Front matter (continued 4)

“You are surely not speaking of hydrophobia?” said I, my hair actually bristling with horror and consternation.

“Ain’t I?” replied he; “maybe you’ve guessed it, though.”

“And you have the malady on you at present?” said I trembling for the answer.

“This is the ninth day since I took to biting,” said he, gravely.

“And with such a propensity, sir, do you think yourself warranted in travelling in a public coach, exposing others——”

“You’d better not raise your voice that way. If I’m roused it’ll be worse for ye, that’s all.”

“Well, but, is it exactly prudent, in your present delicate state, to undertake a journey?”

“Ah,” said he, with a sigh, “I’ve been longing to see the fox-hounds throw off near Kilkenny; these three weeks I’ve been thinking of nothing else; but I’m not sure how my nerves will stand the cry; I might be troublesome.”

“Well,” thought I, “I shall not select that morning for my début in the field.”

“I hope, sir, there’s no river or watercourse in this road; anything else I can, I hope, control myself against; but water—running water particularly—makes me troublesome.”

Well knowing what he meant by the latter phrase, I felt the cold perspiration settling on my forehead as I remembered that we must be within about ten or twelve miles of a bridge, where we should have to pass a very wide river. I strictly concealed this fact from him, however. He now sank into a kind of moody silence, broken occasionally by a low, muttering noise, as if speaking to himself.

How comfortable my present condition was I need scarcely remark, sitting vis-à-vis to a lunatic, with a pair of pistols in his possession, who had already avowed his consciousness of his tendency to do mischief, and his inability to master it—all this in the dark, and in the narrow limits of a mail-coach, where there was scarcely room for defence, and no possibility of escape. If I could only reach the outside of the coach I would be happy. What were rain and storm, thunder and lightning compared with the chance that awaited me here?—wet through I should inevitably be: but, then, I had not yet contracted the horror of moisture my friend opposite laboured under. Ha! what is that?—is it possible he can be asleep;—is it really a snore? Ah, there it is again;—he must be asleep, surely;—now, then, is my time, or never. I slowly let down the window of the coach, and, stretching forth my hand, turned the handle cautiously and slowly; I next disengaged my legs, and by a long, continuous effort of creeping, I withdrew myself from the seat, reached the step, when I muttered something very like thanksgiving to Providence for my rescue. With little difficulty I now climbed up beside the guard, whose astonishment at my appearance was indeed considerable.

Well, on we rolled, and very soon, more dead than alive, I sat a mass of wet clothes, like a morsel of black and spongy wet cotton at the bottom of a schoolboy’s ink-bottle, saturated with rain and the black dye of my coat. My hat, too, had contributed its share of colouring matter, and several long, black streaks coursed down my “wrinkled front,” giving me very much the air of an Indian warrior who had got the first priming of his war paint. I certainly must have been a rueful object, were I only to judge from the faces of the waiters as they gazed on me when the coach drew up at Rice and Walsh’s Hotel.

Cold, wet, and weary as I was, my curiosity to learn more of my late agreeable companion was strong as ever within me. I could catch a glimpse of his back, and hurried after the great unknown into the coffee room. By the time I entered, he was spreading himself comfortably, à l’Anglais, before the fire, and displayed to my wandering and stupefied gaze the pleasant features of Dr. Finucane.

“Why, Doctor—Doctor Finucane,” cried I, “is it possible? Were you, then, really the inside in the mail last night?”

“Not a doubt of it, Mr. Lorrequer; and may I make bould to ask were you the outside?”

“Then what, may I beg to know, did you mean by your story about Barney Doyle, and the hydrophobia, and Cusack Rooney’s thumb—eh?”

“Oh!” said Finucane, “this will be the death of me. And it was you that I drove outside in all the rain last night? Oh, it will kill Father Malachi outright with laughing when I tell him.” And he burst out into a fit of merriment that nearly induced me to break his head with a poker.

“Am I to understand, then, Mr. Finucane, that this practical joke of yours was contrived for my benefit and for the purpose of holding me up to the ridicule of your acquaintances?”

“Nothing of the kind,” said Fin., drying his eyes, and endeavouring to look sorry and sentimental. “If I had only the least suspicion in life that it was you, I’d not have had the hydrophobia at all—and, to tell you the truth, you were not the only one frightened—you alarmed me, too.”

“I alarmed you! Why, how can that be?”

“Why, the real affair is this: I was bringing these two packages of notes down to my cousin Callaghan’s bank in Cork—fifteen thousand pounds, and when you came into the coach at Naas, I thought it was all up with me. The guard just whispered in my ear that he saw you look at the priming of your pistols before getting in. Well, when you got seated, the thought came into my mind that maybe, highwayman as you were, you would not like dying an unnatural death, more particularly if you were an Irishman; and so I trumped up that long story about the hydrophobia, and the gentleman’s thumb, and dear knows what besides; and, while I was telling it, the cold perspiration was running down my head and face, for every time you stirred I said to myself—Now he’ll do it. Two or three times, do you know, I was going to offer you ten shillings in the pound, to spare my life; and once, God forgive me, I thought it would not be a bad plan to shoot you by ‘mistake,’ do you perceive?”

“Why, I’m very much obliged to you for your excessively kind intentions; but, really, I feel you have done quite enough for me on the present occasion. But, come now, doctor, I must get to bed, and, before I go, promise me two things—to dine with us to-day at the mess, and not to mention a syllable of what occurred last night: it tells, believe me, very badly for both. So keep the secret; for if these fellows of ours ever get hold of it I may sell out, and quit the army;—I’ll never hear the end of it!”

“Never fear, my boy; trust me. I’ll dine with you, and you’re as safe as a church mouse for anything I’ll tell them; so now, you’d better change your clothes, for I’m thinking it rained last night.”

The Battle of Aughrim.

From “Anna Cosgrave,” an unpublished Novel.

By William Carleton.

Many of our readers will be surprised at what we are about to relate. Nay, what is more, we fear they will not yield us credence, but impute it probably to our own invention; whereas we beg to assure them that it is strictly and literally true. The period of the scene we are about to describe may be placed in the year 1806. At the time neither party feeling nor religious animosity had yet subsided after the ferment of the ’98 insurrection and the division between the Catholic and Protestant population was very strong and bitter. The rebellion, which commenced in its first principles among the northern Presbyterians and other Protestant classes in a spirit of independence and a love of liberty, soon, in consequence of the influence of some bigots, assumed the character of a civil war between the two religions,—the most internecine description of war that ever devastated a country or drenched it in blood.

A usual amusement at the time was to reproduce the “Battle of Aughrim,” in some spacious barn, with a winnowing-cloth for the curtain. This play, bound up with “The Siege of Londonderry,” was one of the reading-books in the hedge schools of that day, and circulated largely among the people of all religions: it had, indeed, a most extraordinary influence among the lower classes. “The Battle of Aughrim,” however, because it was written in heroic verse, became so popular that it was rehearsed at almost every Irish hearth, both Catholic and Protestant, in the north. The spirit it evoked was irresistible. The whole country became dramatic. To repeat it at the fireside in winter nights was nothing: the Orangemen should act it, and show to the whole world how the field of Aughrim was so gloriously won. The consequence was that frequent rehearsals took place. The largest and most spacious barns and kilns were fitted up, the night of representation was given out, and crowds, even to suffocation, as they say, assembled to witness the celebrated “Battle of Aughrim.”

At first, it was true, the Orangemen had it all to themselves. This, however, could not last. The Catholics felt that they were as capable of patronising the drama as the victors of Aughrim. A strong historic spirit awoke among them. They requested of the Orangemen to be allowed the favour of representing the Catholic warriors of the disastrous field, and, somewhat to their surprise, the request was immediately granted. The Orangemen felt that there was something awkward and not unlike political apostasy in acting the part of Catholics in the play, under any circumstances, no matter how dramatic. It was consequently agreed that the Orangemen should represent the officers of the great man on whose name and title their system had been founded, and the Catholics should represent their own generals and officers under the name of St. Ruth, Sarsfield, and Colonel O’Neill. The first representation of this well-known play took place in the town of Au——. During the few weeks before the great night nothing was heard but incessant repetitions and rehearsals of the play.

The fact of this enactment of the play by individuals so strongly opposed to each other both in religion and politics excited not only an unusual degree of curiosity, but some apprehension as to the result, especially when such language as this was heard:—

“We licked them before,” said the Orangemen, “an’ by japers, we’ll lick them again. Jack Tait acts General Jingle, an’ he’s the boy will show them what chance a Papist has against a Prodestan!”

“Well, they bate us at Aughrim,” said the Catholics, “but with Tam Whiskey at our head, we’ll turn the tebles and lick them now.”

Both parties on that night were armed with swords for the battle scene, which represented the result of the engagement. Unfortunately, when the scene came on, instead of the bloodless fiction of the drama they began to slash each other in reality, and had it not been for the interference of the audience there is no doubt that lives would have been lost. After this, swords were interdicted and staves substituted. The consequence, as might have been expected, was that heads were broken on both sides, and a general fight between Protestant and Catholic portions of the actors and the audience ensued.

In the meanwhile the dramatic mania had become an epidemic. Its fascination carried overt opposition before it. A new system was adopted. The Orange party was to be represented by staunch Catholics, all probably Ribbonmen, and the Catholics by the rankest and most violent Orangemen in the parish. This course was resorted to in order to prevent the serious quarrels with which the play generally closed. Such was the state which the dramatic affairs of the parish had reached when the occasion, a summer evening, arrived that had been appointed by the herculean manager, John Tait, for the exhibition of “The Battle of Aughrim,” in a large and roomy barn of a wealthy farmer named Jack Stuart, in the townland of Rark.

His house stood on a little swelling eminence beside which an old road ran, and into which the little green before the door sloped. The road, being somewhat lower, passed close to his outhouses, which faced the road, but in consequence of their positions a loft was necessary to constitute the barn, so that it might be level with the haggard on the elevation. The entrance to the barn was by a door in one of the gables, whilst the stable and cow-house, or byre as it was called, were beneath the loft, and had their door open to the road. This accurate description will be found necessary in order to understand what followed.

