold, because he was too shy an' quiet an' easy-goin' always. Maire is the one that could thrash out a bargain an' haggle an' wrangle an' dispute until she'd have the whole fair lookin' at her an' laughin' at her; an' there wasn't a jobber ever came into the fair o' Castletown but knew her as well as they knew a good beast or a bad one.

"Well, one May fair—the biggest fair that ever was in Castletown, the old people 'll tell you—Charley an' Maire had a fine lump of a calf to sell that they reared themselves from he was calved, an' they brought him out brave an' early in the mornin' to get rid of him, if they could come across a buyer. They weren't long in the fair, anyway, when who comes up to them but Mickey Flanagan—God rest him!—Jack the Jobber's father, an' begins to make the bargain with Maire. After a lot o' disputin' an' squabblin' an' dividin' o' this crown an' that half-crown an' a lot o' shoutin' on Maire's part, Mickey bought the calf, an' says he:

"'Meet me at Kennedy's, below near the railway, at three o'clock, an' I'll pay you, along with the rest.'

"'No, but you'll pay me this minute,' says Maire, 'or you'll not get the calf at all. I have my rent to pay at twelve o'clock, an' if you don't gi' me the money now I'll have to sell him to some one that will.'

"Mickey Flanagan saw that the calf was a good one, so he paid for it at once, because he was afraid that if he made any delay Maire might sell to some other jobber. When all was settled says he:

"'Drive him down an' put him into Kennedy's yard, an' tell the gossoon to keep an eye to him till I go down myself with a few more.'

"He forgot with the hurry he was in to mark the calf, an' away he went. Whatever divilment put it into Maire's head, instead o' bringin' the calf to Kennedy's yard what did she do only go stravagle it off to the far end o' the town, an' made Charley go with her an' say nothin'—the poor man was afraid of his life of her always—an', by the powers, if she didn't sell the calf again in less than half an hour to a jobber from the North of Ireland, who sent it off on the eleven o'clock train, an' paid Maire just the same amount she was after gettin' from Mickey Flanagan.

"Maire made away home as fast as she could make Charley step out, an' she laughin' to herself at the way she done Mickey Flanagan, an' she was just after puttin' the pan on the fire with a bit o' meat on it that she brought home, when who comes up to the door but my brave Mickey himself, an' he in a tearin' temper.

"'Where's my calf?' he shouted, as soon as he saw Maire in the middle o' the floor.

"'What do I know where he is?' answered Maire, just as loud, an' a lot sharper, 'didn't I sell him to you? Do you think I ought to stay in the town all day watchin' him for you, an' that poor unfortunate man there, that was up out of his bed at four o'clock this mornin', nearly fallin' out of his standin' with the hunger. Do you think I'm a fool, Mickey Flanagan? I sold you the calf, an' if you can't find him now, you needn't blame anyone but yourself.'

"'You're a darin' woman, that's what y'are,' says Mickey, the eyes nearly jumpin' out of his head with madness, 'an' if you don't tell me where the calf is, or give me back my money, I'll make you remember this day as long as you live.'

"'Faith, if you don't leave that, quick, an' quit your bargin',' cried Maire, as she caught hold o' the pan on the fire, 'I'll make you remember it longer than you live, because I'll give you a taste o' what the Old Boy 'll be givin' you yet for annoyin' an' tryin' to cheat an honest, decent woman! G'long! you cripplin' old rogue! or I'll scald the tongue in your head!'

"An' Mickey had to fly for his life, but he found out, some way or other, about the sellin' o' the calf a second time, an' what do you think but he sends a summons to Maire for the Quarter Sessions in Castletown, chargin' her with defraudin' him out o' the price o' the calf.

"Well, here's where Larry Boylan comes in. There wasn't many lawyers or solicitors in the country places at that time—an' sure, maybe we were as well off without them—but knowledgeable men used to give their opinion about points o' the law, an' used to settle disputes an' the like, an' any o' them that was graspin' or miserly used to charge somethin' for their advice—a couple o' rolls o' butter, or a sack o' praties, or maybe a few shillin's.

"Larry Boylan set up for bein' a knowledgeable man, not because he was extra wise, but because he wanted to make somethin' out of his poorer neighbours whenever he could get the chance.

"To Larry Maire went with the summons, an' asked what 'd be the best thing for her to do, an' if there was any chance of her beatin' Flanagan in the law.

"Larry considered, an' considered, an' pretended to be very wise, an' looked very solemn, an' asked Maire a lot o' questions that he knew the answer to long before that, an' at last says he:

"'Mrs. Lanigan,' says he, 'you're a woman I have a great respect for, an' your husband is one o' the decintest men in the parish, an' on that account,' says he, 'I'll bring all my long experience into the case an' do the best I can for you, an' it isn't for everyone I'd do it, an' it isn't in every case I'd give the advice I'm goin' to give now. But I want to say a word first. On account of it bein' a very delicate case, an' one that everybody is lookin' forward to, an' because my reputation 'll suffer if it goes against us, I'll have to charge you a fee, an' that fee 'll have to be a pound. Are you willin' to pay it, ma'am?' says Larry.

"'Well, indeed an' I am an' welcome, Mister Boylan,' says Maire, 'I'll give the pound, an' two pound, if you only mention it, as soon as the case is over. Make your mind easy on that point, Mister Boylan.'

"'Well, ma'am,' says Larry, 'the only way you can get the upper hand o' Mickey Flanagan is by makin' out you're a little bit gone in the head, an' if you do what I tell you there isn't a judge or a jury or a lawyer in Ireland can prove that you're responsible for the price o' the calf, or for anythin' that took place the day o' the fair.'

