Front matter (continued 5)

All this Joe Kelly told the stationmaster on his return, but he did not say a word about the orange lilies, being afraid of an explosion, and, as he said, “detarmined not to meddle or make, but just to let him find it out himself.”

For quite a time Jim was occupied over way-bills in his little office; but at last his attention was distracted by the long continued howling and yelping of a dog.

“Let the baste out, can’t ye?” he at length said to Kelly. “I can’t stand listening to um anny longer.”

“I was afeared ’twas run over he might be, agin’ she came back,” said Kelly, “‘an so I shut um up.”

“Sure, there’s no danger. There won’t be a thrain in for the next two hours, an’ if he was run over itself, God knows he’d be no loss. ’Tisn’t meself ‘ud grieve for um, th’ ill-favoured cur.”

“King William” was accordingly released.

When O’Brien had finished his task, he stood for a time at the office door, his hands crossed behind him, supporting his coat tails, his eyes fixed abstractedly on the sky. Presently he started for his usual walk up and down the platform, when his eye was at once caught by the flare of the stately rows of orange lilies.

“Be the Holy Poker!” he exclaimed. “But I was right. ’Tis orange th’ are, sure enough. What’ll Mary say now? Faith, ’tis lies they do be tellin’ whin they say there’s no riptiles in Ireland. That ould woman bangs Banagher, an’ Banagher bangs the divil.”

He stopped in front of the obnoxious flowers.

“Isn’t it the murthering pity there’s nothing I can plant to spite her. She has the pull over me entirely. Shamerogues makes no show at all—ye’d pass them unbeknownst—while orange lilies yeh can see a mile off. Now, who but herself ‘ud be up to the likes o’ this?”

At the moment he became aware of an extraordinary commotion among the lilies, and, looking closer, perceived “King William” in their midst, scratching as if for bare life, scattering mould, leaves, and bulbs to the four winds, and with every stroke of his hind legs dealing destruction to the carefully-tended flowers.

The sight filled Jim with sudden gladness.

“More power to the dog!” he cried, with irrepressible glee. “More power to um! Sure, he has more sinse than his missus. ‘King William,’ indeed, an’ he rootin’ up orange lilies! Ho, ho! Tare an’ ouns! but ’tis the biggest joke that iver I hard in me life. More power to ye! Good dog!”

Rubbing his hands in an ecstasy of delight, he watched “King William” at his work of devastation, and, regretfully be it confessed, when the dog paused, animated him to fresh efforts by thrilling cries of “Rats!”

“King William” sprang wildly hither and thither, running from end to end of the beds, snapping the brittle lily stems, scattering the blossoms.

“Be gum, but it’s great! Look at um now. Cruel wars to the Queen o’ Spain if iver I seen such shport! Go it, ‘King William!’ Smash thim, me boy! Good dog! Out wid them!” roared Jim, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks. “Faith, ’tis mad she’ll be. I’d give sixpence to see her face. O Lord! O Lord! sure, it’s the biggest joke that iver was.”

At last “King William” tired of the game, but only when every lily lay low, and Mrs. Macfarlane’s carefully tended flower beds were a chaos of broken stalks and trampled blossoms.

As O’Brien, in high good humour, having communicated the side-splitting joke to Mary and Finnerty, was busy over his account books, Kelly came in.

“She’s back,” he whispered, “an she’s neither to hold nor to bind. I was watchin’ out, an’ sure, ’twas shtruck all of a hape she was whin she seen thim lilies; an’ now I’ll take me oath she’s goin’ to come here, for, begob, she looks as cross as nine highways.”

“Letter come,” chuckled O’Brien; “I’m ready forrer.”

At this moment the office door was burst open with violence, and Mrs. Macfarlane, in her best Sunday costume, bonnet, black gloves, and umbrella included, her face very pale save the cheek bones, where two bright pink spots burned, entered the room.

“Misther O’Brien,” she said in a high, stilted voice that trembled with rage, “will yu please to inform me the meanin’ o’ this dasthardly outrage?”

“Arrah, what outrage are ye talkin’ ov ma’am?” asked O’Brien, innocently. “Sure, be the looks ov ye I think somethin’ has upset ye entirely. Faith, ye’re lookin’ as angry as if you were vexed, as the sayin’ is.”

“Oh, to be sure. A great wonder, indeed, that I should be vexed. ‘Crabbit was that cause had!’” interrupted Mrs Macfarlane with a sneer. “You’re not decavin’ me, sir. I’m not takin in by yur pretinces, but if there’s law in the land, or justice, I’ll have it of yu.”

“Would ye mind, ma’am,” said O’Brien, imperturbably, for his superabounding delight made him feel quite calm and superior to the angry woman—“would ye mind statin’ in plain English what y’re talkin’ about for not a wan ov me knows?”

“Oh, yu son of Judas! Oh, yu deceivin’ wretch! As if it wasn’t yu that is afther desthroyin’ my flower-beds!”

“Ah, thin, it is y’r ould flower-beds y’re makin’ all this row about? Y’r dirty orange lilies’. Sure, ’tis clared out o’ the place they ought t’ve been long ago for weeds. ’Tis mesel’ that’s glad they’re gone, an’ so I tell ye plump an’ plain; bud as for me desthroyin’ them, sorra finger iver I laid on thim; I wouldn’t demane mesel’.”

“An’ if yu please, Misther O’Brien,” said Mrs. Macfarlane with ferocious politeness, “will yu kindly mintion, if yu did not do the job, who did?”

“Faith, that’s where the joke comes in,” said O’Brien, pleasantly. “’Twas the very same baste that ruinated me roses, bad cess to him, y’r precious pet, ‘King William’!”

“Oh! is it lavin’ it on the dog y’are, yu traitorous Jesuit! The puir wee dog that never harmed yu? Sure, ’tis only a Papist would think of a mane thrick like that to shift the blame.”

The colour rose to O’Brien’s face.

“Mrs. Macfarlane, ma’am,” he said, with laboured civility, “wid yer permission we’ll lave me religion out o’ this. Maybe, if ye say much more, I might be losin’ me timper wid ye.”

“Much I mind what yu lose,” cried Mrs. Macfarlane. “It’s thransported the likes o’ yu should be for a set o’ robbin’, murderin’, desthroyin’, thraytors.”

“Have a care, ma’am, how yer spake to yer betthers. Robbin’, deceivin’, murdherin’, desthroyin’, thraytors, indeed! I like that! What brought over the lot ov yez, Williamites an’ Cromwaylians an’ English an’ Scotch, but to rob, an’ desave, an’ desthroy, an’ murdher uz, an’ stale our land, an’ bid uz go to hell or to Connaught, an’ grow fat on what was ours before iver yez came, an’ thin jibe uz for bein’ poor? Thraytors! Thraytor yerself, for that’s what the lot ov yez is. Who wants yez here at all?”

Exasperated beyond endurance, Mrs. Macfarlane struck at the stationmaster with her neat black umbrella, and had given him a nasty cut across the brow, when Kelly interfered, as well as Finnerty and Mrs. O’Brien, who rushed in, attracted by the noise. Between them O’Brien was held back under a shower of blows, and the angry woman hustled outside, whence she retreated to her own quarters, muttering threats all the way.

“Oh, Jim, avourneen! ’tis bleedin’ y’are,” shrieked poor anxious Mary, wildly. “Oh, wirra, why did ye dhraw her on ye? Sure, I tould ye how ‘twould be. As sure as God made little apples she’ll process ye, an’ she has the quality on her side.”

“Letter,” said Jim; “much good she’ll get by it. Is it makin’ a liar ov me she’d be whin I tould her I didn’t touch her ould lilies? Sure, I’ll process her back for assaultin’ an’ battherin me. Ye all saw her, an’ me not touchin’ her, the calliagh!”2

“Begorra, ’tis thrue for him,” said Kelly. “She flagellated him wid her umbrelly, an’ sorra blow missed bud the wan that didn’t hit, and on’y I was here, an’ lit on her suddent, like a bee on a posy, she’d have had his life, so she would.”

Not for an instant did Mrs. Macfarlane forget her cause of offence, or believe O’Brien’s story that it was the dog that had destroyed her orange lilies. After some consideration she hit on an ingenious device that satisfied her as being at once supremely annoying to her enemy and well within the law. Her lilies, emblems of the religious and political faith that were in her, were gone; but she still had means to testify to her beliefs, and protest against O’Brien and all that he represented to her mind.

Next day, when the midday train had just steamed into the station, Jim was startled by hearing a wild cheer—

“Hi, ‘King William’! Hi, ‘King William’! Come back, ‘King William’! ‘King William,’ my darlin’, ‘King William’!”

The air rang with the shrill party cry, and when Jim rushed out he found that Mrs. Macfarlane had allowed her dog to run down the platform just as the passengers were alighting, and was now following him, under the pretence of calling him back. There was nothing to be done. The dog’s name certainly was “King William,” and Mrs. Macfarlane was at liberty to recall him if he strayed.

Jim stood for a moment like one transfixed.

“Faith, I b’leeve ’tis the divil’s grandmother she is,” he exclaimed.

Mrs. Macfarlane passed him with a deliberately unseeing eye. Had he been the gate-post, she could not have taken less notice of his presence, as, having made her way to the extreme end of the platform, cheering her “King William,” she picked up her dog, and marched back in triumph.

Speedily did it become evident that Mrs. Macfarlane was pursuing a regular plan of campaign, for at the arrival of every train that entered the station that day, she went through the same performance of letting loose the dog and then pursuing him down the platform, waving her arms and yelling for “King William.”

By the second challenge Jim had risen to the situation and formed his counterplot. He saw and heard her in stony silence, apparently as indifferent to her tactics as she to his presence, but he was only biding his time. No sooner did passengers alight and enter the refreshment room, than, having just given them time to be seated, he rushed up, threw open the door of his enemy’s headquarters, and, putting in his cried, cried:—

“Take yer places, gintlemin immaydiately. The thrain’s just off. Hurry up, will yez? She’s away!”