In preparing the barn for the entertainment, the principal embarrassment consisted in want of seats.

Necessity, however, is well-known to be the mother of invention; and in this case that fact was established at the expense of honest Jack Stuart. Five or six sacks of barley were stretched length-wise on that side of the wall which faced the road. Now, barley, although the juice of it makes many a head light, is admitted to be the heaviest of all grain. On the opposite side, next the haggard, the seats consisted of chairs and forms, some of them borrowed from the neighbours. The curtain (i.e., the winnowing-cloth) was hung up at the south end, and everything, so far as preparation went, was very well managed. Of course, it was unnecessary to say that the entertainment was free to such as could find room, for which there was many an angry struggle.

We have said that from an apprehension that the heroes on both sides might forget the fiction and resort to reality by actual fighting, it had generally been arranged that the Catholic party should be represented by the Orangemen, and vice versa; and so it was in this instance. The caste of the piece was as follows:—

Baron de Ginckel (General of the English forces) Tom Whiskey.

(A perfect devil at the cudgels when sober, especially against an Orangeman.)

Marquis de Ruvigny Denis Shevlin.

(Ditto with Tom Whiskey as to fighting.)

General Talmash Barney Broghan.

(A fighting Blacksmith.)

General Mackay Dandy Delaney.

(At present on his keeping—but place of birth unknown.)

Colonels Herbert and Earles Tom M‘Roarkin, of Springstown, and Paddy Rafferty, of Dernascrobe.

(Both awfully bellicose, and never properly at peace unless when in a fight.)

The cast of the Catholic leaders was this:—

Monsieur St. Ruth (General of the Irish Forces) Jacky Vengeance.

(An Orangeman who had lost a brother at the battle of Vinegar Hill, hence the nickname of Vengeance.)

Sarsfield Big Jack Tait.

(Master of an Orange Lodge.)

(We know not how far the belief in Sarsfield’s immense size is true to fact; but be this as it may, we have it from the tradition that he was a man of prodigious stature, and Jack was six feet four in height, and strong in proportion.)

General Dorrington George Twin.

(Of Mallybarry, another man of prowess in party fights, and an Orangeman.)

Colonel Talbot Lick-Papish Nelson.

Colonel Gordon O’Neill Fighting Grimes.

Sir Charles Godfrey (a young English gentleman of fortune, in love with Colonel Talbot’s Daughter, and volunteer in the Irish army) Jemmy Lynch, the fighting tailor.

(He fought for his customers, whether Orange or Green, according as they came in his way.)

Jemima (Colonel Talbot’s daughter) Grasey (Grace) Stuart.

(A bouncing virago, at least twelve stone weight.)

Lucinda (wife of Colonel Herbert) Dolly Stuart.

(Her sister, much of the same proportions.)

Ghost Cooney Mullowney.

(Of the Bohlies, a townland adjoining.)

On the chairs and forms, being the seats of honour, were placed the Protestant portion of the audience, because they were the most wealthy and consequently the most respectable, at least in the eyes of the world—by which we mean the parish. On the barley-sacks were deposited the “Papishes,” because they were then the poor and the downtrodden people, so that they and “the Prodestants” sat on opposite sides of the barn. There were no political watch-words, no “three cheers” for either this man or that, owing to the simple reason that no individual present had ever seen a theatre in his life. The only exception was that of an unfortunate flunkey, who had seen a play in Dublin, and shouted “up with the rag,” for which, as it was supposed that he meant to turn the whole thing into ridicule, he was kicked out by the Ghost, who, by the way, was one of the stoutest fellows among them, and would have been allotted to a higher part were it not for the vileness of his memory.

At length the play commenced, and went on with remarkable success. The two batches of heroes were in high feather—King William’s party (to wit, Tom Whiskey and his friends) standing accidentally on that side of the barn which was occupied by the barley-sacks and the Papishes, and the Catholic generals ranged with the Orange audience on the opposite side. It was now the Ghost’s cue to enter from behind the winnowing-cloth, but before the apparition had time to appear, the prompter’s attention was struck by a sudden sinking of the party on the sacks, which seemed rather unaccountable. Yet, as it did not appear to have been felt by the parties themselves, who were too much wrapped up in the play, it excited neither notice nor alarm. At length the Ghost came out, dressed in a white sheet his face rendered quite spectral by flour. Sir Charles Godfrey, alias Jemmy Lynch, the tailor, had just concluded the following words, addressed to the Ghost himself, who in life it appeared had been his father:—

“Oh, I’ll sacrifice A thousand Romish sowls who, shocked with woe, Shall, bound in shackles, fill the shades below.” Ghost.—“Be not so rash, wild youth——”

He had scarcely uttered the words when a noise like the “crack of doom” was heard: one-half of the barn-floor had disappeared! The Ghost made a step to approach Sir Charles, his son, when the last object we saw was his heels—his legs dressed in blue woollen stockings and his sturdy hinder parts cased in strong corduroys, in the act of disappearing in the abyss beneath. Down he and the others went, and were lodged in the cow-house below amid the warm manure.

The consternation, the alarm, the fright and terror among the safe and Protestant side of the audience, could not be described. But the disaster proved to be one of the most harmless for its nature that ever occurred, for it was only destructive to property. Not a single injury was sustained with the exception of that which befell the Ghost, who had his arm dislocated at the elbow. The accident now resumed a religious hue. The Catholics charged the others with the concoction of a Protestant plot, by putting them together on what they called the rotten side of the house. The wrangle became high and abusive, and was fast hastening into polemical theology, when the dramatis personæ offered to settle it in a peaceable way, by fighting out the battle on the green. It was the scene of terrible and strong confusion, so much so that all we can glean from our recollection is the image of a desperate personal conflict between the actors whose orange and green ribbons were soon flung off as false emblems of the principles which they had adopted only for the sake of ending the play in a peaceable manner.

The Quare Gander.

From “The Purcell Papers.”

By Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well-to-do—an’ he rinted the biggest farm on this side iv the Galties, an’ bein’ mighty cute an’ a sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest; but, unluckily, he was blessed with an ilegant large family iv daughters, an’ iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, strivin’ to make up fortunes for the whole of them—an’ there wasn’t a conthrivance iv any sort of description for makin’ money out iv the farm but he was up to. Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin’ up in the world, he always kep’ a power iv turkies, and all soarts iv poultry; an’ he was out iv all raison partial to geese—an’ small blame to him for that same—for twiste a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand—an’ get a fine price for the feathers, and plenty of rale sizeable eggs—an’ when they are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an’ sell them to the gintlemen for goslings, d’ye see,—let alone that a goose is the most manly bird that is out. Well, it happened in the coorse iv time, that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin’ to Terence, an’ sorra a place he could go serenadin’ about the farm, or lookin’ afther the men, but the gandher id be at his heels, an’ rubbin’ himself agin his legs, and lookin’ up in his face just like any other Christian id do; and the likes iv it was never seen, Terence Mooney an’ the gandher wor so great. An’ at last the bird was so engagin’ that Terence would not allow it to be plucked any more; an’ kept it from that time out for love an’ affection; just all as one like one iv his children. But happiness in perfection never lasts long; an’ the neighbours begin’d to suspect the nathur and intentions iv the gandher; an’ some iv them said it was the divil, and more iv them that it was a fairy. Well Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin’, and you may be sure he was not altogether aisy in his mind about it, an’ from one day to another he was gettin’ more ancomfortable in himself, until he detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in Garryowen, an’ it’s he was the ilegant hand at the business, and sorra a sperit id say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest; an’ moreover, he was very great wid ould Terence Mooney, this man’s father that was. So without more about it, he was sent for; an’ sure enough, not long he was about it, for he kem back that very evening along wid the boy that was sint for him; an’ as soon as he was there, an’ tuk his supper, an’ was done talkin’ for a while, he bigined, of coorse, to look into the gandher. Well, he turned it this way an’ that way, to the right and to the left, an’ straight-ways, an’ upside down, an’ when he was tired handlin’ it, says he to Terence Mooney:

“Terence,” says he, “you must remove the bird into the next room,” says he, “an’ put a petticoat,” says he, “or any other convaynience round his head,” says he.

“An’ why so?” says Terence.

“Becase,” says Jer, says he.

“Becase what?” says Terence.

“Becase,” says Jer, “if it isn’t done—you’ll never be aisy agin,” says he, “or pusilanimous in your mind,” says he; “so ax no more questions, but do my biddin,” says he.

“Well,” says Terence, “have your own way,” says he.

An’ wid that he tuk the ould gandher, and giv’ it to one iv the gossoons.

“An’ take care,” says he, “don’t smother the crathur,” says he.

Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, “Do you know what that ould gandher is, Terence Mooney?”

“Sorra a taste,” says Terence.

“Well, then,” says Jer, “the gandher is your own father,” says he.

“It’s jokin’ you are,” says Terence, turnin’ mighty pale; “how can an ould gandher be my father?” says he.

“I’m not funnin’ you at all,” says Jer, “it’s thrue what I tell you—it’s your father’s wandherin’ sowl,” says he, “that’s naturally tuk pissession iv the ould gandher’s body,” says he; “I know him many ways, and I wondher,” says he, “you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself,” says he.

“Oh!” says Terence, “what will I ever do, at all, at all,” says he; “it’s all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste,” says he.

“That can’t be helped now,” says Jer, “it was a sevare act, surely,” says he, “but it’s too late to lamint for it now,” says he; “the only way to prevint what’s past,” says he, “is to put a stop to it before it happens,” says he.

“Thrue for you,” says Terence, “but how did you come to the knowledge iv my father’s sowl,” says he, “bein’ in the ould gandher?” says he.