"'Musha, more power to you, Mister Boylan,' says Maire.

"'What I want you to do is this,' says Larry; 'when the court day comes just let your hair hang down about your face an' shoulders, an' wear your cloak upside down on you, an' be laughin' an' puttin' out your tongue at everyone you meet. An' when you go into the court, no matter who asks you a question, just laugh and put out your tongue, an' say "Bow-wow" like a dog. Will you do that?' says he.

"'Indeed, an' I will, Mister Boylan,' says Maire, as thankful as you please. 'Wait till you see but I'll do it better than you expect. May God bless you an' prosper you, an' lengthen your days; you're the clever, knowledgeable man!'

"An' off she went in the best o' humour, an' she blessin' Larry all the time.

"Well, at any rate the Quarter Sessions came at long last, an' there was hardly a man, woman, or child in the country but was in the town that day, watchin' an' waitin' for the case against Maire Lanigan, an' when the time for the case came on the courthouse was packed with people. Mickey Flanagan had a lawyer down from Dublin, an' everyone was sure he'd win the case, because Maire had no one at all to speak for her.

"When the case was brought on, an' when Maire stepped up to be examined, you'd think 'twas a circus or somethin' was in the courthouse with the way the people laughed, an' the old judge himself had to laugh, too, when he saw the get-up of her. Everyone was laughin' only Mickey Flanagan an' his lawyer.

"Maire's old grey, greasy-lookin' hair was all hangin' down about her face, an' there was little red an' yalla ribbons tied on it here an' there, like what you'd see on girshas o' ten or twelve; an' her cloak was turned inside out an' she was wearin' it upside down, with the tail of it round her shoulders an' the hood streelin' at her heels; an' there she was, grinnin' an' caperin', an' puttin' out her tongue at everyone. I never saw anythin' like her in my life, an' I laughed after the judge commanded silence. I thought he'd tell some one to put me out.

"The lawyer from Dublin got up to question Maire, an' he fixed his specs on him, an' frowned an' put on a grand air, an' says he:

"'Are you the person who sold a calf to this man, my client, Michael Flanagan?'

"Maire grinned at him, an' put out her tongue, an' all the answer she gave him was:

"'Bow-wow!'

"You could hear the laughin' o' the people all over the town, but the judge said in a loud voice—though I think he was laughin' to himself—that he'd clear out the court if there was any more noise, an' the lawyer put a blacker frown on him, an' says he:

"'Remember, madam,' says he, 'that you're in her Majesty's Court o' Justice, an' give me a straightforward, honest answer, or learn the consequences. Did you, or did you not, sell a calf to this man?'

"'Bow-wow,' says Maire again, an' she puttin' out her tongue at him, an' you'd think she didn't know a word he was sayin'. Everyone laughed again, except Mickey an' his lawyer, an' the judge gave a pull to his wig an' snuffled, an' says he:

"'This woman is a fool! Put her down,' says he; 'I dismiss the case. It's only makin' a humbug o' the court.'

"'She has it,' says Larry Boylan to my father—God rest him!—an' out we all went to the street after Maire, an' sure everyone in the whole place was round her, laughin' an' talkin' an' goin' on.

"Larry wanted to show himself off as the great man o' the day, an' says he, goin' over an' shakin' Maire's hand:

"'You done it the best I ever saw! There's not the beatin' o' you on Ireland's ground. Have you the pound, Mrs. Lanigan?' says he, in a lower tone o' voice, but plenty of us heard him all the same.

"Maire shook his hand, an' Larry was feelin' proud of himself, when she just looked him straight in the face, an' grinned like a monkey an' put out her tongue down to her chin, an' says she, at the top of her voice:

"'Bow-wow, Larry Boylan! Bow-wow!'

"An' with that she made a run through the crowd, an' away home with her, an' Charley after her as fast as he could trot, an' the poor man ashamed of his life. If ever any man got laughed at that man was Larry Boylan. He couldn't go out anywhere, to fair or market or meetin' for long an' long after, but every gossoon in the country'd shout 'Bow-wow' at him till they'd have him ragin'. An' that's what old Maire said to him to-day, that Andy Murtagh was tellin' us about, an' it's thinkin' o' the law case made Larry so mad."

And as Ned M'Grane closed the door of the forge after we had left we heard him laugh softly to himself.

HOW JOHNNIE GOT HIS DEGREE

The forge in Balnagore was a sort of library of reference to all the young fellows of the district. No matter what information was sought for regarding events of importance that had occurred in Ireland during the past couple of hundred years (we had not much access to books down there) the one and only thought of the seeker after knowledge was to repair at once, or as soon as his work was finished, to the smithy in which Ned M'Grane reigned, and to ask the same Ned a few questions on the matter which puzzled himself; and Ned, to his credit let me say it, was never, in my recollection, found wanting on any such occasion. His mind was a well-stocked storehouse of local and national history, as well as of humour, which he was ever willing to impart to "the risin' generation," as he called us.

He could remember every droll occurrence that had taken place in the parish for at least forty years, and every stirring event of national importance that had taken place in the country during the same period, and along with all this he had, in his young days, set himself the task of acquiring knowledge of events of an earlier period from the people who were old when he was a boy, so that when I state that he could bring us back over the happenings of a couple of hundred years I do not by any means overstep the mark. He often told us that in his young days he had a veritable thirst for old stories and for knowledge of every kind, and he used to make a round of the neighbours' houses night after night to hear the tales the old people told about the "ould times" and the "good people," and of the far-off days in an Ireland that was free. And if the news was conveyed to him that a "poor scholar" was staying at any farmer's house within a radius of seven miles, he used tramp across the country to hear the learned man talk about his travels, and to hear him read out of the books which he carried with him on his journeys.