The hungry and discomfited passengers hurried out, pell mell, and Mrs. Macfarlane was left speechless with indignation.

“I bet I’ve got the whip hand ov her this time,” chuckled Jim, as he gave the signal to start.

Mrs. Macfarlane’s spirit, however, was not broken. From morning until night, whether the day was wet or fine, she greeted the arrival of each train with loud cries for “King William,” and on each occasion Jim retorted by bundling out all her customers before they could touch bite or sup.

The feud continued.

Each day Mrs. Macfarlane, gaunter, fiercer, paler, and more resolute in ignoring the stationmaster’s presence, flaunted her principles up and down the platform. Each day did Jim hurry the departure of the trains and sweep off her customers. Never before had there been such punctuality known at Toomevara, which is situated on an easy-going line, where usually the guard, when indignant tourists point out that the express is some twenty minutes’ late, is accustomed to reply,

“Why, so she is. ’Tis thrue for ye.”

One day, however, Mrs. Macfarlane did not appear. She had come out for the first train, walking a trifle feebly, and uttering her war cry in a somewhat quavering voice. When the next came, no Mrs. Macfarlane greeted it.

Jim himself was perplexed, and a little aggrieved. He had grown used to the daily strife, and missed the excitement of retorting on his foe.

“Maybe ’tis tired of it she is,” he speculated. “Time forrer. She knows now she won’t have things all her own way. She’s too domineerin’ by half.”

“What’s wrong with the ould wan, sir?” asked Joe Kelly, when he met O’Brien. “She didn’t shtir out whin she hard the thrain.”

“Faith, I dunno,” said Jim. “Hatchin’ more disturbance, I’ll bet. Faith, she’s like Conaty’s goose, nivir well but whin she’s doin’ mischief. Joe,” he said, “maybe y’ought to look in an’ see if anythin’ is wrong wid th’ ould wan.”

A moment more, and Jim heard him shouting, “Misther O’Brien, Misther O’Brien!” He ran at the sound. There, a tumbled heap, lay Mrs. Macfarlane, no longer a defiant virago, but a weak, sickly, elderly woman, partly supported on Joe Kelly’s knee, her face ghastly pale, her arms hanging limp.

“Be me sowl, but I think she’s dyin’,” cried Kelly. “She just raised her head whin she saw me, an’ wint off in a faint.”

“Lay her flat, Joe; lay her flat.”

“Lave her to me,” he said, “an’ do you run an’ tell the missus to come here at wanst. Maybe she’ll know what to do.”

Mary came in to find her husband gazing in a bewildered fashion at his prostrate enemy, and took command in a way that excited his admiration.

“Here,” said she, “give uz a hand to move her on to the seat. Jim, run home an’ get Biddy to fill two or three jars wid boilin’ wather, an’ bring thim along wid a blanket. She’s as cowld as death. Joe, fly off wid yeh for the docther.”

“What docther will I go for, ma’am?”

“The first ye can git,” said Mary, promptly beginning to chafe the inanimate woman’s hands and loosen her clothes.

When the doctor came he found Mrs. Macfarlane laid on an impromptu couch composed of two of the cushioned benches placed side by side. She was wrapped in blankets, had hot bottles to her feet and sides, and a mustard plaster over her heart.

“Bravo! Mrs. O’Brien,” he said, “I couldn’t have done better myself. I believe you have saved her life by being so quick—at least, saved it for the moment, for I think she is in for a severe illness. She will want careful nursing to pull her through.”

“She looks rale bad,” assented Mary.

“What are we to do with her?” said the doctor. “Is there no place where they would take her in?”

Mary glanced at Jim, but he did not speak.

“Sure, there’s a room in our house,” she ventured, after an awkward pause.

“The very thing,” said the doctor, “if you don’t mind the trouble, and if Mr. O’Brien does not object.”

Jim made no answer, but walked out.

“He doesn’t, docther,” cried Mary. “Sure, he has the rale good heart. I’ll run off now, an’ get the bed ready.”

As they passed Jim, who stood sulkily at the door, she contrived to squeeze his hand. “God bless yeh, me own Jim. You’ll be none the worse forrit. ’Tis no time for bearin’ malice, an’ our Blessed Lady’ll pray for yeh this day.”

Jim was silent.

“’Tis a cruel shame she should fall on uz,” he said, when his wife had disappeared; but he offered no further resistance.

Borne on an impromptu stretcher by Jim, Joe, Finnerty, and doctor, Mrs. Macfarlane was carried to the stationmaster’s house, undressed by Mary, and put to bed in the spotlessly clean, whitewashed upper room.

The cold and shivering had now passed off, and she was burning. Nervous fever, the doctor anticipated. She raved about her dog, about Jim, about the passengers, her rent, and fifty other things that made it evident her circumstances had preyed upon her mind.

Poor Mary was afraid of her at times; but there are no trained nurses at Toomevara, and, guided by Doctor Doherty’s directions, she tried to do her best, and managed wonderfully well.

There could be no doubt Jim did not like having the invalid in the house. But this did not prevent him from feeling very miserable. He became desperately anxious that Mrs. Macfarlane should not die, and astonished Mary by bringing home various jellies and meat extracts, that he fancied might be good for the patient; but he did this with a shy and hang-dog air by no means natural to him, and always made some ungracious speech as to the trouble, to prevent Mary thinking he was sorry for the part he had played. He replied with a downcast expression to all enquiries from outsiders as to Mrs. Macfarlane’s health, but he brought her dog into the house and fed it well.

“Not for her sake, God knows,” he explained; “but bekase the poor baste was frettin’ an’ I cudn’t see him there wid no wan to look to him.”

He refused, however, to style the animal “King William,” and called it “Billy” instead, a name which it soon learned to answer.

One evening, when the whitewashed room was all aglow with crimson light that flooded through the western window, Mrs. Macfarlane returned to consciousness. Mary was sitting by the bedside, sewing, having sent out the children in charge of Kitty to secure quiet in the house. For a long time, unobserved by her nurse, the sick woman lay feebly trying to understand. Suddenly she spoke—

“What is the matter?”

Mary jumped.

“To be sure,” she said, laying down her needlework, “’tis very bad you were intirely, ma’am; but, thanks be to God, you’re betther now.”

“Where am I?” asked Mrs. Macfarlane, after a considerable pause.

“In the station house, ma’am. Sure, don’t ye know me? I’m Mary O’Brien.”

“Mary O’Brien—O’Brien?”

“Yis, faith! Jim O’Brien’s wife.”

“An’ this is Jim O’Brien’s house?”

“Whose else id it be? But there now, don’t talk anny more. Sure, we’ll tell, ye all about it whin y’re betther. The docthor sez y’re to be kep’ quiet.”

“But who brought me here?”

“Troth, ’twas carried in ye were, an’ you near dyin’. Hush up now, will ye? Take a dhrop o’ this, an’ thry to go to shleep.”

When Jim came into his supper his wife said to him, “That craythure upstairs is mad to get away. She thinks we begrudge her the bit she ates.”

Jim was silent. Then he said, “Sure, annythin’ that’s bad she’ll b’leeve ov uz.”

“But ye’ve nivir been up to see her. Shlip into the room now, an’ ax her how she’s goin’ on. Let bygones be bygones, in the name of God.”

“I won’t,” said Jim.

“Oh, yes, ye will. Sure, afther all, though ye didn’t mane it, ye’re the cause ov it. Go to her now.”

“I don’t like.”

“Ah, go. ’Tis yer place, an’ you sinsibler than she is. Go an’ tell her to shtay till she’s well. Faith, I think that undher all that way of hers she’s softher than she looks. I tell ye, Jim, I seen her cryin’ over the dog, bekase she thought ’twas th’ only thing that loved her.”

Half pushed by Mary, Jim made his way up the steep stair, and knocked at the door of Mrs. Macfarlane’s attic.

“Come in,” said a feeble voice, and he stumbled into the room.

When Mrs. Macfarlane saw who it was, a flame lit in her hollow eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said, with grim politeness, “that yu find me here, Misther O’Brien; but it isn’t my fault. I wanted tu go a while ago, an’ your wife wouldn’t let me.”

“An’ very right she was; you’re not fit for it. Sure, don’t be talkin’ ov goin’ till ye’re better, ma’am,” said Jim, awkwardly. “Y’re heartily welcome for me. I come up to say—to say, I hope y’ll be in no hurry to move.”

“Yu’re very good, but it’s not to be expected I’d find myself easy under this roof, where, I can assure yu, I’d never have come of my own free will; an’ I apologise to yu, Misther O’Brien, for givin’ so much trouble—not that I could help myself.”

“Sure, ’tis I that should apologise,” blurted out Jim; “an’ rale sorry I am—though, maybe, ye won’t b’lieve me—that I ever dhruv the customers out.”

For a long time Mrs. Macfarlane did not speak.

“I could forgive that easier than your rootin’ up my lilies,” she said, in a strained voice.

“But that I never did. God knows an’ sees me this night, an’ He knows that I never laid a finger on thim. I kem out, an’ foun’ the dog there scrattin’ at thim, an’ if this was me last dyin’ worrd, ’tis thrue.”

“An’ ’twas really the wee dog?”

“It was, though I done wrong in laughin’ at him, an’ cheerin’ him on; but, sure, ye wouldn’t mind me whin I told ye he was at me roses, an’ I thought it sarved ye right, an’ that ye called him ‘King William’ to spite me.”

“So I did,” said Mrs. Macfarlane, and, she added, more gently, “I’m sorry now.”

“Are ye so?” said Jim, brightening. “Faith, I’m glad to hear ye say it. We was both in the wrong, ye see, an’ if you bear no malice, I don’t.”