“If I tould you,” says Jer, “you would not understand me,” says he, “without book-larnin’ an’ gasthronomy,” says he; “so ax me no questions,” says he, “an I’ll tell you no lies; but b’lieve me in this much,” says he, “it’s your father that’s in it,” says he, “an’ if I don’t make him spake to-morrow mornin’,” says he, “I’ll give you lave to call me a fool,” says he.

“Say no more,” says Terence, “that settles the business,” says he; “an’ oh! is it not a quare thing,” says he, “for a dacent, respictable man,” says he, “to be walkin’ about the counthry in the shape iv an ould gandher,” says he; “and, oh, murdher, murdher! is it not often I plucked him,” says he, “an’ tundher and turf, might not I have ate him,” says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration, savin’ your prisince, an’ was on the pint iv faintin’ wid the bare notions iv it.

Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry, to him, quite an aisy—“Terence,” says he, “don’t be aggravatin’ yourself,” says he, “for I have a plan composed that’ll make him spake out,” says he, “an’ tell what it is in the world he’s wantin’,” says he; “an’ mind an’ don’t be comin’ in wid your gosther an’ to say agin anything I tell you,” says he, “but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back,” says he, “how that we’re goin’ to sind him to-morrow mornin’ to market,” says he; “an’ if he don’t spake to-night,” says he, “or gother himself out iv the place,” says he, “put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the cart,” says he, “straight to Tipperary, to be sould for aitin’,” says he, “along wid the two gossoons,” says he; “an’ my name isn’t Jer Garvan,” says he, “if he doesn’t spake out before he’s half way,” says he; “an’ mind,” says he, “as soon as ever he says the first word,” says he, “that very minute bring him off to Father Crotty,” says he, “an’ if his Raverance doesn’t make him ratire,” says he, “into the flames of Purgathory,” says he, “there’s no vartue in my charms,” says he.

Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an’ they all begined to talk iv sindin’ him the nixt mornin’ to be sould for roastin’ in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled; but not a notice the gandher tuk, no more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord Liftenant; an’ Terence desired the boy to get ready the kish for the poulthry “an’ to settle it out wid hay soft and shnug,” says he, “for it’s the last jauntin’ the poor ould gandher ‘ill get in this world,” says he.

Well, as the night was getting late, Terence was growin’ mighty sorrowful an’ down-hearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what was going to happen. An’ as soon as the wife an’ the crathurs war fairly in bed, he brought out some illigant potteen, an’ himself and Jer Garvan sot down to it, an’ the more anasy Terence got, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart betune them: it wasn’t an imparial though, an’ more’s the pity, for them wasn’t anvinted antil short since; but sorra a much matther it signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father Mathew begin’d to give the pledge, an’ wid the blessin’ iv timperance to deginerate Ireland. An’ sure I have the medle myself; an’ it’s proud I am iv that same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it’s mighty dhry.

Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop, “for enough is as good as a faste,” says he, “an’ I pity the vagabone,” says he, “that is not able to conthroul his liquor,” says he, “an’ to keep constantly inside iv a pint measure,” says he, an’ wid that he wished Jer Garvan a good night, an’ walked out iv the room. But he wint out the wrong door, being a trifle hearty in himself, an’ not rightly knowin’ whether he was standin’ on his head or his heels, or both iv them at the same time, an’ in place iv gettin’ into bed, where did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper, that the boys had settled out ready for the gandher in the mornin’; an’, sure enough, he sunk down snug an’ complate through the hay to the bottom; an’ wid the turnin’ an’ roulin’ about in the night, not a bit iv him but was covered up as snug as a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin’.

So wid the first light, up gets the two boys that war to take the sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary; an’ they cotched the ould gandher, an’ put him in the hamper and clapped a good whisp iv hay on the top iv him, and tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, an med the sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an’ put the hamper up on the car, wontherin’ all the while what in the world was makin’ the ould burd so surprisin’ heavy.

Well, they wint along on the road towards Tipperary, wishin’ every minute that some iv the neighbours bound the same way id happen to fall in with them, for they didn’t half like the notions iv havin’ no company but the bewitched gandher, an’ small blame to them for that same. But, although they wor shakin’ in their skins in dhread iv the ould bird beginin’ to convarse them every minute, they did not let on to one another, bud kep’ singin’ and whistlin’, like mad to keep the dhread out iv their hearts. Well, afther they wor on the road betther nor half an hour, they kem to the bad bit close by Father Crotty’s, an’ there was one rut three feet deep at the laste; an’ the car got sich a wondherful chuck goin’ through it, that wakened Terence within the basket.

“Oh!” says he, “my bones is bruck wid yer thricks, what are ye doin’ wid me?”

“Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?” says the boy that was next to the car, turnin’ as white as the top iv a musharoon; “did ye hear anything quare soundin’ out iv the hamper?” says he.

“No, nor you,” says Thady, turnin’ as pale as himself, “it’s the ould gandher that’s gruntin’ wid the shakin’ he’s gettin’,” says he.

“Where have ye put me into,” says Terence, inside; “let me out,” says he, “or I’ll be smothered this minute,” says he.

“There’s no use in purtending,” says the boy; “the gandher’s spakin’, glory be to God!” says he.

“Let me out, you murdherers,” says Terence.

“In the name iv all the holy saints,” says Thady, “hould yer tongue, you unnatheral gandher,” says he.

“Who’s that, that dar call me nicknames,” says Terence inside, roaring wid the fair passion; “let me out, you blasphamious infiddles,” says he, “or by this crass, I’ll stretch ye,” says he.

“Who are ye?” says Thady.

“Who would I be but Terence Mooney,” says he, “It’s myself that’s in it, you unmerciful bliggards,” says he; “let me out, or I’ll get out in spite iv yez,” says he, “an’ I’ll wallop yez in arnest,” says he.

“It’s ould Terence, sure enough,” says Thady; “isn’t it cute the fairy docthor found him out,” says he.

“I’m on the p’int iv suffication,” says Terence; “let me out, I tell ye, an’ wait till I get at ye,” says he, “for sorra a bone in your body but I’ll powdher,” says he; an’ wid that he bigined kickin’ and flingin’ in the hamper, and drivin’ his legs agin the sides iv it, that it was a wondher he did not knock it to pieces. Well, as the boys seen that, they skelped the ould horse into a gallop as hard as he could peg towards the priest’s house, through the ruts, an’ over the stones; an’ you’d see the hamper fairly flyin’ three feet in the air with the joultin’; so it was small wondher, by the time they got to his Raverance’s door, the breath was fairly knocked out iv poor Terence; so that he was lyin’ speechless in the bottom iv the hamper. Well, whin his Raverance kem down, they up an’ they tould him all that happened, an’ how they put the gandher into the hamper, an’ how he begined to spake, an’ how he confissed that he was ould Terence Mooney; and they axed his honour to advise them how to get rid iv the sperit for good an’ all. So says his Raverance, says he:

“I’ll take my booke,” says he, “an’ I’ll read some rale sthrong holy bits out iv it,” says he, “an’ do you get a rope and put it round the hamper,” says he, “an’ let it swing over the runnin’ wather at the bridge,” says he, “an’ it’s no matther if I don’t make the sperit come out iv it,” says he.

Well, wid that, the priest got his horse, an’ tuk his booke in undher his arum, an’ the boys follied his Raverance, ladin’ the horse, and Terence houldin’ his whisht, for he seen it was no use spakin’, an’ he was afeard if he med any noise they might thrait him to another gallop an’ finish him intirely. Well, as soon as they wur all come to the bridge the boys tuk the rope they had with them, an’ med it fast to the top iv the hamper an’ swung it fairly over the bridge; lettin’ it hang in the air about twelve feet out iv the wather; and his Raverance rode down to the bank iv the river, close by, an’ begined to read mighty loud and bould intirely.

An’ when he was goin’ on about five minutes, all at onst the bottom iv the hamper kem out, an’ down wint Terence, falling splash dash into the wather, an’ the ould gandher a-top iv him; down they both wint to the bottom wid a souse you’d hear half-a-mile off; an’ before they had time to rise agin, his Raverance, wid a fair astonishment, giv his horse one dig iv the spurs, an’ before he knew where he was, in he went, horse and all, a-top iv them, an’ down to the bottom. Up they all kem agin together, gaspin’ an puffin’, an’ off down the current with them like shot, in undher the arch iv the bridge, till they kem to the shallow wather. The ould gandher was the first out, an’ the priest and Terence kem next, pantin’ an’ blowin’ an’ more than half dhrounded: an’ his Raverance was so freckened wid the dhroundin’ he got, and wid the sight iv the sperit, as he consaved, that he wasn’t the better iv it for a month. An’ as soon as Terence could spake, he said he’d have the life iv the two gossoons; but Father Crotty would not give him his will; an’ as soon as he got quieter they all endeavoured to explain it, but Terence consayved he went raly to bed the night before, an’ his Raverance said it was a mysthery, an’ swore if he cotched anyone laughin’ at the accident, he’d lay the horsewhip across their shoulders; an’ Terence grew fonder an’ fonder iv the gandher every day, until at last he died in a wondherful ould age, lavin’ the gandher afther him an’ a large family iv childer; an’ to this day the farm is rinted by one iv Terence Mooney’s lineal legitimate postariors.

The Thrush and the Blackbird.

By Charles Joseph Kickham (1828-1882).

A stranger meeting Sally Cavanagh, as she tripped along the mountain road, would consider her a contented and happy young matron, and might be inclined to set her down as a proud one; for Sally Cavanagh held her head rather high, and occasionally elevated it still higher with a toss which had something decidedly haughty about it. She turned up a short boreen for the purpose of calling upon the gruff blacksmith’s wife, who had been very useful to her for some time before. The smith’s habits were so irregular that his wife was often obliged to visit the pawn office in the next town, and poor Sally Cavanagh availed herself of Nancy Ryan’s experience in pledging almost everything pledgeable she possessed. The new cloak, of which even a rich farmer’s wife might feel proud, was the last thing left. It was a present from Connor, and was only worn on rare occasions, and to part with it was a sore trial.