"From all the goin' about I used to have, an' the way I used to be askin' questions o' the old people, an' the way I used to have the wits worried out o' Master Sweeney o' Kilfane," said Ned to us more than once, "what do you think but some o' the playboys put the nick-name o' 'the poor scholar' on myself, an' every one o' the youngsters used to be jibin' at me about it. I didn't care tuppence as long as I was a gossoon, but it was stickin' so tight to me an' I growin' up a big lad that I gave over my stravagin' a good bit, an' they forgot it after a while. I didn't mind at that time, because the old people were gettin' feeble an' bothered, an' a lot of them dyin' away, too, an' them that came after them didn't care a wisp o' straw for the stories or anythin' only cattle, an' money, an' land. An' signs on it, they're all old men an' women at fifty, with their worryin' over grass land and con-acres, an' calves, an' things you'd think they could bring to the grave with them. God be with the old times! when the people knew somethin' about Ireland, an' had life an' spirit in them, an' weren't always breakin' their necks runnin' after the world, an' never catchin' up with it, like them we see round us every day. Aye! God be with the old times, when it's not backbitin' each other they'd be round the fire at night, or makin' up law cases against each other. I wish it was the old times again!"

I reproduce the above speech of Ned's, which was delivered partly to us and partly to himself many a time when the retrospective mood held possession of him—I reproduce it, I say, to show that Ned M'Grane's outlook on life was neither narrow nor sordid, but that there was in his mind and heart a great deal of the old-world philosophy of life, viz., that it was better to be rich intellectually than materially; that was Ned's firm opinion and belief, and he was never done impressing upon us the foolishness of seeking after wealth and worldly emoluments, and of neglecting at the same time to enrich and beautify the mind with the lore of the years gone by. Whether he was right or wrong I leave to my readers to decide.

There were in the forge, now and then, what I may call "impromptu" evenings—that is, there were times when Ned, reminded of past episodes through hearing some name casually mentioned in our conversation, drew at random from his well-filled storehouse of stories one of the delightfully droll occurrences which he himself remembered to have happened in the neighbourhood long years before, and told it to us while he worked, without calling upon any of the aids, such as a well-filled pipe and a comfortable seat, which he called into requisition when relating one of the longer tales to which he treated us now and then. On such occasions, too, he often gave out riddles to us that set our brains hard at work, and sang for us some of the fine songs he had learned from the old people and from the "poor scholars" in the happy evenings of the past, which he designated the "old times."

I remember one of those impromptu evenings in particular, because I thought, and think so still, that the story he told us about Johnnie Finnegan's "Degree" was as good as I had ever heard. He had just finished singing a favourite song of ours about a young Wexfordman who escaped from the Yeos in '98, and we were bestowing upon him our hearty praise and applause, when an old grumpy farmer from Knockbride, called Johnnie Finnegan, but who was best known by the nick-name of "Johnnie the Doctor," came to the forge door and asked Ned to tighten one of the hind shoes on his mare, as he was afraid 'twould fall off before he should reach home. Ned performed the task, and when he returned to the work which he had in hand before Johnnie appeared upon the scene, some of us asked him the reason why "Johnnie the Doctor" was the name everybody had for Johnnie Finnegan.

"Did I never tell you how Johnnie got his degree?" asked Ned, with a merry twinkle in his eye.

"No, you never told us that, Ned; but now's the time for it," a couple of us answered, and the eager faces of the others signified their whole-hearted approval of our suggestion.

"Troth, you'll hear it, boys, an' welcome," said Ned, as he went on with his work. "An' it doesn't take long in the tellin', though if I told it to you while Johnnie was here you'd see him in a flarin' fine temper an' the dickens a nail I'd ever get the chance o' drivin' in a shoe, or a sock I'd put on a plough for Johnnie again, because you might as well roll him in a heap o' nettles an' his clothes tore, as mention 'Johnnie the Doctor' an' he listenin'.

"The way it was is this. Old Jimmy Finnegan, his father, was as poor as a rat in an empty barn, an' so were all his people before him, but one day—Johnnie was the only child, an' he was no more than nine years old at the time—up comes a postman from Castletown to Jimmy Finnegan's and hands in a letter, an' when they got Master Sweeney up to read it, they found out that it was from a lawyer in America to say that a brother o' Jimmy's—Phil Finnegan—was after dyin'—a rich man—in Boston, an' that he left all his money to Jimmy, an' the letter went on to say that after the cost o' settlin' up the will 'd be took out of it, the legacy'd amount to somethin' like four thousand pounds.

"They could hardly believe the story was true, because they were nearly on the road for rent, but sure enough a cheque came to Jimmy for that whole four thousand pounds in a couple o' months after that. Well, you never saw anythin' in your life like the way Jimmy and the wife made fools o' themselves. They began to try to talk grand, an' dressed themselves up like gentry, an' bought a car like Father Fagan's, an' wouldn't talk to the people that knew them all their lives, an' that often gave them a helpin' hand when they wanted it an' they in debt.