“Yu have been very good to me, seein’ how I misjudged you,” said Mrs. Macfarlane.

“Not a bit ov it; an’ ’twas the wife anyhow, for, begorra, I was hardened against ye, so I was.”

“An’ yu’ve spent yer money on me, an’ I——”

“Sure, don’t say a worrd about id. I owed it to you, so I did, but, begorra, ye won’t have to complain ov wantin’ custom wanst yer well.”

Mrs. Macfarlane smiled wanly.

“No chance o’ that, I’m afraid. What with my illness an’ all that went before it, business is gone. Look at the place shut up this three weeks an’ more.”

“Not it,” said Jim. “Sure, sence y’ve been sick I put our little Kitty, the shlip, in charge of the place, an’ she’s made a power o’ money for ye, an’ she on’y risin’ sixteen, an’ havin’ to help her mother an’ all. She’s a clever girl, so she is, though I sez it, an’ she ruz the prices all round. She couldn’t manage with the cakes, not knowin’ how to bake thim like yerself; but sure I bought her plenty ov biscuits at Connolly’s; and her mother cut her sandwidges, an’ made tay, an’ the dhrinks was all there as you left them, an’ Kitty kep’ count ov all she sould.”

Mrs. Macfarlane looked at him for a moment queerly then she drew the sheet over her face, and began to sob.

Jim, feeling wretchedly uncomfortable, crept downstairs.

“Go to the craythure, Mary,” he said. “Sure, she’s cryin’. We’ve made it up—an’ see here, let her want for nothin’.”

Mary ran upstairs, took grim Mrs. Macfarlane in her arms, and actually kissed her; and Mrs. Macfarlane’s grimness melted away, and the two women cried together for sympathy.

*******

Now, as the trains come into Toomevara station, Jim goes from carriage to carriage making himself a perfect nuisance to passengers with well-filled luncheon baskets. “Won’t ye have a cup o’ tay, me lady? There’s plinty ov time, an’ sure, we’ve the finest tay here that you’ll get on the line. There’s nothin’ like it this side o’ Dublin; A glass o’ whiskey, sir? ’Tis on’y the best John Jameson that’s kep’, or sherry wine? Ye won’t be shtoppin’ agin annywheres that you’ll like it as well. Sure, if ye don’t want to get out—though there’s plinty o’ time—I’ll give the ordher an’ have it sent over to yez. Cakes, ma’am, for the little ladies? ’Tis a long journey, an’ maybe they’ll be hungry—an apples? Apples is mighty good for childher. She keeps fine apples if ye like thim.”

Mrs. Macfarlane has grown quite fat, is at peace with all mankind, takes the deepest interest in the O’Brien family, and calls her dog “Billy.”

1 A blade of grass.

2 Hag

Quin’s Rick.

From “Doings and Dealings.”

By Jane Barlow.

Clear skies and gentle breezes had so favoured Hugh Lennon’s harvesting that his threshing was all safely done by the first week in October, and as the fine weather still continued, he took his wife, according to promise, for a ten days’ stay at the seaside. Mrs. Hugh was rather young and rather pretty, and much more than rather short-tempered. The neighbours often remarked that they would not be in Hugh Lennon’s coat for a great deal—at times specifying very considerable sums.

From her visit to Warrenpoint, however, she returned home in high good humour, and ran gaily upstairs to remove her flowery hat, announcing that she would do some fried eggs, Hugh’s favourite dish, for their tea. Hence, he was all the more disconcerted when, as he followed her along the little passage, she suddenly wheeled round upon him, and confronted him with a countenance full of wrath. She had merely been looking for a moment out of the small end window, and why, in the name of fortune, marvelled Hugh, should that have put her in one of her tantrums? But it evidently had done so. “Saw you ever the like of that?” she demanded furiously, pointing through the window.

“The like of what at all?” said Hugh.

“Look at it,” said Mrs. Hugh, and drummed with the point of her umbrella on a pane.

Hugh looked, and saw, conspicuous at a short distance beyond their backyard, a portly rick of straw, which their neighbour, Peter Quin, had nearly finished building. A youth was tumbling himself about on top of it with much agility, and shouting “Pull!” at each floundering fall. “Sure,” said Hugh, “it’s nothing, only young Jim Quin leppin’ their rick.”

“I wisht he’d break every bone in his ugly body, then, while he’s at it,” declared Mrs. Hugh.

“It’s a quare wish to be wishin’ agin the poor, decent lad,” said her husband, “and he lepping plenty of ricks for ourselves before now.”

“And what call have they to be cocking up e’er a one there,” said Mrs. Hugh, “where there was never such a thing seen till this day?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” said Hugh. “It’s a handy place enough for a one, I should say, there on the bit of a headland.”

“How handy it is!” said his wife, “and it shutting out the gap in the fence on me that was the only glimpse I had into our lane.”

“Well, supposing it does, where’s the odds?” said Hugh. “There’s ne’er a much in the lane for anybody to be glimpsing at.”

“The greatest convenience in the world it was,” declared Mrs. Hugh, “to be able to see you crossing it of a morning, and you coming in from the lower field, the way I could put the bit of bacon down ready for the breakfast.”

“Musha, good gracious, woman alive, if that’s all’s ailing you, where’s the need to be so exact?” said Hugh.

“Exact, is it?” said Mrs. Hugh. “Maybe you’d like to have the whole of it melted away into grease with being set on the fire half an hour too soon. Or else you to be standing about open-mouthed under me feet, like a starving terrier, waiting till it’s fit to eat. That’s how it’ll be, anyway, like it or lump it. And I used to be watching for old Matty Flanaghan going by with the post-bag, and the Keoghs coming back from early Mass—’twas as good as an extra clock for telling the time. But now, with that big lump of a thing stuck there, I might as well be shut up inside of any old prison. Them Quins done it a-purpose to annoy me, so they did. Sorra another raison had they, for what else ‘ud make them take and build it behind our backs? But put up with it is what I won’t do. Stepping over to them I’ll be this night, and letting them know how little I think of themselves and their mean tricks. And if I see old Peter, I’ll tell him you’ll have the law of him unless he gets it cleared away out of that to-morrow. Bedad will I; and yourself ‘ud say the same, if you had as much spirit in you as a moulting chicken.”

“Have sense, Julia,” Hugh remonstrated, wedging in a protest with difficulty. “Stop where you are, now, quiet and peaceable. It’s only making a show of yourself you’d be, running out that way raging about nothing What foolish talk have you about the man moving his rick, that he’s just after building? You might as well be bidding him move Knockrinkin over yonder; and he more betoken with his haggart bursting full this minyit. What annoyance is there in the matter, Julia woman? Sure in any case it won’t be any great while standing there, you may depend, and they bedding cattle with it, let alone very belike sending in cartloads of it every week to the market. Just content yourself and be aisy.”

But, as he had more than half expected, Hugh spoke to no purpose. His wife would not be said by him, and his expostulations, in fact, merely hastened her impetuous departure on her visit to the Quins. She returned even more exasperated than she had set out, and from her report of the interview Hugh gathered that she had stormed with much violence, giving everybody “the height of abuse.” He was fain to console himself with the rather mortifying reflection that “the Quins knew well enough she did be apt to take up with quare nonsensical fantigues, that nobody minded.”

A hope that the morrow might find her more reasonable proved entirely vain, as many additional grievances, resented with increasing bitterness, had been evolved during the night. When Hugh went out to his work, he left her asserting, and believing, that the noise of the wind whistling round the rick hadn’t let her get a wink of sleep, and when he came in again he found her on the point of setting off to the police barracks that she might charge the Quins with having “littered her yard all over with wisps of straw blown off their hijjis old rick, till the unfortunate hens couldn’t see the ground under their feet.” This outrage, it appeared, had been aggravated by Micky Quinn, who remarked tauntingly, that “she had a right to feel herself obligated to them for doing her a fine piece of thatching”; and an interchange of similar rejoinders had taken place. On the present occasion Hugh was indeed able forcibly to stop her wild expedition by locking both the house doors. But as he knew that these strong measures could not be more than a temporary expedient, and as arguments were very bootless, he was at a loss to determine what he should do next. She had begun to drop such menacing hints about lighted matches and rags soaked in paraffin, that he felt loth to leave her at large within reach of those dangerous materials. Already it had come to his knowledge that rumours were afloat in the village about how Mrs. Lennon was threatening to burn down the Quin’s rick. The truth was that she had said as much to several calling neighbours in the course of that day.

Hugh’s perplexity was therefore not a little relieved when, early on the following morning, his wife’s eldest married sister, Mrs. Mackay, from beyond Kilcraig, looked in on her way to market. Mrs. Mackay, an energetic person with a strong will regulated by abundant common sense, was one among the few people of whom her flighty sister Julia stood in awe. In this emergency her own observations, together with her brother-in-law’s statements, soon showed her how matters stood, and she promptly decided what steps to take. “Our best plan,” she said to Hugh apart, “is for Julia to come along home with me. She’ll be out of the way there of aught to stir up her mind, and she can stop till she gets pacified again. ‘Twill be no great while before she’s glad enough to come back here, rick or no rick, you may depend; for we’re all through-other up at our place the now, with one of the childer sick, and ne’er a girl kept. I’ll give her plenty to do helping me, and it’s much if she won’t be very soon wishing she was at home in her own comfortable house. She doesn’t know when she’s well off, bedad,” Mrs. Mackay added, glancing half enviously round the tidy little kitchen.

Hugh fell in with her views at once. The Mackays lived a couple of miles at the other side of Kilcraig, so that Julia would be safely out of harm’s way, and he could trust her sister to keep her from doing anything disastrously foolish. So he cheerfully saw his wife depart, and though her last words were a vehement asseveration that she would “never set foot next or nigh the place again, as long as there did be two straws slanting together in Quin’s dirty old rick,” he confidently expected to see her there once more without much delay.