Loud screams and cries for help made Sally Cavanagh start. She stopped for a moment, and then ran forward and rushed breathless into the smith’s house. The first sight that met her eyes was our friend Shawn Gow choking his wife. A heavy three-legged stool came down with such force upon the part of Shawn Gow’s person which happened to be the most elevated as he bent over the prostrate woman, that, uttering an exclamation between a grunt and a growl, he bounded into the air, and, striking his shins against a chair, tumbled head over heels into the corner. When Shawn found that he was more frightened than hurt, and saw Sally with the three-legged stool in her hand, a sense of the ludicrous overcame him, and, turning his face to the wall, he relieved his feelings by giving way to a fit of laughter. It was of the silent, inward sort, however, and neither his wife nor Sally Cavanagh had any notion of the pleasant mood he was in. The bright idea of pretending to be “kilt” occurred to the overthrown son of Vulcan, and with a fearful groan he stretched out his huge limbs and remained motionless on the broad of his back.

Sally’s sympathy for the ill-used woman prevented her from giving a thought to her husband. Great was her astonishment then when Nancy flew at her like a wild cat. “You kilt my husband,” she screamed. Sally retreated backwards, defending herself as best she could with the stool. “For God’s sake, Nancy, be quiet. Wouldn’t he have destroyed you on’y for me?” But Nancy followed up the attack like a fury. “There’s nothing the matter with him,” Sally cried out, on finding herself literally driven to the wall. “What harm could a little touch of a stool on the back do the big brute?”

Nancy’s feelings appeared to rush suddenly into another channel, for she turned round quickly, and kneeling down by her husband, lifted up his head. “Och! Shawn, avourneen, machree,” she exclaimed, “won’t you spake to me?” Shawn condescended to open his eyes. “Sally,” she continued, “he’s comin’ to—glory be to God! Hurry over and hould up his head while I’m runnin’ for somethin’ to rewive him. Or stay, bring me the boulster.”

The bolster was brought, and Nancy placed it under the patient’s head; then, snatching her shawl from the peg where it hung, she disappeared. She was back again in five minutes, without the shawl, but with half-a-pint of whiskey in a bottle.

“Take a taste av this, Shawn, an’ ‘twill warm your heart.”

Shawn Gow sat up and took the bottle in his hand.

“Nancy,” says he, “I believe, afther all, you’re fond o’ me.”

“Wisha, Shawn, achora, what else’d I be but fond av you?”

“I thought, Nancy, you couldn’t care for a divil that thrated you so bad.”

“Och, Shawn, Shawn, don’t talk that way to me. Sure, I thought my heart was broke when I see you sthretched there ‘idout a stir in you.”

“An’ you left your shawl in pledge again to get this for me?”

“To be sure I did; an’ a good right I had; an’ sorry I’d be to see you in want of a dhrop of nourishment.”

“I was a baste, Nancy. But if I was, this is what made a baste av me.”

And Shawn Gow fixed his eyes upon the bottle with a look in which hatred and fascination were strangely blended. He turned quickly to his wife.

“Will you give in it was a blackbird?” he said.

“A blackbird,” she repeated, irresolutely.

“Yes, a blackbird. Will you give in it was a blackbird?”

Shawn Gow was evidently relapsing into his savage mood.

“Well,” said his wife, after some hesitation, “’twas a blackbird. Will that plase you?”

“An’ you’ll never say ’twas a thrish agin?”

“Never. An’ sure, on’y for the speckles on the breast, I’d never say ’twas a thrish; but sure, you ought to know betther than me—an’—an’—’twas a blackbird,” she exclaimed, with a desperate effort.

Shawn Gow swung the bottle round his head and flung it with all his strength against the hob. The whole fireplace was for a moment one blaze of light.

“The Divil was in id,” says the smith, smiling grimly; “an’ there he’s off in a flash of fire. I’m done wid him, any way.”

“Well, I wish you a happy Christmas, Nancy,” said Sally.

“I wish you the same, Sally, an’ a great many av ‘em. I suppose you’re goin’ to first Mass? Shawn and me’ll wait for second.”

Sally took her leave of this remarkable couple, and proceeded on her way to the village. She met Tim Croak and his wife, Betty, who were also going to Mass. After the usual interchange of greetings, Betty surveyed Sally from head to foot with a look of delighted wonder.

“Look at her, Tim,” she exclaimed, “an’ isn’t she as young an’ as hearty as ever? Bad cess to me but you’re the same Sally that danced wid the master at my weddin’, next Thursday fortnight’ll be eleven years.”

“Begob, you’re a great woman,” says Tim.

Sally Cavanagh changed the subject by describing the scene she had witnessed at the blacksmith’s.

“But, Tim,” said she, after finishing the story, “how did the dispute about the blackbird come first? I heard something about it, but I forget it.”

“I’ll tell you that, then,” said Tim. “Begob, ay,” he exclaimed abruptly, after thinking for a moment; “’twas this day seven years, for all the world—the year o’ the hard frost. Shawn Gow set a crib in his haggard the evenin’ afore, and when he went out in the mornin’ he had a hen blackbird. He put the goulogue1 on her nick, and tuk her in his hand; and wud’ one smulluck av his finger knocked the life out av her; he walked in an’ threw the blackbird on the table.

“‘Oh, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, ‘you’re afther ketchin’ a fine thrish.’ Nancy tuk the bird in her hand an’ began rubbin’ the feathers on her breast. ‘A fine thrish,’ siz Nancy.

“‘’Tisn’t a thrish, but a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘Wisha, in throth, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, ‘’tis a thrish; do you want to take the sight o’ my eyes from me?’

“‘I tell you ’tis a blackbird,” siz he.

“‘Indeed, then, it isn’t, but a thrish,’ siz she.

“Anyway, one word borrowed another, an’ the end av it was, Shawn flailed at her an’ gev her the father av a batin’.

“The Christmas Day afther, Nancy opened the door an’ looked out.

“‘God be wud this day twelve months,’ siz she, ‘do you remimber the fine thrish you caught in the crib?’

“‘’Twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘Och,’ siz Nancy, beginnin’ to laugh, ‘that was a quare blackbird.’

“‘Whisht, now, Nancy, ’twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘Och,’ siz Nancy, beginnin’ to laugh, ‘that was the quare blackbird.’

“Wud that, one word borrowed another, an’ Shawn stood up an’ gev her the father av a batin’.

“The third Christmas Day kem, an’ they wor in the best o’ good humour afther the tay, an’ Shawn, puttin’ on his ridin’-coat to go to Mass.

“‘Well, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, I’m thinkin’ av what an unhappy Christmas mornin’ we had this day twelve months, all on account of the thrish you caught in the crib, bad cess to her.’

“‘’Twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘Wisha, good luck to you, an’ don’t be talkin’ foolish,’ siz Nancy; ‘an’ you’re betther not get into a passion agin, on account av an ould thrish. My heavy curse on the same thrish,’ siz Nancy.

“‘I tell you ’twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘An’ I tell you ’twas a thrish,’ siz Nancy.

“‘Wud that, Shawn took a bunnaun he had saisonin’ in the chimley, and whaled at Nancy, an’ gev her the father av a batin’. An’ every Christmas morning from that day to this ’twas the same story, for as sure as the sun, Nancy’d draw down the thrish. But do you tell me, Sally, she’s afther givin’ in it was a blackbird?”

“She is,” replied Sally.

“Begob,” said Tim Croak, after a minute’s serious reflection, “it ought to be put in the papers. I never h’ard afore av a wrong notion bein’ got out av a woman’s head. But Shawn Gow is no joke to dale wud, and it took him seven years to do id.”

1 A forked stick

Their Last Race.

From “At the Rising of the Moon.”

By Frank Mathew (1865—).

I.—The Faction Fight.

In the heart of the Connemara Highlands, Carrala Valley hides in a triangle of mountains. Carrala Village lies in the corner of it towards Loch Ina, and Aughavanna in the corner nearest Kylemore. Aughavanna is a wreck now: if you were to look for it you would see only a cluster of walls grown over by ferns and nettles; but in those remote times, before the Great Famine, when no English was spoken in the Valley, there was no place more renowned for wild fun and fighting; and when its men were to be at a fair, every able-bodied man in the countryside took his kippeen—his cudgel—from its place in the chimney, and went out to do battle with a good heart.

Long Mat Murnane was the king of Aughavanna. There was no grander sight than Mat smashing his way through a forest of kippeens, with his enemies staggering back to the right and left of him; there was no sweeter sound than his voice, clear as a bell, full of triumph and gladness, shouting, “Hurroo! whoop! Aughavanna for ever!” Where his kippeen flickered in the air his followers charged after, and the enemy rushed to meet him, for it was an honour to take a broken head from him.

But Carrala Fair was the black day for him. That day Carrala swarmed with men—fishers from the near coast, dwellers in lonely huts by the black lakes, or in tiny, ragged villages under the shadow of the mountains, or in cabins on the hill-sides—every little town for miles, by river or sea-shore or mountain built, was emptied. The fame of the Aughavanna men was their ruin, for they were known to fight so well that every one was dying to fight them. The Joyces sided against them; Black Michael Joyce had a farm in the third corner of the valley, just where the road through the bog from Aughavanna (the road with the cross by it) meets the high-road to Leenane, so his kin mustered in force. Now Black Michael, “Meehul Dhu,” was long Mat’s rival; though smaller, he was near as deadly in fight, and in dancing no man could touch him, for it was said he could jump a yard into the air and kick himself behind with his heels in doing it.

The business of the Fair had been hurried so as to leave the more time for pleasure, and by five of the afternoon every man was mad for the battle. Why, you could scarcely have moved in Callanan’s Field out beyond the churchyard at the end of the village, it was so packed with men—more than five hundred were there, and you could not have heard yourself speak, for they were jumping and dancing, tossing their caubeens, and shouting themselves hoarse and deaf—“Hurroo for Carrala!” “Whoop for Aughavanna!”

