Part 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'A barony----'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHEN DENIS TURNED TO THE TAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about Denis, Ned?"

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

We sat silent, hardly daring to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bad cess to it for tay!"

A GLORIOUS VICTORY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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