Up at the Mackay’s struggling farmstead on the side of Knockrinkin, Mrs. Hugh found things dull enough. Internally the house was incommodious and crowded to uncomfortable excess, and its surroundings externally were desolate and lonesome. Mrs. Hugh remarked discontentedly that if the inside and outside of it were mixed together, they’d be better off, anyway, for room to turn round in, and quiet to hear themselves speak; but the operation appeared impracticable. Nor were the domestic tasks with which Mrs. Mackay provided her by any means to her taste, and her discontent continued. One evening, shortly after her arrival, she grew so tired of hearing the children squabble and squawl, that as soon as supper was over she slipped out at the back door into the soft-aired twilight. She proposed to wile away some time by searching the furzy, many-bouldered field for mushrooms and blackberries, but neither could she find, and in her quest she wandered a long way down the swarded slope, until she came to a low boundary wall. There she stopped, and stood looking across the valley towards a wooden patch beyond the village, which contained her own dwelling, as well as that of the hateful Quins. Her wrath against them burned more fiercely than ever at the reflection that they were clearly to blame for her present tedious exile. The thought of going home, she said to herself, she couldn’t abide, by reason of their old rick.

Through the dusk, the darker mass of those trees loomed indistinctly like a stain on the dimness, and Mrs. Hugh fancied that she could make out just the site of the Quin’s rick—the best of bad luck to it. Why didn’t some decent tramp take and sling a spark of a lighted match into it, and he passing by with his pipe? As she strained her eyes towards it, she suddenly saw on the very spot the glimmer of a golden-red light, glancing out among the shadowy trees. For a moment she was startled and half scared, but then she remembered that it would be nothing more than the harvest moon rising up big through the mist. Hadn’t she seen it the night before looking the size of ten? This explanation, at least, half disappointed her, and she said to herself with dissatisfaction, watching the gleam waver and brighten, that it looked as red as fire, and she wished to goodness it was the same as it looked. “There’d be nothing aisier than setting the whole concern in a blaze standing so convanient to the road,” she thought, while she gazed and gazed with tantalised vindictiveness over the low, tumble-down wall.

*******

More than two hours later Mrs. Hugh Lennon came hurrying in at the Mackay’s back-door. By this time it was dark night outside, and she found only Mrs. Mackay in the kitchen, for himself and the children had gone to bed.

“Where in the world have you been all the evening?” Mrs. Mackay inquired, with some indignation. “Leaving me with nobody to give me a hand with the childer or anything, and keeping me now waiting up till every hour of the night.”

“Quin’s rick’s burnt down,” burst out Mrs. Hugh, who evidently had not heard a word of her sister’s remonstrance. She looked excited and exultant; her hair was roughened by the wind, and her skirts were bedraggled with a heavy dew brushed off tussocks and furze bushes. Mrs. Mackay eyed her with a start of vague suspicion.

“And who did you get that news from,” she said, “supposing it’s true?”

“Amn’t I after seeing it with me own eyes?” triumphed Mrs. Hugh. “Watching it blazing this long while down below there by Connolly’s fence. First of all I thought it was only the old moon rising, that would do us no good; but sure not at all, glory be! Burnt down to the ground it is, every grain of it; and serve them very right.”

“What took you trapesing off down there, might I ask?” inquired Mrs. Mackay, her scrutiny of her sister growing more mistrustful.

“Is it what took me?” said Mrs. Hugh. “I dunno rightly. Och, let me see; about getting some mushrooms I was, I believe, and blackberries.”

“A likely time of night it was to be looking for such things,” said Mrs. Mackay, “and a dale of them you got.”

“There isn’t a one in it; all of them’s as red as coals of fire yet, or else as green as grass—sure, what matter?” said Mrs. Hugh. “Anyway, I was took up with watching the baste of an old rick flaring itself into flitters; and a rale good job.”

“A job it is that you’re very apt to have raison to repent of,” Mrs. Mackay said severely, “if so be you had act or part in it.”

“Is it me?” Mrs. Hugh said, and laughed derisively. “Raving you are, if that’s your notion. A great chance I’d have to be meddling or making with it, and I stuck up here out of reach of everything. I only wisht I’d been at our own place to get a better sight.”

“How can I tell what chances you have or haven’t, and you after running wild through the country for better than a couple of hours?” Mrs. Mackay said. “Plenty of time had you for the matter, to be skyting there and back twice over, if you was up to any sort of mischief; let alone going about talking and threatening, and carrying on, till everybody in the parish is safe to be of the opinion yourself was contriving it with whoever done it, supposing you didn’t do it all out. And it’s the quare trouble you might very aisy get yourself into for that same, let me tell you. There was a man at Joe’s place that got three years for being concerned in setting a light to a bit of an old shed, no size to speak of; so, if the next thing we see of you is walking off between a pair of police constables, yourself you’ll have to thank for it. I only hope poor Hugh won’t be blaming me for letting you out of me sight this evening.”

“Och, good luck to yourself and your pólis!” Mrs. Hugh said, defiantly. “It’s little I care who lit the old rick, and its little I care what any people’s troubling theirselves to think about it. I’d liefer be after doing it than not—so there’s for you. But what I won’t do is stop here listening to your fool’s romancing. So good-night to you kindly.”

With that Mrs. Hugh flounced clattering up the little steep stairs, and hurled herself like a compressed earthquake-wave into her bedroom. Mrs. Mackay, following her, stumped along more slowly. “Goodness forgive me for saying so,” she reflected, “but Julia’s a terrific woman to have any doings or dealings with. She’s not to hold or bind when she takes the notion, and the dear knows what she’s been up to now; something outrageous most likely. The Lord Chief Justice himself couldn’t control her. Beyond me she is entirely.”

Nevertheless, her warnings were not without effect, and at their next interview, she found her sister in a meeker mood.

It was when Mrs. Mackay was in the cowhouse milking, before breakfast, that Julia appeared to her, hurrying in with a demeanour full of dismay. “Och, Bridgie, what will I do?” she said.

“What’s happint you now?” Bridgie replied, with a studied want of sympathy.

“I’m just after looking out of me window,” Julia said, “and there’s two of the pólis out of the barracks below standing at the roadgate, having great discoursing with Dan Molloy, and about coming into this place they are. Ne’er a bit of me knows what’s bringing them so outlandish early; but I’ll take me oath, Bridgie darlint, I’d nought to do, good or bad, with burning the rick. It might ha’ went on fire of itself. Hand nor part I hadn’t in it. So you might be telling them that to your certain knowledge I was up here the whole time, and sending them about their business—there’s a good woman.”

On further reflection Mrs. Mackay had already concluded that Julia probably was not guilty of incendiarism; still, she considered her sister’s alarmed state a favourable opportunity for a lesson on the expediency of behaving herself. Therefore she was careful to give no reassuring response.

“‘Deed, now, I dunno what to say to it all,” she declared, “and I couldn’t take it on me conscience to go swear in a court of justice that I knew where you might be yesterday late. More betoken there was the bad talk you had out of you about the Quins before you come here, that they’ll be bringing up agin you now, you may depend. An ugly appearance it has, sure enough, the two of them coming over at this hour. As headstrong you are as a cross-tempered jennet; but if you’ll take my advice you’ll keep yourself out of their sight the best way you can, till I see what they want with you, and then if it’s a warrant they’ve got, I might try persuade them to go look for you somewheres else. That’s the best I can do, and, of course, I can’t say whether they will or no, but maybe—”

For a wonder Mrs. Hugh did take this advice, and most promptly, rushing with a suppressed wail out of the cowhouse and into a shed close by, where she crouched behind a heap of hay, the first hiding-place that presented itself to her in her panic. She had spent a great part of the past night in meditation on her sister’s alarming statements; and now the ominous arrival of the police put a finishing touch to her fright. How was she to escape from them, or to exculpate herself? Bridgie evidently either could or would do little or nothing. At this dreadful crisis in her affairs her thoughts turned longingly towards her own house down below, where there was Hugh, poor man, who would certainly have, somehow, prevented her from being dragged off to Athmoran gaol, even if he did believe her to have burnt the rick. Through the dusty shed window she saw two dark, flat-capped, short-caped figures sauntering up to the front door, whereupon with a sudden desperate impulse, she stole out, and fled down the cart-track along which they had just come. Getting a good start of them, she said to herself, she might be at home again with Hugh before they could overtake her—and one of them, she added, as fat as a prize pig.

As Mrs. Hugh ran most of the road’s two long miles, she was considerably out of breath when she came round a turn which brought into view an expected and an unexpected object. The one was Hugh walking out of his own gate, the other Quin’s rick, still rearing its glistening yellow ridge into the sunshine.

“Well, now, Julia woman, and is it yourself?” Hugh said, as she darted across the road to him. “What’s took you to be tearing along at that rate, and without so much as a shawl over your head?”

“Thinking I was to meet you before this—kilt I am, running all the way,” she said, panting. “And I do declare there’s the big rick in it yet.”

Hugh’s face fell. “Whethen now, if it’s with the same old blathers you’re come back,” he said, in a disgusted tone, “there was no need for you to be in any such great hurry.”

“Ne’er a word was I going to say agin it at all,” said his wife, “and I making sure the constables would be after me every minyit for burning it down.”

“What the mischief put that notion in your head?” said Hugh.

“I seen the blaze of a great fire down here last night,” she said, “and I thought it would be Quin’s rick, and they knowing I had some talk about it.”