"Everyone, of course, was laughin' at them, an' some o' the playboys used to salute Jimmy for fun when they'd meet him on the road, an' Jimmy used to think they were in earnest, an' he used to put up his hand to his hat, the same as Father Fagan 'd do, an' the lads puttin' out their tongues at him behind his back. He wouldn't let Johnnie go to school the same as other gossoons, but paid Master Sweeney ten pound a year to come up an' teach him at the house, an' sure if the Master—God rest him—was alive still an' goin' up to teach Johnnie every day since, he wouldn't be a bit better nor he was when the poor Master gave him up in despair; because Johnnie was as thick as the post of a gate, every day ever, an' he's that yet.

"Well what do you think but when Johnnie was a big, soft lump of a lad of seventeen or eighteen, didn't Jimmy bring him over to old Doctor Dempsey that lived beyond near the chapel o' Kilfane, an' asked him to make a doctor o' the bucko, an' offered the doctor a fee o' so much a year while Johnnie 'd be learnin' the trade. Doctor Dempsey knew be the look o' the lad that he'd never be a doctor as long as there was a bill on a crow, but he was hard up for money at the time, an' didn't he take Johnnie; an' old Jimmy went home as proud as a peacock an' he boastin' an' blowin' out of him to everybody that the next doctor for the district 'd be no other than 'Doctor John Finnegan.' He used to drive over on the car every mornin' to Doctor Dempsey's an' call for him again in the evenin', an' he havin' him dressed up like a young lord or somethin'. An' sure the whole country was laughin' at them more than ever.

"Johnnie was with Doctor Dempsey for a few years, anyway, an' sure he knew as much then as he did the first day; the doctor used to bring him about the country with him on some of his visits, to give him experience, he used to tell Jimmy, but I think 'twas mostly for holdin' the horse he had him.

"One day they went to see a rich old lady that lived beyond in Moylough, an' when Doctor Dempsey was after lookin' at her tongue for awhile, an' feelin' her pulse, says he:

"'You ate oranges, ma'am,' says he.

"'I did then, sure enough, doctor,' says she.

"'Well, don't eat them again,' says he, 'an' you'll be in the best o' health.'

"Johnnie was listenin', an' his mouth opened wide with wonder, an' when they were comin' home says he to Doctor Dempsey:

"'How did you know, sir,' says he, 'that Miss Hamilton was after eatin' oranges?'

"'Oh, 'twas easy enough to know that, John,' says the doctor to him, 'because,' says he, 'when I was feelin' her pulse I looked under the bed, an' I saw the heap o' skins.'

"Johnnie kep' wonderin' all the way home at the cleverness o' the doctor, an' wonderin', too, if he'd ever get a case all to himself, so that he could show his father an' mother an' the whole country how clever he was.

"Well, anyway, in a couple o' weeks after that a gossoon came up to Doctor Dempsey's one mornin' to tell him that old Peadar Mullen o' the Bog was bad with the pains, an' wanted him to call over an' see him. Peadar used to get pains about every fortnight, an' he was on the point o' dyin' with them—accordin' to his own opinion—about twenty times, an' he had the poor old doctor plagued sendin' for him every other week. Doctor Dempsey was a big-hearted sort of a man that was never hard on the poor, an' Peadar was that cranky an' conceited that he thought the doctor ought to be always runnin' over to see him, no matter about anyone else in the district. That was the sort o' Peadar.

"The doctor wasn't on for goin' near him this day, anyway, an' what do you think but he sends Johnnie, an' never said a word to him about what complaint Peadar had or anythin' only left him to find out for himself. Johnnie starts off an' the doctor's boy along with him on the car, an' it's him that was proud to think that he had a case all to himself at last, an' that he could be boastin' about it to his father an' mother that evenin' when he'd go home.

"They went down the old boreen to Peadar's house—'twas a long way in in the bog by itself, an' not a soul he had livin' with him—an' when they got over to it, Johnnie left the servant boy mindin' the horse, an' in he goes, an' sure dickens a much he could see with all the smoke that was in the house. Old Peadar was lyin' in bed in the room, an' he groanin' an' moanin' as hard as he could when he heard the doctor's car comin', because Doctor Dempsey used to give him a couple o' shillin's now an' again.

"'Doctor Dempsey can't come to-day, my good man,' says Johnnie, when he went into the room, an' he lookin' very grand an' severe an' solemn. 'He's not extra well, an' he sent me in his place to see what's the matter with you.'

"'Musha, may God bless your honour for comin', Doctor Finnegan,' says Peadar, thinkin' he'd knock a few shillin's out o' Johnnie, 'an' sure maybe he sent a gentleman every bit as good as himself.'

"Johnnie didn't know what to do, but he asked Peadar to put out his tongue, an' then he felt his pulse, an' all the time he was tryin' to get a peep under the bed, the same as he saw the doctor doin' with the lady that was after eatin' the oranges. At long last he spied the straddle an' winkers belongin' to old Peadar's ass, an' says he, shakin' his head an' lookin' at Peadar as much as to say, 'You're done for':

"'My good man,' says he, 'my good man, you ate an ass!'

"'What's that you're after sayin'?' says Peadar, lettin' a shout out o' him, an' he jumpin' up out o' the bed. 'What's that you're after sayin'?'

"'You—ate—an—ass,' says Johnnie, again, an' he shakin', when he saw the way Peadar made a grab at the big crookey stick that was lyin' across the bed.

"'G'long! you upstartin' imp o' the divil,' says Peadar, with a roar, an' he jumpin' out o' the bed. 'Is it a son o' Shameen Finnegan's to come into my own house an' tell me I'm a cannaball? I'll soon give you a chance o' curin' yourself instead o' comin' in to make a fool o' me an' I lyin' helpless on my bed with the pains! There's a doctor's degree for you!' an' old Peadar drew a whack o' the stick at Johnnie that made him roar an' run for the door as fast as his legs 'd carry him.