Around them a mob of women, old men and children, looked on breathlessly. It was dull weather, and the mists had crept half way down the dark mountain walls, as if to have a nearer look at the fight.

As the chapel clock struck five, Long Mat Murnane gave the signal. Down the village he came, rejoicing in his strength, out between the two last houses, past the churchyard and into Callanan’s Field; he looked every inch a king; his kippeen was ready, his frieze coat was off, with his left hand he trailed it behind him holding it by the sleeve, while with a great voice he shouted—in Irish—“Where’s the Carrala man that dare touch my coat? Where’s the cowardly scoundrel that dare look crooked at it?”

In a moment Black Michael Joyce was trailing his own coat behind him, and rushed forward, with a mighty cry “Where’s the face of a trembling Aughavanna man?” In a moment their kippeens clashed; in another, hundreds of kippeens crashed together, and the grandest fight ever fought in Connemara raged over Callanan’s Field. After the first roar of defiance the men had to keep their breath for the hitting, so the shout of triumph and the groan as one fell were the only sounds that broke the music of the kippeens clashing and clicking on one another, or striking home with a thud.

Never was Long Mat nobler; he rushed ravaging through the enemy, shattering their ranks and their heads; no man could withstand him; Red Callanan of Carrala went down before him; he knocked the five senses out of Dan O’Shaughran, of Earrennamore, that herded many pigs by the sedgy banks of the Owen Erriff; he hollowed the left eye out of Larry Mulcahy, that lived on the Devil’s Mother Mountain—never again did Larry set the two eyes of him on his high mountain-cradle; he killed Black Michael Joyce by a beautiful swooping blow on the side of the head—who would have dreamt that Black Michael had so thin a skull.

For near an hour Mat triumphed, then suddenly he went down under foot. At first he was missed only by those nearest him, and they took it for granted that he was up again and fighting. But when the Aughavanna men found themselves outnumbered and driven back to the village, a great fear came on them, for they knew that all Ireland could not outnumber them if Mat was to the fore. Then disaster and rout took them, and they were forced backwards up the street, struggling desperately, till hardly a man of them could stand.

And when the victors were shouting themselves dumb, and drinking themselves blind, the beaten men looked for their leader. Long Mat was prone, his forehead was smashed, his face had been trampled into the mud—he had done with fighting. His death was untimely, yet he fell as he would have chosen—in a friendly battle. For when a man falls under the hand of an enemy (as of any one who differs from him in creed or politics) revenge and black blood live after him; but he who takes his death from the kindly hand of a friend leaves behind him no ill-will, but only gentle regret for the mishap.

II. Their Last Race.

When the dead had been duly waked for two days and nights, the burying day came. All the morning long Mat Murnane’s coffin lay on four chairs by his cabin, with a kneeling ring of dishevelled women keening round it. Every soul in Aughavanna and their kith and kin had gathered to do him honour. And when the Angelus bell rang across the valley from the chapel, the mourners fell into ranks, the coffin was lifted on the rough hearse, and the motley funeral—a line of carts with a mob of peasants behind, a few riding, but most of them on foot—moved slowly towards Carrala. The women were crying bitterly, keening like an Atlantic gale; the men looked as sober as if they had never heard of a wake, and spoke sadly of the dead man, and of what a pity it was that he could not see his funeral.

The Joyces, too, had waited, as was the custom, for the Angelus bell, and now Black Michael’s funeral was moving slowly towards Carrala along the other side of the bog. Before long either party could hear the keening of the other, for you know the roads grow nearer as they converge on Carrala. Before long either party began to fear that the other would be there first.

There is no knowing how it happened, but the funerals began to go quicker, keeping abreast; then still quicker, till the women had to break into a trot to keep up; then still quicker, till the donkeys were galloping, and till everyone raced at full speed, and the rival parties broke into a wild shout of “Aughavanna abu!” “Meehul Dhu for ever!”

For the dead men were racing—feet foremost—to the grave; they were rivals even in death. Never did the world see such a race, never was there such whooping and shouting. Where the roads met in Callanan’s Field the horses were abreast; neck and neck they dashed across the trampled fighting-place, while the coffins jogged and jolted as if the two dead men were struggling to get out and lead the rush; neck to neck they reached the churchyard, and the horses jammed in the gate. Behind them the carts crashed into one another, and the mourners shouted as if they were mad.

But the quick wit of the Aughavanna men triumphed, for they seized their long coffin and dragged it in, and Long Mat Murnane won his last race. The shout they gave then deafened the echo up in the mountains, so that it has never been the same since. The victors wrung one another’s hands; they hugged one another.

“Himself would be proud,” they cried, “if he hadn’t been dead!”

The First Lord Liftinant.

By William Percy French (1854—).

(As related by Andrew Geraghty, Philomath.)

“Essex,” said Queen Elizabeth, as the two of them sat at breakwhist in the back parlour of Buckingham Palace, “Essex, me haro, I’ve got a job that I think would suit you. Do you know where Ireland is?”

“I’m no great fist at jografy,” says his lordship, “but I know the place you mane. Population, three millions; exports, emigrants.”

“Well,” says the Queen, “I’ve been reading the Dublin Evening Mail and the Telegraft for some time back, and sorra one o’ me can get at the trooth o’ how things is goin’, for the leadin’ articles is as conthradictory as if they wor husband and wife.”

“That’s the way wid papers all the world over,” says Essex; “Columbus told me it was the same in Amerikay, when he was there, abusin’ and conthradictin’ each other at every turn—it’s the way they make their livin’. Thrubble you for an egg-spoon.”

“It’s addled they have me betune them,” says the Queen. “Not a know I know what’s goin’ on. So now, what I want you to do is to run over to Ireland, like a good fella, and bring me word how matters stand.”

“Is it me?” says Essex, leppin’ up off his chair. “It’s not in airnest ye are, ould lady. Sure it’s the hoight of the London saison. Every one’s in town, and Shake’s new fairy piece, ‘The Midsummer’s Night Mare,’ billed for next week.”

“You’ll go when ye’re tould,” says the Queen, fixin’ him with her eye, “if you know which side yer bread’s buttered on. See here, now,” says she, seein’ him chokin’ wid vexation and a slice o’ corned beef, “you ought to be as pleased as Punch about it, for you’ll be at the top o’ the walk over there as vice-regent representin’ me.”

“I ought to have a title or two,” says Essex, pluckin’ up a bit. “His Gloriosity the Great Panjandhrum, or the like o’ that.”

“How would His Excellency the Lord Liftinant of Ireland sthrike you?” says Elizabeth.

“First class,” cries Essex. “Couldn’t be betther; it doesn’t mean much, but it’s allitherative, and will look well below the number on me hall door.”

Well, boys, it didn’t take him long to pack his clothes and start away for the Island o’ Saints. It took him a good while to get there, though, through not knowin’ the road; but by means of a pocket compass and a tip to the steward, he was landed at last contagious to Dalkey Island. Going up to an ould man who was sittin’ on a rock, he took off his hat, and, says he—

“That’s great weather we’re havin’?”

“Good enough for the times that’s in it,” says the ould man, cockin’ one eye at him.

“Any divarshun’ goin on?” says Essex.

“You’re a sthranger in these parts, I’m thinkin’,” says the ould man, “or you’d know this was a ‘band night’ in Dalkey.”

“I wasn’t aware of it,” says Essex; “the fact is,” says he, “I only landed from England just this minute.”

“Ay,” says the ould man, bitterly, “it’s little they know about us over there. I’ll hould you,” says he, with a slight thrimble in his voice, “that the Queen herself doesn’t know there is to be fireworks in the Sorrento Gardens this night.” Well, when Essex heard that, he disrembered entirely he was sent over to Ireland to put down rows and ructions, and away wid him to see the fun and flirt wid all the pretty girls he could find. And he found plenty of them—thick as bees they wor, and each one as beautiful as the day and the morra. He wrote two letters home next day—one to Queen Elizabeth and the other to Lord Mountaigle, a playboy like himself. I’ll read you the one to the Queen first:—

“Dame Sthreet, April 16th, 1599.

“Fair Enchantress,—I wish I was back in London, baskin’ in your sweet smiles and listenin’ to your melodious voice once more. I got the consignment of men and the post-office order all right. I was out all the mornin’ lookin’ for the inimy, but sorra a taste of Hugh O’Neill or his men can I find. A policeman at the corner o’ Nassau Street told me they wor hidin’ in Wicklow. So I am makin’ up a party to explore the Dargle on Easter Monda’. The girls here are as ugly as sin, and every minute o’ the day I do be wishin’ it was your good-lookin’ self I was gazin’ at instead o’ these ignorant scarecrows.

“Hopin’ soon to be back in ould England, I remain, your lovin’ subject

Essex.”

“P.S.—I hear Hugh O’Neill was seen on the top o’ the Donnybrook tram yesterday mornin’. If I have any luck the head’ll be off him before you get this.

E.”

The other letter read this way:—

“Dear Monty—This is a great place, all out. Come over here if you want fun. Divil such play-boys ever I seen, and the girls—oh! don’t be talkin’—’pon me secret honour you’ll see more loveliness at a tay and a supper ball in Rathmines than there is in the whole of England. Tell Ned Spenser to send me a love-song to sing to a young girl who seems to be taken wid my appearance. Her name’s Mary, and she lives in Dunlary, so he oughtn’t to find it hard. I hear Hugh O’Neill’s a terror, and hits a powerful welt, especially when you’re not lookin’. If he tries any of his games on wid me, I’ll give him in charge. No brawlin’ for your’s truly

Essex.”

Well, me bould Essex stopped for odds of six months in Dublin, purtendin’ to be very busy subjugatin’ the country, but all the time only losin’ his time and money widout doin’ a hand’s turn, and doin’ his best to avoid a ruction with “Fighting Hugh.” If a messenger came to tell him that O’Neill was camping out on the North Bull, Essex would up stick and away for Sandycove, where, after draggin’ the forty-foot hole, he’d write off to Elizabeth, saying that, “owing to their suparior knowledge of the country the dastard foe had once more eluded him.”