“Sure ’twas just the big heap of dead branches and old trunks,” said Hugh, “that’s lying at the end of the cow-lane ever since the big wind. It took and went on fire yesterday evening; raison good, there was a cartful of Wexford tinkers went by in the afternoon, and stopped to boil their kettle close under it. A fine flare-up it made, and it as dry as tinder; but I’d scarce ha’ thought you’d see it that far. Lucky it is the old sticks was fit for nothing much, unless some poor bodies may be at a loss for firewood this next winter. Come along in, Julia, and wet yourself a cup of tay. You’d a right to be tired trotting about that way. And as for the pólis, bedad, they’d have their own work cut out for them, if they was to be taking up everybody they heard talking foolish.”

Not long after Mrs. Hugh had finished her cup, Mrs. Mackay arrived, alighting flurriedly from a borrowed seat on a neighbour’s car.

“So it’s home you ran, Julia,” she said, sternly. “Well, now, I wonder you had that much sense itself. Looking for you high and low we were, after the pólis had gone, that only come to get the number of our chickens—counting the feathers on them next, I suppose they’ll be—and all romancing it was about anything happening the rick. But frightened I was out of me wits, till little Joey said he seen you quitting out at the gate. So then I come along to see what foolish thing you might be about doing next.”

“She’s likely to be doing nothing foolisher than giving you a cup of tay, Bridgie,” Hugh interposed, soothingly. “And mightn’t you be frying us a few eggs in the pan, Julia? Old Nan Byrne’s just after bringing in two or three fresh ones she got back of the Quins’ rick, where our hins do be laying.”

“‘Twill be a handy place for finding them in,” Mrs. Hugh said, blandly. And both her experienced hearers accepted the remark as a sign that these hostilities were over.

Maelshaughlinn at the Fair.

From “My Irish Year.”

By Padraic Colum.

It was about horses, women, and music, and, in the mouth of Maelshaughlinn, the narrative had the exuberance of the fair and the colour of a unique exploit. I found Maelshaughlinn alone in the house in the grey dawn succeeding his adventure. “This morning,” he said, “I’m the lonesome poor fellow without father or mother, a girl’s promise, nor my own little horse.” He closed the door against a reproachful sunrise, and, sitting on a little three-legged stool, he told me the story.

Penitentially he began it, but he expanded with the swelling narrative. “This time last week,” said Maelshaughlinn, “I had no thought of parting with my own little horse. The English wanted beasts for a war, and the farmers about here were coining money out of horseflesh. It seemed that the buyers were under a pledge not to refuse anything in the shape of a horse, and so the farmers made horses out of the sweepings of the knackers’ yards, and took horses out of ha’penny lucky-bags and sold them to the English. Yesterday morning I took out my own little beast and faced for Arvach Fair. I met the dealer on the road. He was an Englishman, and above all nations on the face of the earth, the English are the easiest to deal with in regard of horses. I tendered him the price—it was an honest price, but none of our own people would have taken the offer in any reasonable way. An Irishman would have cursed into his hat, so that he might shake the curses out over my head. The Englishman took on to consider it, and my heart went threshing my ribs. Then he gave me my price, paid me in hard weighty, golden sovereigns and went away, taking the little horse with him.

“I sat down on the side of a ditch to take a breath. Now you’ll say that I ought to have gone back to the work, and I’ll say that I agree with you. But no man can be wise at all times. Anyway, I was sitting on a ditch, with a lark singing over every foot of ground, and nothing before me but the glory of the day. A girl came along the road, and, on my soul, I never saw a girl walking so finely. ‘She’ll be a head above every girl in the fair,’ said I, ‘and may God keep the brightness on her head.’ ‘God save you, Maelshaughlinn,’ said the girl. ‘God save you, my jewel,’ said I. I stood up to look after her, for a fine woman, walking finely, is above all the sights that man ever saw. Then a few lads passed, whistling and swinging their sticks. ‘God give you a good day,’ said the lads. ‘God give you luck boys,’ said I. And there was I, swinging my stick after the lads, and heading for the fair.

“‘Never go into a fair where you’ve no business.’ That’s an oul’ saying and a wise saying, but never forget that neither man nor immortal can be wise at all times. Satan fell from heaven, Adam was cast out of Paradise, and even your Uncle broke his pledge.

“When I came into the fair there was a fiddler playing behind a tinker’s cart. I had a shilling to spend in the town, and so I went into Flynn’s and asked for a cordial. A few most respectable men came in then, and I asked them to take a treat from me. Well, one drank, and another drank, and then Rose Heffernan came into the shop with her brother. Young Heffernan sent the glasses round, and then I asked Rose to take a glass of wine, and I put down a sovereign on the counter. The fiddler was coming down the street, and I sent a young lad out to him with silver. I stood for a while talking with Rose, and I heard the word go round the shop concerning myself. It was soon settled that I had got a legacy. The people there never heard of any legacies except American legacies, and so they put my fortune down to an uncle who had died, they thought, in the States. Now, I didn’t want Rose to think that my money was a common legacy out of the States, so by half-words I gave them to understand that I had got my fortune out of Mexico. Mind you, I wasn’t far out when I spoke of Mexico, for I had a grand-uncle who went out there, and his picture is in the house this present minute.

“Well, after the talk of a Mexican legacy went round, I couldn’t take any treats from the people, and I asked everyone to drink again. I think the crowds of the world stood before Flynn’s counter. A big Connachtman held up a Mexican dollar, and I took it out of his hand and gave it to Rose Heffernan. I paid him for it, too, and it comes into my mind now, that I paid him for it twice.

“There’s not, on the track of the sun, a place to come near Arvach on the day of a fair. A man came along leading a black horse, and the size of the horse and the eyes of the horse would terrify you. There was a drift of sheep going by, and the fleece of each was worth gold. There were tinkers with their carts of shining tins, as ugly and quarrelsome fellows as ever beat each other to death in a ditch, and there were the powerful men, with the tight mouths, and the eyes that could judge a beast, and the dark, handsome women from the mountains. To crown all, a piper came into the town by the other end, and his music was enough to put the blood like a mill-race through your heart. The music of the piper, I think, would have made the beasts walk out of the fair on their hind legs, if the music of the fiddler didn’t charm them to be still. Grace Kennedy and Sheela Molloy were on the road, and Rose Heffernan was talking to them. Grace Kennedy has the best wit and the best discourse of any woman within the four seas, and she said to the other girls as I came up, ‘Faith, girls, the good of the Mission will be gone from us since Maelshaughlinn came into the fair, for the young women must be talking about his coming home from the sermon.’ Sheela Molloy has the softest hair and the softest eyes of anything you ever saw. She’s a growing girl, with the spice of the devil in her. ‘It’s not the best manners,’ said I, ‘to treat girls to a glass across the counter, but come into a shop,’ said I, ‘and let me pay for your fancy.’ Well, I persuaded them to come into a shop, and I got the girls to make Sheela ask for a net for her hair. They don’t sell these nets less than by the dozen, so I bought a dozen nets for Sheela’s hair. I bought ear-rings and brooches, dream-books and fortune books, buckles, and combs, and I thought I had spent no more money than I’d thank you for picking up off the floor. A tinker woman came in and offered to tell the girls their fortunes, and I had to cross her hand with silver.

“I came out on the street after that, and took a few turns through the fair. The noise and the crowd were getting on my mind, and I couldn’t think, with any satisfaction, so I went into Mrs. Molloy’s, and sat for a while in the snug. I had peace and quiet there, and I began to plan out what I would do with my money. I had a notion of going into Clooney on Tuesday, and buying a few sheep to put on my little fields, and of taking a good craftsman home from the fair, a man who could put the fine thatch on my little house. I made up my mind to have the doors and windows shining with paint, to plant a few trees before the door, and to have a growing calf going before the house. In a while, I thought, I could have another little horse to be my comfort and consolation. I wasn’t drinking anything heavier than ginger ale, so I thought the whole thing out quietly. After a while I got up, bid good-bye to Mrs. Molloy, and stood at the door to watch the fair.

“There was a man just before me with a pea and thimble, and I never saw a trick-of-the-loop with less sense of the game. He was winning money right and left, but that was because the young fellows were before him like motherless calves. Just to expose the man I put down a few pence on the board. In a short time I had fleeced my showman. He took up his board and went away, leaving me shillings the winner.

“I stood on the edge of the pavement wondering what I could do that would be the beating of the things I had done already. By this time the fiddler and the piper were drawing nigh to each other, and there was a musician to the right of me and a musician to the left of me. I sent silver to each, and told them to cease playing as I had something to say. I got up on a cart and shook my hat to get silence. I said, ‘I’m going to bid the musicians play in the market square, and the man who gets the best worth out of his instrument will get a prize from me.’ The words were no sooner out of my mouth than men, women and children made for the market square like two-year-olds let loose.

“You’d like the looks of the fiddler, but the piper was a black-avis’d fellow that kept a troop of tinkers about him. It was the piper who said, ‘Master, what’s the prize to be?’ Before I had time to think, the fiddler was up and talking. ‘He’s of the oul’ ancient race,’ said the fiddler, ‘and he’ll give the prizes that the Irish nobility gave to the musicians—a calf, the finest calf in the fair, a white calf, with skin as soft as the fine mist on the ground, a calf that gentle that the smoothest field under him would look as rough as a bog.’ And the fiddler was that lifted out of himself that he nearly lept over a cart. Somebody pushed in a young calf, and then I sat down on a stone, for there was no use in saying anything or trying to hear anything after that. The fiddler played first, and I was nearly taken out of my trouble when I heard him, for he was a real man of art, and he played as if he were playing before a king, with the light of heaven on his face. The piper was spending his silver on the tinkers, and they were all deep in drink when he began to play. At the first sound of the pipes an old tinker-woman fell into a trance. It was powerful, but the men had to tie him up with a straw rope, else the horses would have kicked the slates off the market-house roof. Nobody was quiet after that. There were a thousand men before me offering to sell me ten thousand calves, each calf whiter than the one before. There was one party round the fiddler and another party round the piper. I think it was the fiddler that won; anyway, he had the strongest backing, for they hoisted the calf on to a cart, and they put the fiddler beside it, and the two of them would have got out of the crowd, only the tinkers cut the traces of the yoke. I was saved by a few hardy men, who carried me through the market-house and into Flynn’s by a back way, and there I paid for the calf.