"Out went Peadar after him an' not a fligget on him only his shirt an' breeches, an' across the bog with them as hard as they could run until Johnnie tripped an' fell, an' old Peadar on top of him, into a dry drain. Peadar began flailin' him, an' with every thump o' the stick he'd give to poor Johnnie he'd shout, 'There's a doctor's degree for you! There's a doctor's degree for you!' an' only for Doctor Dempsey's boy tied the horse to a bush an' came runnin' over, it's Johnnie that 'd be bad with the pains, an' not Peadar.

"He was bad enough, in troth, when they brought him home, an' he didn't stir out o' the house for three months, but everyone said 'twas shame was on him more than the pains after Peadar's stick. That was the end of his doctorin' anyway; he never went back to Doctor Dempsey, an' the flailin' he got in the bog knocked a lot o' the nonsense out o' him an' put sense in its place, because he gave up the foolish ways, an' settled down to workin' and lookin' after the bit o' land old Jimmy was after buyin'. But from that day to this if you wanted to set him tearin' mad all you'd have to say is 'doctor,' and he'd roar like a ragin' bull.

"An' that's the way Johnnie Finnegan got his 'doctor's degree' from Peadar Mullen o' the Bog."

THE BEST OF A BARGAIN

'Twas the evening of the Christmas Fair of Castletown, and the forge in Balnagore was almost full of men and boys. A fine, frosty night it promised to be, and the roads getting every moment more slippery, some of the men who had made long journeys were waiting for their turn to get their horses' shoes sharpened, as a precaution against accidents. The majority, though, of those who stood or sat around the fire, where Ned M'Grane was working at his best, were the young fellows of the neighbourhood, who, as usual, had dropped in to smoke or chat, and mayhap, if their lucky star happened to be in the ascendant, to hear one of his entertaining stories from Ned o' the Forge.

Well, one by one those who had far to travel were attended to and took their departure and then, with a big sigh of relief, Ned threw down the hammer, drew on his coat and took his pipe from his pocket.

"What sort was the fair, boys?" he asked, when the first wreath of smoke from his pipe had ascended towards the ceiling.

"'Twas good, Ned," answered Joe Clinton; "but, indeed, everybody was sayin' on the way home that Castletown Christmas Fair is nothin' now to what it used to be."

"I remember the time," said Ned, "when the whole town, from where the new Post Office is now to the railway gates, used to be so full o' people an' cattle an' trick-o'-the-loops an' everythin', that you'd have to fight your way through them."

"I heard my father sayin' to James Clancy an' we waitin' to be paid by the jobber," said Bartle Nolan, "that bacon isn't as dear now as the day Jimmy the Thrick doubled the grain of oats on the Belfast jobber, an' they were laughin' over it. What was that about, Ned?"

We became as mute as mice after this last question of Bartle's, and Ned M'Grane was silent also for a moment or two. Then when we saw him folding his arms and leaning back against the bellows we knew that a story was coming, and that Bartle had played a trump card.

"It's many's the trick Jimmy played in his day," said Ned, with a smile, "but the doublin' o' the grain of oats was one of his best, an' one that brought him a bit o' money, too. The way it happened was this:

"It was a plan o' Jimmy's sometimes at fairs an' markets to let on that he was a bit of an amadán, an' he'd talk so simple an' queer an' foolish that strange jobbers that didn't know him or his ways used to take great delight in talkin' to him, an' havin' a laugh at him, an' in the heel o' the hunt Jimmy used to knock out the best penny in the fair for whatever he'd be sellin'. But he was caught nappin' one day, an' in revenge for that he doubled the grain of oats.

"He was at the Christmas Fair o' Castletown (it's well over twenty year ago now) tryin' to sell two pigs—a white one an' a black one—an', of course, as usual, he was playin' the fool an' crackin' jokes with every jobber that came the way, an' seemed in no hurry to sell the pigs at all. At last up comes a quiet, tidy bit of a man, an' says he, nice an' easy, an' seemin' to care little whether he got an answer or not:

"'What do you want for the white pig there along with the black one?' says he.

"'Troth then, the sorra much, sir,' says Jimmy; 'all I'm askin' is three pound.'

"'All right, you can have that,' says the jobber, as quick as you please, an' he pullin' out his knife, an before Jimmy had time to say a word the two pigs were marked as plain as if there was a label on them.

"'Take your time there, my good man,' says Jimmy, throwin' off his fool's face, when he saw the jobber walkin' away, 'take your time there,' says he, 'you're only after buyin' the white pig.'

"'Oh, I beg your pardon,' says the jobber, mighty polite, 'I'm after buyin' the white pig along with the black one for three pounds. A bargain is a bargain. Am I right or wrong?' says he to Bartle Nolan's father an' a few more o' the neighbours that were listenin' to the whole thing.

"There wasn't a man among them could deny that he was after buyin' the two pigs, an' they told Jimmy that he might as well give in at once, that the bargain was made, an' that the law 'd be again him if he brought the jobber into court. So my brave Jimmy had to leave his two darlin' pigs go for next to nothin', an' see himself made a fool of in real earnest, but he swore that if it was to be in twenty years he'd have revenge on the boyo from Belfast.