The Queen got mighty tired of these letters, especially as they always ended with a request to send stamps by return, and told Essex to finish up his business and not be makin’ a fool of himself.

“Oh, that’s the talk, is it,” says Essex; “very well, me ould sauce-box” (that was the name he had for her ever since she gev him the clip on the ear for turnin’ his back on her), “very well me ould sauce-box,” says he, “I’ll write off to O’Neill this very minute, and tell him to send in his lowest terms for peace at ruling prices.”

Well, the threaty was a bit of a one-sided one—the terms being—

1. Hugh O’Neill to be King of Great Britain.

2. Lord Essex to return to London and remain there as Viceroy of England.

3. The O’Neill family to be supported by Government, with free passes to all theatres and places of entertainment.

4. The London Markets to buy only from Irish dealers.

5. All taxes to be sent in stamped envelopes, directed to H. O’Neill, and marked “private.” Cheques crossed and made payable to H. O’Neill. Terms cash.

Well, if Essex had had the sense to read through this treaty he’d have seen it was of too graspin’ a nature to pass with any sort of a respectable sovereign, but he was that mad he just stuck the document in the pocket of his pot-metal overcoat, and away wid him hot foot for England.

“Is the Queen widin?” says he to the butler, when he opened the door o’ the palace. His clothes were that dirty and disorthered wid travellin’ all night, and his boots that muddy, that the butler was not for littin’ him in at the first go off, so says he, very grand; “Her Majesty is above stairs and can’t be seen till she’s had her breakwhist.”

“Tell her the Lord Liftinant of Ireland desires an interview,” says Essex.

“Oh, beg pardon, me lord,” says the butler, steppin’ to one side, “I didn’t know ’twas yourself was in it; come inside, sir; the Queen’s in the dhrawin’-room.”

Well, Essex leps up the stairs and into the dhrawin’-room wid him, muddy boots and all; but not a sight of Elizabeth was to be seen.

“Where’s your misses?” says he to one of the maids-of-honour that was dustin’ the chimbley-piece.

“She’s not out of her bed yet,” said the maid, with a toss of her head; “but if you write your message on the slate beyant, I’ll see”—but before she had finished, Essex was up the second flight and knockin’ at the Queen’s bedroom door.

“Is that the hot wather?” says the Queen.

“No, it’s me,—Essex. Can you see me?”

“Faith, I can’t,” says the Queen. “Hould on till I draw the bed-curtains. Come in now,” says she, “and say your say, for I can’t have you stoppin’ long—you young Lutharian.”

“Bedad, yer Majesty,” says Essex, droppin’ on his knees before her (the delutherer he was), “small blame to me if I am a Lutharian, for you have a face on you that would charm a bird off a bush.”

“Hould your tongue, you young reprobate,” says the Queen, blushin’ up to her curl-papers wid delight, “and tell me what improvements you med in Ireland.”

“Faith, I taught manners to O’Neill,” cries Essex.

“He had a bad masther then,” says Elizabeth, lookin’ at his dirty boots; “couldn’t you wipe yer feet before ye desthroyed me carpets, young man?”

“Oh, now,” says Essex, “is it wastin’ me time shufflin’ about on a mat you’d have me, when I might be gazin’ on the loveliest faymale the world ever saw.”

“Well,” says the Queen, “I’ll forgive you this time, as you’ve been so long away, but remimber in future that Kidderminster ain’t oilcloth. Tell me,” says she, “is Westland Row Station finished yet?”

“There’s a side wall or two wanted yet, I believe,” says Essex.

“What about the Loop Line?” says she.

“Oh, they’re gettin’ on with that,” says he, “only some people think the girders a disfigurement to the city.”

“Is there any talk about that esplanade from Sandycove to Dunlary?”

“There’s talk about it, but that’s all,” says Essex; “‘twould be an odious fine improvement to house property, and I hope they’ll see to it soon.”

“Sorra much you seem to have done, beyant spendin’ me men and me money. Let’s have a look at that treaty I see stickin’ out o’ your pocket.”

Well, when the Queen read the terms of Hugh O’Neill she just gev him one look, an’ jumpin’ from off the bed, she put her head out of the window, and called out to the policeman on duty—

“Is the Head below?”

“I’ll tell him you want him, ma’am,” says the policeman.

“Do,” says the Queen. “Hello,” says she, as a slip of paper dhropped out o’ the dispatches. “What’s this? ‘Lines to Mary.’ Ho! ho! me gay fella, that’s what you’ve been up to, is it?”

“Mrs. Brady Is a widow lady, And she has a charmin’ daughter I adore; I went to court her Across the water, And her mother keeps a little candy-store. She’s such a darlin’, She’s like a starlin’, And in love with her I’m gettin’ more and more, Her name is Mary, She’s from Dunlary; And her mother keeps a little candy-store.”

“That settles it,” says the Queen. “It’s the gaoler you’ll serenade next.”

When Essex heard that, he thrimbled so much that the button of his cuirass shook off and rowled under the dhressin’-table.

“Arrest that man,” says the Queen, when the Head-Constable came to the door; “arrest that thrayter,” says she, “and never let me set eyes on him again.”

And, indeed, she never did, and soon after that he met with his death from the skelp of an axe he got when he was standin’ on Tower Hill.

The Boat’s Share.

From “Further Experiences of an Irish R.M.”

By E. Œ. Somerville and Martin Ross.

The affair on the strand at Hare Island ripened, with complexity of summonses and cross-summonses, into an imposing Petty Sessions case. Two separate deputations presented themselves at Shreelane, equipped with black eyes and other conventional injuries, one of them armed with a creelful of live lobsters to underline the argument. To decline the bribe was of no avail: the deputation decanted them upon the floor of the hall and retired, and the lobsters spread themselves at large over the house, and to this hour remain the nightmare of the nursery.

The next Petty Sessions day was wet; the tall windows of the Court House were grey and streaming, and the reek of wet humanity ascended to the ceiling. As I took my seat on the bench I perceived with an inward groan that the services of the two most eloquent solicitors in Skebawn had been engaged. This meant that Justice would not have run its course till heaven knew that dim hour of the afternoon, and that that course would be devious and difficult.

All the pews and galleries (any Irish court-house might, with the addition of a harmonium, pass presentably as a dissenting chapel) were full, and a line of flat-capped policemen stood like church-wardens near the door. Under the galleries, behind what might have answered to choir-stalls, the witnesses and their friends hid in darkness, which could, however, but partially conceal two resplendent young ladies, barmaids, who were to appear in a subsequent Sunday drinking case. I was a little late, and when I arrived Flurry Knox, supported by a couple of other magistrates, was in the chair, imperturbable of countenance as was his wont, his fair and delusive youthfulness of aspect unimpaired by his varied experiences during the war, his roving, subtle eye untamed by four years of matrimony.

A woman was being examined, a square and ugly country-woman, with wispy fair hair, a slow, dignified manner, and a slight and impressive stammer. I recognised her as one of the bodyguard of the lobsters. Mr. Mooney, solicitor for the Brickleys, widely known, and respected as “Roaring Jack,” was in possession of that much-enduring organ, the ear of the Court.

“Now, Kate Keohane!” he thundered, “tell me what time it was when all this was going on?”

“About duskish, sir. Con Brickley was slashing the f-fish at me mother the same time. He never said a word but to take the shtick and fire me dead with it on the sthrand. He gave me plenty of blood to dhrink, too,” said the witness, with acid decorum. She paused to permit this agreeable fact to sink in, and added, “his wife wanted to f-fashten on me the same time, an’ she havin’ the steer of the boat to sthrike me.”

These were not precisely the facts that Mr. Murphy, as solicitor for the defence, wished to elicit.

“Would you kindly explain what you mean by the steer of the boat?” he demanded, sparring for wind in as intimidating a manner as possible. The witness stared at him.

“Sure, ’tis the shtick, like, that they pulls here and there to go in their choice place.”

“We may presume that the lady is referring to the tiller,” said Mr. Mooney, with a facetious eye at the Bench. “Maybe now, ma’am, you can explain to us what sort of a boat is she?”

“She’s that owld that if it wasn’t for the weeds that’s holding her together she’d bursht up in the deep.”

“And who owns this valuable property?” pursued Mr. Mooney.

“She’s between Con Brickley and me brother, an the saine1 is between four, an’ whatever crew does be in it should get their share, and the boat has a man’s share.”

I made no attempt to comprehend this, relying with well-founded confidence on Flurry Knox’s grasp of such enigmas.

“Was Con Brickley fishing the same day?”

“He was not, sir. He was at Lisheen Fair; for as clever as he is, he couldn’t kill two birds under one slat!”

Kate Keohane’s voice moved unhurried from sentence to sentence, and her slow, pale eyes turned for an instant to the lair of the witnesses under the gallery.

“And you’re asking the Bench to believe that this decent man left his business in Lisheen in order to slash fish at your mother?” said Mr. Mooney, truculently.

“B’lieve me, sorra much business he laves afther him wherever he’ll go!” returned the witness. “Himself and his wife had business enough on the sthrand when the fish was dividing, and it is then themselves put every name on me.”

“Ah, what harm are names!” said Mr. Mooney, dallying elegantly with a massive watch-chain.

“Come, now, ma’am! will you swear you got any ill-usage from Con Brickley or his wife?” He leaned over the front of his pew, and waited for the answer with his massive red head on one side.

“I was givin’ blood like a c-cow that ye’d shtab with a knife!” said Kate Keohane, with unshaken dignity. “If it was yourself that was in it ye’d feel the smart as well as me. My hand and word on it, ye would! The marks is on me head still, like the prints of dog-bites!”

She lifted a lock of hair from her forehead, and exhibited a sufficiently repellent injury. Flurry Knox leaned forward.