“When I came out of Flynn’s the people were going home quiet enough. I got a lift on Fardorrougha’s yoke, and everybody, I think, wanted me to come to Clooney on Tuesday next. I think I’d have got out of Arvach with safety, only a dead-drunk tinker wakened up and knew me, and he gave a yell that brought the piper hot-foot after me. First of all, the piper cursed me. He had a bad tongue, and he put on me the blackest, bitterest curses you ever heard in your life. Then he lifted up the pipes, and he gave a blast that went through me like a spear of ice.

“The man that sold me the calf gave me a luck-penny back, and that’s all the money I brought out of Arvach fair.

“Never go into the fair where you have no business.”

The Rev. J. J. Meldon and the Chief Secretary.

From “Spanish Gold.”

By George A. Birmingham (1865-).

The Chief Secretary lay back in Higginbotham’s hammock-chair. There was a frown on his face. His sense of personal dignity was outraged by the story he had just heard. He had not been very long Chief Secretary of Ireland, and, though not without a sense of humour, he took himself and his office very seriously. He came to Ireland intending to do justice and show mercy. He looked forward to a career of real usefulness. He was prepared to be opposed, maligned, misunderstood, declared capable of every kind of iniquity. He did not expect to be treated as a fool. He did not expect that an official in the pay of one of the Government Boards would assume as a matter of course that he was a fool and believe any story about him, however intrinsically absurd. He failed to imagine any motive for the telling of such a story. There must, he assumed, have been a motive, but what it was he could not even guess.

Meldon entered the hut without knocking at the door.

“Mr. Willoughby, I believe,” he said, cheerily. “You must allow me to introduce myself since Higginbotham isn’t here to do it for me. My name is Meldon, the Rev. J. J. Meldon, B.A., of T.C.D.”

The Chief Secretary intended to rise with dignity and walk out of the hut. He failed because no one can rise otherwise than awkwardly out of the depths of a hammock-chair.

“Don’t stir,” said Meldon, watching his struggles. “Please don’t stir. I shouldn’t dream of taking your chair. I’ll sit on the corner of the table. I’ll be quite comfortable, I assure you. How do you like Inishgowlan, now you are here? It’s a nice little island, isn’t it?”

Mr. Willoughby succeeded in getting out of his chair. He walked across the hut, turned his back on Meldon, and stared out of the window.

“I came up here to have a chat with you,” said Meldon. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind turning round; I always find it more convenient to talk to a man who isn’t looking the other way. I don’t make a point of it, of course. If you’ve got into the habit of keeping your back turned to people, I don’t want you to alter it on my account.”

Mr. Willoughby turned round. He seemed to be on the point of making an angry remark. Meldon faced him with a bland smile. The look of irritation faded in Mr. Willoughby’s face. He appeared puzzled.

“It’s about Higginbotham’s bed,” said Meldon, “that I want to speak. It’s an excellent bed, I believe, though I never slept in it myself. But,——”

“If there’s anything the matter with the bed,” said Mr. Willoughby severely, “Mr. Higginbotham should himself represent the facts to the proper authorities.”

“You quite misunderstand me. And, in any case, Higginbotham can’t move in the matter because he doesn’t, at present, know that there’s anything wrong about the bed. By the time he finds out, it will be too late to do anything. I simply want to give you a word of advice. Don’t sleep in Higginbotham’s bed to-night.”

“I haven’t the slightest intention of sleeping in it.”

“That’s all right. I’m glad you haven’t. The fact is”—Meldon’s voice sank almost to a whisper—“there happens to be a quantity of broken glass in that bed. I need scarcely tell a man with your experience of life that broken glass in a bed isn’t a thing which suits everybody. It’s all right, of course, if you’re used to it, but I don’t suppose you are.”

Mr. Willoughby turned, this time towards the door. There was something in the ingenuous friendliness of Meldon’s face which tempted him to smile. He caught sight of Higginbotham standing white and miserable on the threshold. He made a snatch at the dignity which had nearly escaped him and frowned severely.

“I think, Mr. Higginbotham,” he said, “that I should like to take a stroll round the island.”

“Come along,” said Meldon. “I’ll show the sights. You don’t mind climbing walls, I hope. You’ll find the place most interesting. Do you care about babies? There’s a nice little beggar called Michael Pat. Any one with a taste for babies would take to him at once. And there’s a little girl called Mary Kate, a great friend of Higginbotham’s. She’s the granddaughter of old Thomas O’Flaherty Pat. By the way, how are you going to manage about Thomas O’Flaherty’s bit of land? There’s been a lot of trouble over that?”

Mr. Willoughby sat down again in the hammock-chair and stared at Meldon.

“Of course, it’s your affair, not mine,” said Meldon. “Still, if I can be of any help to you, you’ve only got to say so. I know old O’Flaherty pretty well, and I may say without boasting that I have as much influence with him as any man on the island.”

“If I want your assistance I shall ask for it,” said Mr. Willoughby, coldly.

“That’s right,” said Meldon. “I’ll do anything I can. The great difficulty, of course, is the language. You don’t talk Irish yourself, I suppose. Higginbotham tells me he’s learning. It’s a very difficult language, highly inflected. I’m not very good at it myself. I can’t carry on a regular business conversation in it. By the way, what is your opinion of the Gaelic League?”

A silence followed. Mr. Willoughby gave no opinion of the Gaelic League. Meldon sat down again on the corner of the table and began to swing his legs. Higginbotham still stood in the doorway. Mr. Willoughby, with a bewildered look on his face, lay back in the hammock-chair.

“I see,” said Meldon, “that you’ve sent your yacht away. That was what made me think you were going to sleep in Higginbotham’s bed. I suppose she’ll be back before night.”

“Really——” began Mr. Willoughby.

Meldon replied at once to the tone in which the word was spoken.

“I don’t want to be asking questions. If there’s any secret about the matter you’re quite right to keep it to yourself. I quite understand that you Cabinet Ministers can’t always say out everything that’s in your mind. I only mentioned the steamer because the conversation seemed to be languishing. You wouldn’t talk about Thomas O’Flaherty Pat’s field, and you wouldn’t talk about the Gaelic League, though I thought that would be sure to interest you. Now you won’t talk about the steamer. However, it’s quite easy to get on some other subject. Do you think the weather will hold up? The glass has been dropping the last two days.”

Mr. Willoughby struggled out of the hammock-chair again. He drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders. His face assumed an expression of rigid determination. He addressed Higginbotham:

“Will you be so good as to go up to the old man you spoke of——”

“Thomas O’Flaherty Pat,” said Meldon. “That’s the man he means, you know, Higginbotham.”

“And tell him——” went on Mr. Willoughby.

“If you’re to tell him anything,” said Meldon, “don’t forget to take someone with you who understands Irish.”

“And tell him,” repeated Mr. Willoughby, “that I shall expect him here in about an hour to meet Father Mulcrone.”

“I see,” said Meldon. “So that’s where the yacht’s gone. You’ve sent for the priest to talk sense to the old boy. Well, I dare say you’re right, though I think we could have managed with the help of Mary Kate. She knows both languages well, and she’d do anything for me, though she is rather down on Higginbotham. It’s a pity you didn’t consult me before sending the steamer off all the way to Inishmore. However, it can’t be helped now.”

Higginbotham departed on his errand and shut the door of the hut after him. The Chief Secretary turned to Meldon.

“You’ve chosen to force your company on me this afternoon in a most unwarrantable manner.”

“I’ll go at once if you like,” said Meldon. “I only came up here for your own good, to warn you about the state of Higginbotham’s bed. You ought to be more grateful to me than you are. It isn’t every man who’d have taken the trouble to come all this way to save a total stranger from getting his legs cut with broken glass. However, if you hunt me away, of course, I’ll go. Only, I think, you’ll be sorry afterwards if I do. I may say without vanity that I’m far and away the most amusing person on this island at present.”

“As you are here,” said Mr. Willoughby, “I take the opportunity of asking you what you mean by telling that outrageous story to Mr. Higginbotham. I’m not accustomed to having my name used in that way, and, to speak plainly, I regard it as insolence.”

“You are probably referring to the geological survey of this island.”

“Yes. To your assertion that I employed a man called Kent to survey this island. That is precisely what I refer to.”

“Then you ought to have said so plainly at first, and not have left me to guess at what you were talking about. Many men couldn’t have guessed, and then we should have been rambling at cross purposes for the next hour or so without getting any further. Always try and say plainly what you mean, Mr. Willoughby. I know it’s difficult, but I think you’ll find it pays in the end. Now that I know what’s in your mind, I’ll be very glad to thrash it out with you. You know Higginbotham, of course?”

“Yes.”

“Intimately?”

“I met him this afternoon for the first time.”

“Then you can’t be said really to know Higginbotham. That’s a pity, because without a close and intimate knowledge of Higginbotham, you’re not in a position to understand that geological survey story. Take my advice and drop the whole subject until you know Higginbotham better. After spending a few days on the island in constant intercourse with Higginbotham you’ll be able to understand the whole thing. Then you’ll appreciate it. In the meanwhile, I’m sure you won’t mind my adding, since we are on the subject,—and it was you who introduced it—that you ought not to go leaping to conclusions without a proper knowledge of the facts. I said the same thing this morning to Major Kent, when he insisted that you had come here to search for buried treasure.”

Mr. Willoughby pulled himself together with an effort. He felt a sense of bewilderment and hopeless confusion. The sensation was familiar. He had experienced it before in the House of Commons when the Irish members of both parties asked questions on the same subject. He knew that his only chance was to ignore side-issues, however fascinating, and get back at once to the original point.