"Well, a year went by and the big Christmas Fair came round again, an' Jimmy had two fine pigs to sell, the same as usual, for he was a great man for the pigs. He was about an hour in the fair when who does he see comin' towards him but the same Belfast jobber that diddled him the year before. Jimmy never pretended he knew him at all, an' began leerin' an' lookin' more like a fool than he looked that day twelvemonths. The jobber let on he didn't know Jimmy either, an', says he, very nice an' quiet:

"'What do you want for the pigs, my good man?'

"'Och, the sorra much then, sir,' says Jimmy, an' the amadán's laugh with him. 'All I ask is one grain of oats, only the doublin' of it to be left to myself for half an hour.'

"The jobber laughed, an' winked at the men standin' round; an' says he, 'I'll take them at the price, an' maybe I'd give you a pound or two for yourself as well, because you're a decent-lookin' man. The sorra much doublin' you can do on a grain of oats in half an hour,' says he.

"'Maybe not, maybe not,' says Jimmy, an' a twinkle in his eye; 'but we'll see,' says he.

"'Bring them to the railway station,' says the jobber, an' he markin' the pigs, 'an' I'll pay you along with the rest at one o'clock.' An' off he went, chucklin' an' laughin' to himself.

"Well, there was a big crowd waitin' in a shed in the railway yard to be paid at one o'clock, an' my brave Jimmy was there, movin' about among the neighbours, tellin' them he was goin' to have his revenge on the Belfast jobber, an' they to be all near by to hear an' see the fun.

"The jobber came at last an' emptied out a big pile o' notes an' gold an' silver on to his white overcoat, an' himself an' his partner began payin' away as fast as they could hand out the money. Jimmy was kept till the last, but the neighbours all waited because they knew that my boyo was up to some mischief or other. Anyway, when all was paid that was due the jobber turned round an' called over Jimmy, an' says he:

"'Here's a man that sold me two fine pigs to-day for a grain o' corn, an' all he asked was that he might be let double it for half-an-hour, an' that that 'd be the price o' the pigs. Start now, my good man, an' double your grain of oats, because the train 'll be goin' in forty minutes, an' there's no time to lose.'

"The people crowded in closer an' cocked their ears. Jimmy walked in quietly in front o' them an' faced the jobber. There was no sign o' the amadán on him by this time, but there was a bit of a smile comin' an' goin' round his mouth, an' a sparkle in his eye.

"'A grain an' a grain,' says he, 'that's two grains, four grains, eight grains, sixteen grains, thirty-two grains—that's a pinch. A pinch an' a pinch, that's two pinches, four pinches, eight pinches, sixteen pinches, thirty-two pinches—that's a fistful.'

"'A fine price for two pigs,' says the jobber. An' the people round about began to laugh, but Jimmy never let on he heard them, and off he started again:

"'A fistful an' a fistful, that's two fistfuls, four fistfuls, eight fistfuls, sixteen fistfuls, thirty-two fistfuls—that's a sheaf. A sheaf an' a sheaf, that's two sheaves, four sheaves, eight sheaves, sixteen sheaves, thirty-two sheaves—that's a stook.'

"'A fine big one 'twould be,' says the jobber, 'bigger nor ever I saw in a cornfield.' And he began to laugh an' to jingle money in his pocket. Jimmy made him no answer.

"'A stook an' a stook,' says he, 'that's two stooks, four stooks, eight stooks, sixteen stooks, thirty-two stooks—that's a stack.'

"Faith, the neighbours began to give up grinnin' at Jimmy, an' they gathered in closer to him, an' nodded their heads at one another, but the sorra word they had to say; an' the smile was fadin' out o' the jobber's face. Jimmy kept on countin':

"'A stack an' a stack, that's two stacks, four stacks, eight stacks, sixteen stacks, thirty-two stacks—that's a haggard.'

"The jobber began to look uneasy, but Jimmy saw nothin' or nobody.

"'A haggard an' a haggard,' says he, 'that's two haggards, four haggards, eight haggards, sixteen haggards—that's a townland.'

"You could hear the people breathin', an' the jobber was gettin' pale, but Jimmy kept on:

"'A townland an' a townland, that's two townlands, four townlands, eight townlands, sixteen townlands, thirty-two townlands—that's a barony.'

"'A barony——'

"'Eh! hold on, my good man,' says the jobber, 'I'm afraid I'll be late for my train. I was only jokin'. I'll give you five pound apiece for the pigs.'

"'The time isn't half up yet,' says Jimmy, 'stay where you are,' an' on he went.

"'A barony an' a barony, that's two baronies, four baronies, eight baronies, sixteen baronies, thirty-two baronies—that's a county.'

"'Listen here!' says the jobber; but Jimmy wouldn't listen.

"'A county an' a county, that's two counties, four counties, eight counties, sixteen counties, thirty-two counties—that's Ireland!' says Jimmy, with a shout, an' he gave the jobber a slap on the back that made him jump.

"'You owe me all the oats in Ireland, my fine clever fellow, an' not more than half the time's up yet. If I kep' on countin' it's the oats o' the whole world you'd have to be givin' me at the end of half an hour. You met a fool last year, but he isn't at all, at all as soft as he looks. When are you goin' to pay me?'

"The poor jobber was shakin' an' shiverin' like a man in a fit. He was afraid, I think, that the neighbours 'd back up Jimmy, an' give him a taste o' their sticks if he failed to pay.

"'Oh, sir!' says he, 'don't be too hard on me. Sure I haven't the price of one haggard let alone all the haggards in Ireland. There's all I have in the world—fifty pound—an' you can have it an' welcome for your two pigs.'

"'Well,' says Jimmy, 'as it's Christmas times an' I'm a soft-hearted man, I'll let you off easier than you deserve. Give me a twenty pound note, an' I'll forget that you owe me the rest!'