“Are you sure you haven’t that since the time there was that business between yourself and the post-mistress at Munig? I’m told you had the name of the post-office on your forehead where she struck you with the office stamp! Try, now, sergeant, can you read Munig on her forehead?”

The Court, not excepting its line of church-wardens, dissolved into laughter; Kate Keohane preserved an offended silence.

“I suppose you want us to believe,” resumed Mr. Mooney, sarcastically, “that a fine, hearty woman like you wasn’t defending yourself!” Then, with a turkey-cock burst of fury, “On your oath, now! What did you strike Honora Brickley with? Answer me that now! What had you in your hand?”

“I had nothing only the little rod I had after the ass,” answered Miss Keohane, with a child-like candour. “I done nothing to them; but as for Con Brickley, he put his back to the cliff and he took the flannel wrop that he had on him, and he threw it on the sthrand, and he said he would have blood, murdher, or f-fish!”

She folded her shawl across her breast, a picture of virtue assailed, yet unassailed.

“You may go down now,” said “Roaring Jack,” rather hastily, “I want to have a few words with your brother.”

Miss Keohane retired, without having moulted a feather of her dignity, and her brother Jer came heavily up the steps and on to the platform, his hot, wary, blue eyes gathering in the Bench and the attorneys in one bold, comprehensive glance. He was a tall, dark man of about five and forty, clean-shaved, save for two clerical inches of black whiskers, and in feature of the type of a London clergyman who would probably preach on Browning.

“Well, sir!” began Mr. Mooney, stimulatingly, “and are you the biggest blackguard from here to America?”

“I am not,” said Jer Keohane, tranquilly.

“We had you here before us not so very long ago about kicking a goat, wasn’t it? You got a little touch of a pound, I think?”

This delicate allusion to a fine that the Bench had thought fit to impose did not distress the witness.

“I did, sir.”

“And how’s our friend the goat?” went on Mr. Mooney, with the furious facetiousness reserved for hustling tough witnesses.

“Well, I suppose she’s something west of the Skelligs by now,” replied Jer Keohane with great composure.

An appreciative grin ran round the Court. The fact that the goat had died of the kick and been “given the cliff” being regarded as an excellent jest.

Mr. Mooney consulted his notes:

“Well, now, about this fight,” he said, pleasantly, “did you see your sister catch Mrs. Brickley and pull her hair down to the ground and drag her shawl off of her?”

“Well,” said the witness, airily, “they had a bit of a scratch on account o’ the fish. Con Brickley had the shteer o’ the boat in his hand, and says he, ‘is there any man here that’ll take the shteer from me?’ The man was dhrunk, of course,” added Jer charitably.

“Did you have any talk with his wife about the fish?”

“I couldn’t tell the words that she said to me!” replied the witness, with a reverential glance at the Bench, “and she over-right three crowds o’ men that was on the sthrand.”

Mr. Mooney put his hands in his pockets and surveyed the witness.

“You’re a very refined gentleman, upon my word! Were you ever in England?”

“I was, part of three years.”

“Oh, that accounts for it, I suppose!” said Mr. Mooney, accepting this lucid statement without a stagger, and passing lightly on. “You’re a widower, I understand, with no objection to consoling yourself?”

No answer.

“Now, sir! Can you deny that you made proposals of marriage to Con Brickley’s daughter last Shraft?”

The plot thickened. Con Brickley’s daughter was my kitchen maid.

Jer Keohane smiled tolerantly. “Ah! that was a thing o’ nothing.”

“Nothing!” said Mr. Mooney, with a roar of a tornado. “Do you call an impudent proposal of marriage to a respectable man’s daughter nothing! That’s English manners, I suppose!”

“I was goin’ home one Sunday,” said Jer Keohane, conversationally, to the Bench, “and I met the gerr’l and her mother. I spoke to the gerr’l in a friendly way, and asked her why wasn’t she gettin’ marrid, and she commenced to peg stones at me and dhrew several blows of an umbrella on me. I had only three bottles of porther taken. There now was the whole of it.”

Mrs. Brickley, from the gallery, groaned heavily and ironically.

I found it difficult to connect these coquetries with my impressions of my late kitchenmaid, a furtive and touzled being, who, in conjunction with a pail and scrubbing brush, had been wont to melt round corners and into doorways at my approach.

“Are we trying a breach of promise?” interpolated Flurry; “if so, we ought to have the plaintiff in.”

“My purpose, sir,” said Mr. Mooney, in a manner discouraging to levity, “is to show that my clients have received annoyance and contempt from this man and his sister such as no parents would submit to.”

A hand came forth from under the gallery and plucked at Mr. Mooney’s coat. A red monkey face appeared out of the darkness, and there was a hoarse whisper, whose purport I could not gather. Con Brickley, the defendant, was giving instructions to his lawyer.

It was perhaps as a result of these that Jer Keohane’s evidence closed here. There was a brief interval enlivened by coughs, grinding of heavy boots on the floor, and some mumbling and groaning under the gallery.

“There’s great duck-shooting out on a lake on this island,” commented Flurry to me, in a whisper. “My grand-uncle went there one time with an old duck-gun he had, that he fired with a fuse. He was three hours stalking the ducks before he got the gun laid. He lit the fuse then, and it set to work spluttering and hissing like a goods-engine till there wasn’t a duck within ten miles. The gun went off then.”

This useful side-light on the matter in hand was interrupted by the cumbrous ascent of the one-legged Con Brickley to the witness-table. He sat down heavily, with his slouch hat on his sound knee, and his wooden stump stuck out before him. His large monkey face was immovably serious; his eye was small, light grey, and very quick.

McCaffery, the opposition attorney, a thin, restless youth, with ears like the handles of an urn, took him in hand. To the pelting cross-examination that beset him Con Brickley replied with sombre deliberation, and with a manner of uninterested honesty, emphasising what he said with slight, very effective gestures of his big, supple hands. His voice was deep and pleasant; it betrayed no hint of so trivial a thing as satisfaction when, in the teeth of Mr. McCaffery’s leading questions, he established the fact that the “little rod” with which Miss Kate Keohane had beaten his wife was the handle of a pitch-fork.

“I was counting the fish the same time,” went on Con Brickley, in his rolling basso profundissimo, “and she said, ‘Let the divil clear me out of the sthrand, for there’s no one else will put me out!’ says she.”

“It was then she got the blow, I suppose!” said McCaffery, venomously; “you had a stick yourself, I daresay?”

“Yes. I had a stick. I must have a stick,” (deep and mellow pathos was hinted at in the voice), “I am sorry to say. What could I do to her? A man with a wooden leg on a sthrand could do nothing!”

Something like a laugh ran at the back of the court. Mr. McCaffery’s ears turned scarlet and became quite decorative. On or off a strand Con Brickley was not a person to be scored off easily.

His clumsy, yet impressive, descent from the witness stand followed almost immediately, and was not the least telling feature of his evidence. Mr. Mooney surveyed his exit with the admiration of one artist for another, and, rising, asked the Bench’s permission to call Mrs. Brickley.

Mrs. Brickley, as she mounted to the platform, in the dark and nun-like severity of her long cloak, the stately blue cloth cloak that is the privilege of the Munster peasant woman, was an example of the rarely-blended qualities of picturesqueness and respectability. As she took her seat in the chair, she flung the deep hood back on her shoulders, and met the gaze of the court with her grey head erect; she was a witness to be proud of.

“Now, Mrs. Brickley,” said “Roaring Jack,” urbanely, “will you describe this interview between your daughter and Keohane.”

“It was last Sunday in Shrove, your Worship, Mr. Flurry Knox, and gentlemen,” began Mrs. Brickley nimbly, “meself and me little gerr’l was comin’ from mass, and Mr. Jer Keohane came up to us and got on in a most unmannerable way. He asked me daughter would she marry him. Me daughter told him she would not, quite friendly like. I’ll tell you no lie, gentlemen, she was teasing him with the umbrella the same time; an’ he raised his shtick and dhrew a sthroke on her in the back, an’ the little gerr’l took up a small pebble of a stone and fired it at him. She put the umbrella up to his mouth, but she called him no names. But as for him, the names he put on her was to call her ‘a nasty, long, slopeen of a proud thing, and a slopeen of a proud tinker.’”

“Very lover-like expressions!” commented Mr. Mooney, doubtless stimulated by the lady-like titters from the barmaids; “and had this romantic gentleman made any previous proposals for your daughter?”

“Himself had two friends over from across the water one night to make the match, a Sathurday it was, and they should land the lee side o’ the island, for the wind was a fright,” replied Mrs. Brickley, launching her tale with the power of easy narration that is bestowed with such amazing liberality on her class. “The three o’ them had dhrink taken, an’ I went to shlap out the door agin them. Me husband said then we should let them in, if it was a Turk itself, with the rain that was in it. They were talking in it then till near the dawning, and in the latther end all that was between them was the boat’s share.”

“What do you mean by ‘the boat’s share’?” said I.

“’Tis the same as a man’s share, me worshipful gintleman,” returned Mrs. Brickley, splendidly; “it goes with the boat always, afther the crew and the saine has their share got.”

I possibly looked as enlightened as I felt by this exposition.

“You mean that Jer wouldn’t have her unless he got the boat’s share with her?” suggested Flurry.

“He said it over-right all that was in the house, and he reddening his pipe at the fire,” replied Mrs. Brickley, in full-sailed response to the helm. “‘D’ye think,’ says I to him, ‘that me daughter would leave a lovely situation, with a kind and tendher masther, for a mean, hungry blagyard like yerself,’ says I, ‘that’s livin’ always in this backwards place!’ says I.”