“I’m willing,” he said, “to listen to any explanation you have to offer; but I do not see how Mr. Higginbotham’s character alters, or can alter, the fact that you told him what I can only describe as an outrageous lie.”

“The worst thing about you Englishmen is that you have such blunt minds. You don’t appreciate the lights and shades, the finer nuances, what I may perhaps describe as the chiaroscuro of things. It’s just the same with my friend Major Kent. By the way, I ought to apologise for him. He ought to have come ashore and called upon you this afternoon. It isn’t a want of loyalty which prevented him. He’s a strong Unionist and on principle he respects His Majesty’s Ministers, whatever party they belong to. The fact is, he was a bit nervous about this geological survey business. He didn’t know exactly how you’d take it. I told him that you were a reasonable man, and that you’d see the thing in a proper light, but he wouldn’t come.”

“Will you kindly tell me what is the proper light in which to view this extraordinary performance of yours?”

“Certainly. It will be a little difficult, of course, when you don’t know Higginbotham, but I’ll try.”

“Leave Mr. Higginbotham out,” said the Chief Secretary, irritably. “Tell me simply this: Were you justified in making a statement which you knew to be a baseless invention? How do you explain the fact that you told a deliberate—that you didn’t tell the truth?”

“I’ve always heard of you as an educated man. I may assume that you know all about pragmatism.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you ought to. It’s a most interesting system of philosophy quite worth your while to study. I’m sure you’d like it if you understand it. In fact, I expect you’re a pragmatist already without knowing it. Most of us practical men are.”

“I’m waiting for an explanation of the story you told Mr. Higginbotham.”

“Quite right. I’m coming to that in a minute. Don’t be impatient. If you’d been familiar with the pragmatist philosophy it would have saved time. As you’re not—though as Chief Secretary for Ireland I think you ought to be—I’ll have to explain. Pragmatism may be described as the secularising of the Ritschlian system of theological thought. You understand the Ritschlian theory of value judgments, of course?”

“No, I don’t.” Mr. Willoughby began to feel very helpless. It seemed easier to let the tide of this strange lecture sweep over him than to make any effort to assert himself.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he said. “I think I could listen to your explanation better if I smoked.”

He took from his pocket a silver cigar-case.

“Smoke away,” said Meldon. “I don’t mind in the least. In fact, I’ll take a cigar from you and smoke, too. I can’t afford cigars myself, but I enjoy them when they’re good. I suppose a Chief Secretary is pretty well bound to keep decent cigars on account of his position.”

Mr. Willoughby handed over the case. Meldon selected a cigar and lit it. Then he went on—

“The central position of the pragmatist philosophy and the Ritschlian theology is that truth and usefulness are identical.”

“Eh?”

“What that means is this. A thing is true if it turns out in actual practice to be useful, and false if it turns out in actual practice to be useless. I daresay that sounds startling to you at first, but if you think it over quietly for a while you’ll get to see that there’s a good deal in it.”

Meldon puffed at his cigar without speaking. He wished to give Mr. Willoughby an opportunity for meditation. Then he went on—

“The usual illustration—the one you’ll find in all the text-books—is the old puzzle of the monkey on the tree. A man sees a monkey clinging to the far side of a trunk of a tree—I never could make out how he did see it, but that doesn’t matter for the purposes of the illustration. He (the man) determines to go round the tree and get a better look at the monkey. But the monkey creeps round the tree so as always to keep the trunk between him and the man. The question is, whether, when he has gone round the tree, the man has or has not gone round the monkey. The older philosophers simply gave that problem up. They couldn’t solve it, but the pragmatist—”

“Either you or I,” said Mr. Willoughby, feebly, “must be going mad.”

“Your cigar has gone out,” said Meldon. “Don’t light it again. There’s nothing tastes worse than a relighted cigar. Take a fresh one. There are still two in the case and I shall be able to manage along with one more.”

“Would you mind leaving out the monkey on the tree and getting back to the geological survey story?”

“Not a bit. If it bores you to hear an explanation of the pragmatist theory of truth, I won’t go on with it. It was only for your sake I went into it. You can just take it from me that the test of truth is usefulness. That’s the general theory. Now apply it to this particular case. The story I told Higginbotham turned out to be extremely useful—quite as useful as I had any reason to expect. In fact, I don’t see that we could very well have got on without it. I can’t explain to you just how it was useful. If I did, I should be giving away Major Kent, Sir Charles Buckley, Euseby Langton, and perhaps old Thomas O’Flaherty Pat; but you may take it that the utility of the story has been demonstrated.”

Mr. Willoughby made an effort to rally. He reminded himself that he was Cabinet Minister and a great man, that he had withstood the fieriest eloquence of Members for Munster constituencies, and survived the most searching catechisms of the men from Antrim and Down. He called to mind the fact that he had resolutely said “No” to at least twenty-five per cent. of the people who came to him in Dublin Castle seeking to have jobs perpetrated. He tried to realise the impossibility of a mere country curate talking him down. He hardened his heart with the recollection that he was in the right and the curate utterly in the wrong. He sat up as well as he could in the hammock-chair and said sternly—

“Am I to understand that you regard any lie as justifiable if it serves its purpose?”

“Certainly not,” said Meldon; “you are missing the whole point. I was afraid you would when you prevented me from explaining the theory of truth to you. I never justify lies under any circumstances whatever. The thing I’m trying to help you grasp is this: A statement isn’t a lie if it proves itself in actual practice to be useful—it’s true. There, now, you’ve let that second cigar go out. You’d better light that one again. I hate to see a man wasting cigar after cigar, especially when they’re good ones.”

Mr. Willoughby fumbled with the matches and made more than one attempt to relight the cigar.

“The reason,” Meldon went on, “why I think you’re almost certain to be a pragmatist is that you’re a politician. You’re constantly having to make speeches, of course; and in every speech you must, more or less, say something about Ireland. When you are Chief Secretary the other fellow, the man in opposition who wants to be Chief Secretary but isn’t, gets up and says you are telling a pack of lies. That’s not the way he expresses himself, but it’s exactly what he means. When his turn comes round to be Chief Secretary, and you are in opposition, you very naturally say that he’s telling lies. Now, that’s a very crude way of talking. You are, both of you, as patriotic and loyal men, doing your best to say what is really useful. If the things you say turn out in the end to be useful, why, then, if you happen to be a pragmatist, they aren’t lies.”

Mr. Willoughby stuck doggedly to his point. Just so his countrymen, though beaten by all the rules of war, have from time to time clung to positions which they ought to have evacuated.

“A lie,” he said, “is a lie. I don’t see that you’ve made your case at all.”

“I know I haven’t, but that’s because you insist on stopping me. If you’ll allow me to go back to the man who went round the tree with the monkey on it——”

“Don’t do that, I can’t bear it.”

“Very well. I won’t. I suppose we may consider the matter closed now, and go on to talk of something else.”

“No. It’s not closed,” said Mr. Willoughby, with a fine show of spirited indignation. “I still want to know why you told Mr. Higginbotham that I sent Major Kent to make a geological survey of this island. It’s all very well to talk as you’ve been doing, but a man is bound to tell the truth and not to deceive innocent people.”

“Look here, Mr. Willoughby,” said Meldon, “I’ve sat and listened to you calling me a liar half-a-dozen times, and I havn’t turned a hair. I’m not a man with remarkable self-control, and I appreciate your point of view. You are irritated because you think you are not being treated with proper respect. You assert what you are pleased to call your dignity, by trying to prove that I am a liar. I’ve stood it from you so far, but I’m not bound to stand it any longer, and I won’t. It doesn’t suit you one bit to take up that high and mighty moral tone, and I may tell you it doesn’t impress me. I’m not the British Public, and that bluff honesty pose isn’t one I admire. All these platitudes about lies being lies simply run off my skin. I know that your own game of politics couldn’t be played for a single hour without what you choose to describe as deceiving innocent people. Mind you, I’m not blaming you in the least. I quite give in that you can’t always be blabbing out the exact literal truth about everything. Things couldn’t go on if you did. All I say is, that, being in the line of life you are, you ought not to set yourself up as a model of every kind of integrity and come out here to an island, which, so far as I know, nobody ever invited you to visit, and talk ideal morality to me in the way you’ve been doing. Hullo! here’s Higginbotham back again. I wonder if he has brought Thomas O’Flaherty Pat with him. You’ll be interested in seeing that old man, even if you can’t speak to him.”

Higginbotham started as he entered the hut. He did not expect to find Meldon there. He was surprised to see Mr. Willoughby crumpled up, crushed, cowed in the depths of the hammock-chair, while Meldon, cheerful and triumphant, sat on the edge of the table swinging his legs and smoking a cigar.

“You’d better get that oil stove of yours lit, Higginbotham,” said Meldon. “The Chief Secretary is dying for a cup of tea. You’d like some tea, wouldn’t you, Mr Willoughby?”

“I would. I feel as if I wanted some tea. You won’t say that I’m posing for the British Public if I drink tea, will you?”

It was Meldon who lit the stove, and busied himself with the cups and saucers. Higginbotham was too much astonished to assist.

“There’s no water in your kettle,” said Meldon. “I’d better run across to the well and get some. Or I’ll go to Michael Pat’s mother and get some hot. That will save time. When I’m there I’ll collar a loaf of soda-bread and some butter if I can. I happen to know that she has some fresh butter because I helped her to make it.”

Mr. Willoughby rallied a little when the door closed behind Meldon.

“Your friend,” he said to Higginbotham, “seems to me to be a most remarkable man.”

“He is. In college we always believed that if only he’d give his mind to it and taken some interest in his work, he could have done anything.”