"The jobber was glad to get off so cheap, an' from that day to this he was never seen at the fair o' Castletown.

"An' that's how Jimmy the Thrick doubled the grain of oats."

WHEN DENIS TURNED TO THE TAY

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

"Bad cess to it for tay," said Ned M'Grane, as he came into the forge, wiping his lips after his evening meal, in which the much-abused beverage in question had been, and always was, a potent factor. "The people were healthier an' hardier, an' the country was better off when the good wholesome food was goin' an' there was little talk o' tay. Now we can't do without it for more than half-a-day, bad cess to it!"

He took a piece of tobacco from his capacious vest pocket and proceeded to fill his pipe, while we eagerly and anxiously scanned his face in the hope of reading there indications that would lead us to expect a story, for we always knew by a close but seemingly careless scrutiny of Ned's face whether we might venture to suggest his drawing upon that wonderful store of yarns for the possession of which he was famous throughout the length and breadth of the three parishes.

"I wonder how was it people took to the tay at all at first," said Bartle Nolan, carelessly, as he fingered a couple of horse-shoe nails and looked thoughtfully away into the shadows; "you'd think they were wise enough in them times to know what was good for them."

It was a fine bait, that innocent remark of Bartle's, and we waited with drawn breath to see what its result would be on Ned.

"Well," said the latter, as he teased the tobacco between his fingers, while a far-away look that was hopeful came over his face and into his eyes, "there was many a reason, Bartle. The praties began to get bad, an' bad seasons left the meal for the stirabout sour an' heavy an' ugly, an' then people goin' to Dublin an' places like that began to get notions, an' the women began to think they weren't able for the strong food an' that tay would put more heart in them. But maybe the men, or most o' them, were like Denis M'Cann—God be good to him!—an' took the tay because they couldn't stand the other thing any longer."

"Is it Denis o' the Hill that died last year?" said Joe Clinton, his voice trembling with eagerness, and before Bartle Nolan could give us a warning sign four or five of us had blurted out:

"What about Denis, Ned?"

"The very man," said Ned, in reply to Joe's question, and apparently paying no attention to us. "It wasn't any wonder poor Denis took to the tay after all the heart-scald he got from the stirabout—not a wonder in the world."

We sat silent, hardly daring to breathe.

"When I was a gossoon about the size o' Jimmy Tully there, in all the three parishes there wasn't a harder-workin' family than the M'Canns, an' the best woman in the barony was Peg M'Cann herself. She was a good wife to Denis an' a good mother to Patsy an' Molly an' Nell, an' she never stopped workin' from daylight till dark; but there was one thing Denis was always grumblin' about, an' that was the stirabout. Poor Peg, no matter how many warnin's or threats or reminders she got, could never think o' puttin' salt on the stirabout, an' on that account there never came a mornin' or a night—except once in a blue moon now an' again when Peg 'd think o' the salt—that there wasn't a shindy in the house over the same thing, an' no amount o' jawin' an' ragin' an' warnin' from Denis could make poor Peg think o' puttin' salt in the pot every time she started to make the stirabout. An' whenever a thing wasn't to anybody's likin' from one end o' the parish to the other end the word was 'That's like Denis McCann's stirabout.'

"Well, everythin' comes to an end some day or other, an' Peg M'Cann's stirabout pot got a rest at last. An' this is the way it happened out.

"One day Denis an' Patsy an' the girshas were out in the long field plantin' praties, an' when it was comin' on to the evenin' time Peg took the stirabout pot an' scoured it an' wiped it an' put it on the fire with water enough in it to make the stirabout. When the water came to the boil she put in the meal, an' then for a wonder, whatever struck into her head, she put a good handful o' salt in the pot, an' says she to herself: 'He can't be sayin' anythin' about it to-night,' says she.

"The stirabout was simmerin' an' singin' away when Denis an' the childre came home, an' when Peg saw them comin' up the boreen she went out to the byre to milk the cow, an' she was smilin' to herself at the surprise Denis 'd get, an' the quietness there 'd be in the house on account o' the salt bein' in the stirabout.

"Denis left Patsy an' the girshas to take the harness off the jennet an' put up the spades an' shovels an' things, an' he went into the house himself with a couple o' stone o' the seed that was left over after the day's work. He spied the pot on the fire, an' over he went to the salt-box an' took up a good big fistful o' the salt an' put it in the stirabout, an' gave it a stir or two, an' says he an' he lickin' his lips:

"'It'll be right to-night, anyway,' says he, an' down he goes to shut the gate at the end o' the boreen.

"In a few minutes in comes Molly an' goes over to the fire to warm her hands, an' the sound o' the stirabout in the pot reminded her o' the ructions there used to be every night, an' 'I'm sure she didn't think of it to-night, no more than any other night,' says Molly, an' up she jumps an' rams her hand into the salt-box an' takes out a big fistful an' puts it in the pot an' gives it a couple o' stirs an' goes out to see what was keepin' her mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bad cess to it for tay!"

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'.

"Judy was as plain an' simple a little woman as ever went under a shawl, an' had no more airs or notions than any of her neighbours, an' it wasn't conceit or a wish to be better than the next that made her think o' makin' the puddin'. But the lady she was at service with before she married Mickey Connell, used to make her a present o' some little thing every Christmas, an' this year that I'm talkin' about didn't she take it into her head to send Judy a parcel o' raisins an' currants an' spices an' candy peel an' all the other queer things they mix up together, and wrote down all the rules an' regulations for makin' the things grab on to each other an' turn out a plum puddin'. Mickey wanted to give the things to the pigs instead o' goin' on with any foolishness, as he said, but the childre coaxed an' coaxed until they got the soft side o' the mother, as the like o' them will, an' she said that on account o' them that sent the things an' the times that were in it, she'd try her hand, come death or glory, at makin' the first plum puddin' that ever was smelt in Balnagore.