This touching expression of preference for myself, as opposed to Mr. Keohane, was received with expressionless respect by the Court. Flurry, with an impassive countenance, kicked me heavily under cover of the desk. I said that we had better get on to the assault on the strand. Nothing could have been more to Mrs. Brickley’s taste. We were minutely instructed as to how Katie Keohane drew the shawleen forward on Mrs. Brickley’s head to stifle her; and how Norrie Keohane was fast in her hair. Of how Mrs. Brickley had then given a stroke upwards between herself and her face (whatever that might mean) and loosed Norrie from her hair. Of how she then sat down and commenced to cry from the use they had for her.

“’Twas all I done,” she concluded, looking like a sacred picture, “I gave her a stroke of a pollock on them.”

“As for language,” replied Mrs. Brickley, with clear eyes, a little uplifted in the direction of the ceiling, “there was no name from heaven or hell but she had it on me, and wishin’ the divil might burn the two heels off me, and the like of me wasn’t in sivin parishes! And that was the clane part of the discoorse, yer Worships!”

Mrs. Brickley here drew her cloak more closely about her, as though to enshroud herself in her own refinement, and presented to the Bench a silence as elaborate as a drop scene. It implied, amongst other things, a generous confidence in the imaginative powers of her audience.

Whether or no this was misplaced, Mrs. Brickley was not invited further to enlighten the Court. After her departure the case droned on in inexhaustible rancour, and trackless complications as to the shares of the fish. Its ethics and its arithmetic would have defied the allied intellects of Solomon and Bishop Colenso. It was somewhere in that dead afternoon, when it was too late for lunch and too early for tea, that the Bench, wan with hunger, wound up the affair, by impartially binding both parties in sheaves “to the Peace.”

1 A large net.

“King William.”

From “Aliens of the West.”

By Charlotte O’Conor Eccles.

Mrs. Macfarlane was a tall, thin, and eminently respectable woman of fifty, possessed of many rigid virtues. She was a native of the north of Ireland, and had come originally to Toomevara as maid to the Dowager Lady Dunanway. On the death of her mistress, whom she served faithfully for many years, Lord Dunanway offered to set her up in business, and at the time our story opens she had been for two years proprietress of the buffet, and made a decent living by it; for as Toomevara is situated on the Great Southern and Western Railway, a fair amount of traffic passes through it.

The stationmaster, familiarly known as “Jim” O’Brien, was Toomevara born, and had once been a porter on that very line. He was an intelligent, easy-going, yet quick-tempered man of pronounced Celtic type, with a round, good-natured face, a humorous mouth, shrewd, twinkling eyes, and immense volubility.

Between him and Mrs. Macfarlane the deadliest warfare raged. She was cold and superior, and implacably in the right. She pointed out Jim’s deficiencies whenever she saw them, and she saw them very often. All day long she sat in her refreshment room, spectacles on nose, her Bible open before her, knitting, and rising only at the entrance of a customer. Jim had an uneasy consciousness that nothing escaped her eye, and her critical remarks had more than once been reported to him.

“The bitther ould pill!” he said to his wife. “Why, the very look ov her ‘ud sour a crock o’ crame. She’s as cross as a bag ov weasels.”

Jim was a Catholic and a Nationalist. He belonged to the “Laygue,” and spoke at public meetings as often as his duties allowed. He objected to being referred to by Mrs. Macfarlane as a “Papish” and a “Rebel.”

“Papish, indeed!” said he. “Ribbil, indeed! Tell the woman to keep a civil tongue in her head, or ‘twill be worse for her.”

“How did the likes ov her iver get a husban’?” he would ask, distractedly, after a sparring match. “Troth, an’ ’tis no wondher the poor man died.”

Mrs. Macfarlane was full of fight and courage. Her proudest boast was of being the granddaughter, daughter, sister, and widow of Orangemen.

She looked on herself in Toomevara as a child of Israel among the Babylonians, and felt that it behoved her to uphold the standard of her faith. To this end she sang the praises of the Battle of the Boyne with a triumph that aggravated O’Brien to madness.

“God Almighty help the woman! Is it Irish at all she is—or what? To see her makin’ merry because a parcel o’ rascally Dutchmen——! Sure, doesn’t she know ’twas Irish blood they spilt at the Boyne? An’ to see her takin’ pride in it turns me sick, so it does. If she was English, now, I could stand it, but she callin’ herself an Irishwoman—faith, she has the bad dhrop in her, so she has, to be glad at her counthry’s misforchins.”

Jim’s rage was the greater because Mrs. Macfarlane, whatever she said, said little or nothing to him. She passed him by with lofty scorn and indifference affecting not to see him; and while she did many things that O’Brien found supremely annoying, they were things strictly within her rights.

Matters had not arrived at this pass all at once. The feud dated from Mrs. Macfarlane’s having adopted a little black dog—a mongrel—on which she lavished a wealth of affection, and which, as the most endearing title she knew, she named “King William.” This, of course, was nobody’s concern save Mrs. Macfarlane’s own, and in a world of philosophers she would have been allowed to amuse herself unheeded, but Jim O’Brien was not a philosopher.

Unlike most Irishmen, he had a great love for flowers. His garden was beautifully kept, and he was prouder of his roses than of anything on earth save his eldest daughter, Kitty, who was nearly sixteen. Picture, then, his rage and dismay when he one day found his beds scratched into holes and his roses uprooted by “King William,” who had developed a mania for hiding away bones under Jim’s flowers. O’Brien made loud and angry complaints to the dog’s owner, which she received with unconcern and disbelief.

“Please, Mr. O’Brien,” she said, with dignity, “don’t try to put it on the puir wee dog. Even if yu du dislike his name, that’s no reason for saying he was in your garden. He knows betther, so he does, than to go where he’s not wanted.”

After this it was open war between the stationmaster and the widow.

Under the windows of the refreshment room were two narrow flower-beds. These Jim took care never to touch, affecting to consider them the exclusive property of Mrs. Macfarlane. They were long left uncultivated, an eyesore to the stationmaster; but one day Kelly, the porter, came to him with an air of mystery, to say that “th ould wan”—for by this term was Mrs. Macfarlane generally indicated—“was settin’ somethin’ in the beds beyant.”

Jim came out of his office and walked up and down the platform with an air of elaborate unconsciousness. Sure enough, there was Mrs. Macfarlane gardening. She had donned old gloves and a clean checked apron, and, trowel in hand, was breaking up the caked earth, preparatory, it would seem, to setting plants.

“What the dickens is she doin’?” asked Jim, when he got back.

“Not a wan ov me knows,” said Kelly. “She’s been grubbin’ there since nine o’clock.”

From this time Mrs. Macfarlane was assiduous in the care of her two flower-beds. Every day she might be seen weeding or watering, and though Jim steadily averted his gaze, he was devoured by curiosity as to the probable results. What on earth did she want to grow? The weeks passed. Tiny green seedlings at last pushed their way through the soil, and in due course the nature of the plants became evident. Jim was highly excited, and rushed home to tell his wife.

“Be the hokey, Mary,” he said, “’tis lilies she has there, an may I never sin, but it’s my belief they’re orange lilies, an’ if they are, I’ll root ev’ry wan ov thim out, if I die for it.”

“Be quiet, now,” said Mary. “How d’ye know they’re lilies at all? For the love o’ God keep her tongue off ov ye, an’ don’t be puttin’ yersel’ in her way.”

“Whist, woman, d’ye think I’m a fool? ’Tis lilies th’ are annyways, an’ time’ll tell if they’re orange or not, but faith, if th’are, I won’t shtand it.’ I’ll complain to the Boord.”

“Sure the Boord’ll be on her side, man. Don’t yeh know the backin’ she has? They’ll say ‘Why shouldn’t she have orange lilies if she likes?’”

“Ah, Mary, ’tis too sinsible y’are inthirely. Have ye no sperrit, woman alive, to let her ride rough-shod over uz this way? ‘Make a mouse o’ yerself an’ the cat’ll ate ye,’ ‘s a thrue saying. Sure, Saint Pether himself cuddn’t shtand it, an’ be the piper that played before Moses, I won’t!”

“Ye misfortunit man, don’t be dhrawin’ down ructions on yer head. Haven’t yeh childer to think about? An’ don’t be throublin’ yerself over what she does. ’Tis plazin’ her y’are whin she sees y’re mad. Take no notice, man, an’ p’raps she’ll shtop.”

“The divil fly away wid her for a bitther ould sarpint. The vinom’s in her, sure enough. Why should I put up wid her, I’d like to know?”

“Ah, keep yer tongue between yer teeth, Jim. ’Tis too onprudent y’are. Not a worrd ye dhrop but is brought back to her be some wan. Have sinse, man. You’ll go sayin’ that to Joe Kelly, an’ he’ll have it over the town in no time, an’ some wan’ll carry it to her.”

“An’ do ye think I care a thrawneen1 for the likes ov her? Faith, not a pin. If you got yer way, Mary, ye’d have me like the man that was hanged for sayin’ nothin’. Sure, I never did a hand’s turn agin her, an’ ’tis a low, mane thrick ov her to go settin’ orange lilies over foreninst me, an’ she knowin’ me opinions.”

“Faith, I’ll not say it wasn’t, Jim, if they are orange lilies; but sure, ye don’t know rightly yet what th’are, an’ in God’s name keep quite till you do.”

The days went by. The lilies grew taller and taller. They budded, they bloomed, and, sure enough, Jim had been in the right—orange lilies they proved to be.

“They’ll mek a fine show for the twelfth of July, I’m thinkin’,” said Mrs. Macfarlane, complacently, as she walked by her beds, swinging a dripping watering-pot.

At the time of the blossoming of the orange lilies, James O’Brien was not at home, having had to go some twenty miles down the line on official business. The obnoxious flowers took advantage of his absence to make a gay show. When he returned, as luck would have it Mrs. Macfarlane was away, and had shut up the refreshment room, but had not locked it. No one locks doors in Toomevara unless their absence is to be lengthy. She had left “King William” behind, and told Joe Kelly to take care of the dog, in case he should be lonely, for she had been invited to the wedding of an old fellow servant, the late butler at Lord Dunanway’s, who was to be married that day to the steward’s daughter.