“I haven’t the slightest doubt of it. He has given me a talking to this afternoon such as I haven’t had since I left school—not since I left the nursery. Did you ever read a book on pragmatism?”

“No.”

“You don’t happen to know the name of the best book on the subject?”

“No, but I’m sure that Meldon—”

“Don’t,” said Mr. Willoughby. “I’d rather not start him on the subject again. Have you any cigars? I want one badly. I got no good of the two I half smoked while he was here.”

“I’m afraid not. But your own cigar-case has one in it. It’s on the table.”

“I can’t smoke that one. To put it plainly, I daren’t. Your friend Meldon said he might want it. I’d be afraid to face him if it was gone.”

“But it’s your own cigar! Why should Meldon——”

“It’s not my cigar. Nothing in the world is mine any more, not even my mind, or my morality, or my self-respect is my own. Mr. Meldon has taken them from me, and torn them in pieces before my eyes. He has left me a nervous wreck of a man I once was. Did you say he was a parson?”

“Yes. He’s curate of Ballymoy.”

“Thank God, I don’t live in that parish! I should be hypnotised into going to church every time he preached, and then——. Hush! Can he be coming back already? I believe he is. No other man would whistle as loud as that. If he begins to illtreat me again, Mr Higginbotham, I hope you’ll try and drag him off. I can’t stand much more.”

Old Tummus and the Battle of Scarva.

From “Lady Anne’s Walk.”

By Eleanor Alexander.

I found old Tummus scuffling Lady Anne’s walk; that is to say, he was busy looking pensively at the weeds as he leaned on his hoe. He never suddenly pretends to be at work when he is not at work, but always retains the same calm dignity of carriage. He too frankly despises his employers to admit that either his occasional lapses into action, or his more frequent attitude of storing his reserve force are any concern of theirs.

Gathering that he was graciously inclined for conversation by a not unfriendly glance which he cast in my direction after he had spat on the ground, I settled myself to listen.

“Do ye know what I’m goin’ te tell ye?”

With this he generally prefaces his remarks. It is, however, merely rhetorical. He does not expect an answer; unless one were at least a minor prophet it would be impossible to give one, except in the negative. “Do ye know what I’m goin’ te tell ye?” he repeated, gently, raising a weed with his hoe into what looked like a sitting position, where he held it as if he were supporting it in bed to receive its last communion. “There’s not a hair’s differ betwixt onny two weemen.” I was speechless, and he continued: “There is thon boy o’ mine, and though I say it that shouldn’t, he’s a fine boy, so he is, and no ways blate, and as brave a boy as you’d wish for te see. From the time he was six year old he was that old-fashioned he wouldn’t go to church without his boots was right jergers (creakers) that ye’d hear all over the church when he cum in a wee bit late: and he cud say off all the responses as bowld as brass. Did I no’ learn him his releegion mesel, and bid him foller after him that has gone before?”

A solemn pause seemed only appropriate here, though I had my doubts.

“But whiles he tuk te colloque-in’ with the wee fellers round the corner there in Irish street. That’s so. But I soon quet him o’ that. Says I te him: ‘Do ye know what I’m goin’ te tell ye? Me heart’s broke with ye, so it is. I’ll have no colloque-in’ from onny boy o’ mine, so I won’t. Ye’ll have no traffickin’, no, nor passin’ o’ the time o’ day with them that’s not yer own sort, and that differs from the Reverend Crampsey; him and me and Johnston of Ballykilbeg, and the Great Example. What’s that ye say? Who is the Great Example? Now! Now! Who wud it be, but him on the white horse?’”

This is not, as might be supposed, from the vision of the Apocalypse, but is easily recognised by those who are in the know, as an allusion to William of Orange, of “Glorious, pious, and immortal memory,” who is always represented on a white horse.

“But,” I argued, “he did traffic with those who disagreed with him; it is even said, you know, that when he came to England he subsidised the Pope.”

Tummus appeared not to have heard this remark.

“As I was sayin’, thon boy o’ mine, he has a mind to get hisself marriet. So says I te him, ‘There’s not a hair’s differ between onny two o’ them.’ Ye see, it’s this way. He has the two o’ them courted down to the askin’, and he’s afeard that if he asks the wan he’ll think long for the other, or maybe he’ll think he’d sooner have had the other.”

“He is not behaving well. He can’t, of course, marry them both, and yet he has raised hopes which must in one case be disappointed; he might break the poor girl’s heart.”

“Break her heart! Hoot. Blethers. Heart is it?”

“But,” I interjected again, merely, of course, to make conversation, for I have many times and oft heard his opinion on the subject, and it is not favourable, “Don’t you believe in love?”

Tummus had been twice married. His first wife was called Peggy-Anne, and only lived a year after her marriage. I try to persuade myself and him that this was the romance of his life, but it is up-hill work. The present Mrs. Thomas, who has been his wife for five-and-twenty-years, he always speaks of as “Thon widdy wumman.” She was the relict of one John M‘Adam, whose simple annal in this world seems to be, that he was the first husband of Tummus’s second wife; for the other world, his successor considers that, owing to his theological views, he is certainly—well—not in heaven.

“Do I no believe in love? Why, wumman, dear, have I no seen it mesel? Sure, and I had an uncle o’ me own, me own mother’s brother, that was tuk that way, and what did he do? but went and got the whole o’ Paul’s wickedest Epistle off, so he did, and offered for te tell it till her, all at the wan sitting. Boys, oh! but he was the quare poet! And she got marriet on a boy out o’ Ballinahone on him, and do ye know what I’m goin’ te tell ye? he tuk to the hills and never did a hand’s turn after.”

“Surely, Thomas, you have been in love yourself, too, now, with Peggy-Anne, and your present wife? When you asked them to marry you, you had to pretend it anyhow. What did you say to them?”

“Is it me? Well it was this way; me and Peggy-Anne, we went the pair of us to Scarva on the twelfth. Did ever ye hear tell of the battle o’ Scarva? I mind it well. I had a wheen o’ cloves in me pocket, and Peggy-Anne she had a wee screw o’ pepperment sweeties. Says I te her:

“‘Peggy-Anne, wud ye conceit a clove?’

“And says she te me:

“‘Tak a sweetie, Tummus!’

“And I went in the mornin’ and giv in the names till the Reverend Crampsey; so I did.”

After all, there are many worse ways of concluding the business, and few that would be more full of symbol. There is the mutual help; the inevitable “give and take” of married life; the strength and pungency of the manly clove; the melting sweetness of the maidenly peppermint; two souls united in the savour of both scents combined rising to heaven on the summer air.

I could not recall in the tale or history, or the varied reminiscences of married friends on this interesting topic, any manner of “proposal” more delicate and less ostentatious. Tummus graciously accepted my congratulations on his elegant good taste, but when I inquired about the preliminaries of his second alliance, he only shook his head and muttered, “Them widdies! Them widdies!”

In this there is almost a suggestion that, like Captain Cuttle, he was taken at a disadvantage, but one can scarcely credit it. It seems impossible that he would not have extricated himself with the inspired dexterity of a Sherlock Holmes, or the happy resource of a Stanley Weyman hero, from whatever dilemma.

“As I was sayin’,” he resumed, “Did ever ye hear tell o’ the battle o’ Scarva?”

Of course I had heard of it. Who has not heard of the Oberammergau of the North? There, in a gentleman’s prettily wooded park, on a large open meadow sloping down to a clear running brook, is yearly enacted a veritable Passion Play of the Battle of the Boyne.

“I suppose you have often seen it, Thomas.”

“I have that; many and many’s a time. But there was wan battle that bate all—do ye know what I’m goin’ te tell ye? I would give a hundred pounds te see thon agin—so I wud. Boys, oh! it was gran’. There was me own aunt’s nephew was King William, and him on the top of the beautifullest white horse ever ye seen, with the mane o’ him tied with wee loops o’ braid, or’nge and bleue. Himself had an or’nge scarfe on him and bleue feathers te his hat, just like one o’ them for’n Princes, and his Field-marshal and Ginerals just the same, only not so gran’. And King James, they had a fine young horse for him that Dan Cooke bought off the Reverend Captain Jack in Moy Fair. But he set his ears back, and let a squeal out o’ him, and got on with quare maneuvers whenever Andy Wilson came near him, and Andy—that was King James—he says:

“‘I am no used with horse exercise, and I misdoubt thon baste.’

“‘But,’ says Dan Cooke, ‘up with ye sonny, and no more about it.’

“Well, with that Andy turned about, and, says he, ‘I’ll ride no blooded horse out of Moy. I’d sooner travel. I’ll ride none, without I have me own mare that drawed me and hersel’ and the childer out of Poyntzpass—so I won’t.’

“With that the Field-marshals and the Ginerals and the Aiden-scampses away with them, and they found Andy’s mare takin’ her piece by the roadside, and not agreeable to comin’ forbye. Howsumever she was coaxed along with an Aiden-scamp sootherin’ her and complimentin’ her: ‘There’s a daughter, and a wee jooel,’ and a Field-marshal holdin’ a bite o’ grass in the front o’ her, and a Gineral persuadin’ her in the rare; and they got King James ontil her, and the two armies was drawed up on the banks o’ the wee burn that stood for the Boyne Watter. Then they began, quite friendly and agreeable-ike, temptin’ other.

“‘Come on, ye thirsty tyrant ye,’ says William.

“‘Come on, ye low, mane usurper,’ says James.

“‘Come on ye heedious enemy to ceevil and releegious liberty, ye,’ says William.

“‘Come on, ye glorious, pious, and immortal humbug, ye,’ says James.

“‘Come on ye Glad-stone ye, and Parnell, and Judas, and Koran—and Dathan—and Abiram,’ says William.

“‘Come on ye onnatural parasite ye, and Crumwell, and Shadrach—and Mesech—and Abednego,’ says James.