"So she read the directions over an' over an' up an' down until she had them off like a song an' used to be singing them out in her sleep, an' the childre thinkin' Christmas would never come, an' Mickey prayin' with the wrong end of his tongue for Judy's old mistress that didn't send the makin's of a flannel petticoat or somethin' sensible instead of all that rubbish that was only fit for the pigs' pot; an' mornin', noon, an' night Judy kept dinnin' into every one o' their ears that they mustn't talk about it to anybody or she'd be a standin' disgrace in the parish forever an' a day. An' the childre were only too glad to promise they wouldn't say anythin' about it, because they were afraid o' their lives anyone would get a taste o' the puddin' only themselves. It was five gossoons Judy had an' every one o' them as wild as a hare.

"Well, Christmas Eve came at last an' Judy was up before the sun thought of openin' his eyes, an' as soon as the breakfast was over she started in to make the plum puddin', and she had every one o' the childre helpin' her an' they grabbin' a raisin or a couple o' currants every time she turned her back, an', sure, before she had it finished an' in the big calico cloth she was after buyin' for it she was as white as a miller from head to foot with flour, an' she sweatin' like a damp wall, though the weather outside would nearly freeze a furnace. An' when she had it tied up an' all, she put it in a pot o' boilin' water over the fire, an' as she an' Mickey had to go into Castletown to buy the Christmas things, she left word with the lads to keep a good fire to the pot an' to put water into it now an' again from a kettle that she had beside the hearth. An' off she went along with Mickey, an' she thinkin' o' the nice, tasty puddin' she would put up on the table along with the bit o' Christmas meat the next day.

"It was all very well until the boyos got hungry, an' the smell from the puddin' bag began to make their teeth water, an' then they began to look at the puddin' to see was it near done, an' to take a little bit out of it here an' another little bit there, an' at last, they had such a hole in it that one o' them said the water would get into it, an' that it would be no good, an' he proposed that they put it away in their insides for safety an' say the dog stole it, or that it boiled away or somethin'. They all agreed with him, only the second youngest, Larry, who was the mother's pet, an' he wanted not to stir it until the mother came home, but the majority carried the day, an' made short work o' the puddin'. An' I'm afraid Larry lowered a lump of it, too.

"Judy an' Mickey were in Cassidy's big shop in Castletown, scrooged up among all their neighbours tryin' to get their few things an' be on the road home before night, when Judy thought she heard a voice she knew, an' when she looked round there was my brave Larry at the door an' he makin' signs like a showman tryin' to get her to look at him. An' as soon as her eye opened on the door—

"'Mother!' says he, in what he thought was a whisper, 'the lads ate the plum puddin'.'

"Judy was jammed up in the crowd that filled the shop, an' she couldn't stir hand or foot, but she began to threaten Larry with her head an' made all sorts o' faces at him to try an' make him keep his mouth shut an' not let out the secret, but Larry thought she wasn't believin' him or didn't hear him, or somethin', so the whisper went up another step or two:

"'Mother!' says he again, 'the lads took up the plum puddin' out o' the pot, an' they're after eatin' every bit of it!'

"Judy knew that some o' the people near him were after hearin' Larry, an' she felt herself gettin' weak with shame an' she'd give all the plum puddin's that were ever made if the gossoon would only keep quiet or go home. She made more faces at him than ever an' wagged her head until she knocked off Mickey's hat, but it was all no use.

"'Mother!' says the lad at the door again, 'they're after eatin' the plum puddin'—an' if you don't believe me, there's the bag!'

"Old Corney Macken, that was as contrairy as a cleeve o' cats, was standin' at the counter with his big Caroline hat on him, an' he contendin' with Martin Cassidy tryin' to get a bigger Christmas box than anybody else, when down came the big wet puddin' bag, plastered over with clammy boiled flour an' the butter Judy put on it to keep the puddin' from stickin'; an' it just settled over the Caroline an' over Corney's head an' face an' shoulders the same as one o' them motor veils the women do be wearin', an' he began runnin' this way an' that way an' his head goin' up an' down under the bag an' everybody laughin' the same as if poor old Corney was a clown at a circus. An' poor Judy got out o' the shop as fast as ever she could an' made away home before she'd die with shame.

"Mickey had a little drop in, an' when Corney started to jaw, he let the cat out o' the puddin' bag, an' the whole parish knew about it before the stars were up that night. An' there was more hearty laughin' over Corney's share o' the puddin' than you'd hear now over all the comic Christmas cards that people spend a little fortune on.

"An' that's what happened the first plum puddin' that ever was boiled in Balnagore."

Transcriber's Notes:

Cover image may be clicked to view larger version.

Inconsistent accent marks (e.g. "grâdh" vs. "grádh") have been retained from the original.

Inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. "gamekeeper" vs. "game-keeper") has been retained from the original.

Adaptation notes following some story titles were formatted as footnotes in the original text; they have been moved up and italicized to improve readability.

Page 66, added missing apostrophe to "An' sure."

Page 76, added missing open single quote before "A barony an' a barony."

Page 90, corrected double quote to single quote before "says Dickey, with a grunt."

Page 106, corrected single quote to double quote before "says another well-scorched man."