Part 6
"It happened one mornin' that Dickey was in an odious bad humour entirely, an' he goin' about the house with a face on him as long as a late breakfast an' as sharp as a razor, an' every growl out of him like a dog over a bone or a fox in a trap. He was tryin' to light the fire, but the turf was too wet, an' the draught was comin' the wrong way, an' accordin' as his temper got strong his tongue turned on poor Peggy, who was givin' a bottle to the child in the cradle--it was only seven months old at the time--an' she was sayin' nothin' at all, but there was a quare sort of a look in her eye that all as one as said that her mind was made up. Dickey was gettin' worse an' worse with his growlin' about all that men had to do an' the lazy ways of women an' what not, but all of a sudden, when he wasn't mindin', Peggy caught a grip of his arm in a way that made him jump, an' says she, in the voice of a County Court Judge givin' sentence, says she:
"'Let there be an end to this comparin' an' growlin' an' grumblin' once an' for all, Dickey Moran! You say men are run off their feet an' that women have nothin' to do. Well, here's the way to settle that. You stay here in the house an' do what's to be done in it, an' I'll look after the turf an' the praties an' oats an' things out in the fields, an' we'll soon see who has the most to do. That's the only way to put an end to your aggravatin' talk forever an' a day.'
"An' Dickey bein' in the temper he was in, agreed on the minute, an' they took their bit o' breakfast without another word, an' when it was down, Peggy tied her shawl round her shoulders an' gripped hold of an old reapin' hook that was hangin' on the wall an' started off to cut the bit of oats in the far field, an' Dickey sat down at the fire to have a pull o' the pipe before startin' the child's play, as he called the work that had to be done in the house.
"When Peggy was gone a couple o' minutes she came back an' put her head in at the door, an' says she in a quiet an' easy way, as if she was only biddin' her man good mornin':
"'Listen here,' says she, 'the cow is in the byre still, an' it's time she was milked. An' don't forget to take every drop from her or it's milk fever she'll be havin' one o' these days. An' put a few handfuls o' poreens on the fire for the pigs an' give them to them soon because they're screechin' with the hunger. An' keep an eye to that black hen for fear she'd lay out, because if she does the dickens an egg you'll get to-morrow mornin'. Scald that churn well an' do the churnin' as soon as you can, because there's not a bit o' butter in the house an' this is Friday. An' make a cake o' bread, too, for if you don't there won't be a pick to eat with the colcannon; an' mind that you don't burn it. An' spin that pound o' wool over there that I have to make your socks out of for the winter, an' mind that you don't have it too thick or lumpy. An' wash up the delph, an' put a drop o' milk on the fire in that black saucepan for the child, an' give it to him at eleven o'clock. An' don't make it too hot for him, or you'll hear about it. An' sweep the floor, an' make the bed, an' get a couple o' cans o' water from the well, an' peel the praties for the dinner,' says Peggy, and she out o' breath, an' off she went to the far field.
"'Troth, then, I'll do that an' more, an' it won't trouble me much,' says Dickey, with a grunt, an' he fillin' the pipe for a good smoke, 'it's easier than breakin' one's back bendin' over a reapin' hook.' An' he reddened the pipe an' pulled away at his ease.
"The first thing he started into was the washin' o' the delph, an' he got along middlin' well till he caught hold o' Peggy's darlin' cup that belonged to her mother's aunt's great-grandmother, an' was as precious to her as gold. There was a crack in it down one side, an' half-way round the bottom, an' whatever the dickens happened Dickey, his fingers were too clumsy or somethin', he never felt till he had a piece o' the cup in each hand, an' there was another bit on the floor. He just looked at it an' said nothin', but he thought a lot.
"It couldn't be helped anyway, so he took the gallon can an' out with him to the byre to milk the cow. You'd think Peggy an' the cow had it made up between them, with the look that was in her eye when she saw Dickey comin' with the can, but she stood as quiet as you please an' chewed the cud, an' seemed to be terrible pleased with the song Dickey sang while he milked. An' the work was goin' on so grand that he forgot all about the cup he broke an' was wonderin' to himself was Peggy repentin' yet, an' was givin' a chuckle or two an' he drawin' the last drop o' milk into the can, when all of a sudden, without 'by your leave' or 'here's at you,' the rogue of a cow lifted her right hind leg an' gave one kick that sent Dickey an' the can o' milk sprawlin' all over the place. The milk was spilled over him, of course, an' the can was made a pancake of, an' he had a pain in his chest like lumbago, but what could he do only curse the cow an' go into the house without can or milk, an' I may tell you he wasn't chucklin'.
"Well, the pigs were yellin' like mad lions, an' nearly breakin' down the sty with the hunger, an' Dickey put the pot on the fire an' boiled a feed for them as fast as he could. An' when it was ready he went to the sty with it, but whatever misfortune was on him that mornin', an' the place bein' purty dark where the pigs were, he bumped his nose against the sharp corner of a board an' the blood began to come like as if there was somebody after it, an' Dickey flung the feed, bucket an' all to the pigs, an' ran into the house an' lay on the broad of his back tryin' to stop the blood an' it runnin' down his neck an' everywhere.
"He got it stopped at last, but he was as weak as a cat, an' then he thought o' the churnin', an' he started to do it as best he could, which wasn't much of a best. It's no joke to do a churnin' without help an' keep a child from cryin' at the same time, an' when Dickey was finished, I tell you, he didn't feel like runnin' a race or jumpin' over a stone wall. He was sweatin' like a fat pig at a fair on a summer's day.
"Then when the churnin' was finished, he went to the well for a can o' water, an' he brought the child with him as it was cryin' fit to lift the roof off the house, an' what do you think but when he was stoopin' to lift the water didn't he lose his footin' an' fall into the well, child an' all, an' only it wasn't too deep, Dickey's housekeepin' days were over. He was all wet anyway, an' the child was wet an' bawlin', which was no wonder, an' the water was runnin' out o' the two o' them an' they goin' back to the house.
"When he got to the door there was a stream o' fresh buttermilk runnin' out to meet him, an' nice little lumps o' butter floatin' on it, an' there was the churn upset in the middle o' the floor, an' the black pig drinkin' away at her ease, an' givin' a grunt o' contentment every now an' then, as much as to say, 'that's the stuff for puttin' a red neck on a pig.'
"For one full minute Dickey didn't know what to do he was that mad an' wet an' disappointed an' tired all at the one time, but when the minute was up he threw the wet child--an' it roarin' all the time, the poor thing--into the cradle, an' grabbed a new spade that was standin' at the cross-wall, an' made one lunge at the black pig as she darted out on the door, knowin' well there was trouble comin'. It caught her just at the back o' the ear, an' with one yell she staggered an' stretched out on the yard as dead as a door-nail.
"An' that's the way things were when Peggy came up from the far field a few minutes later--Dickey nearly dead with fright, an' the child on the borders of a fit, the churnin' all through the house, the gallon can all battered up an' not a drop o' new milk to be seen, the fire out an' no sign of a dinner, the cow in the byre an' she ragin' with the hunger, one pig dead an' the other rootin' up the winter cabbage in the garden, an' the whole place like a slaughterhouse or a battlefield, with milk an' pig's blood an' well-water flowin' in all directions; an' to crown it all, Dickey sat down in the corner an' began to cry.
"Well, it was a nice how-d'ye-do sure enough, but Peggy was a sensible woman, an' she just figured it all out there in a second or two, an' she said to herself that peace was cheap at the price, an' she knew by the look o' Dickey that there was goin' to be peace, an' she just held her tongue, an' set about fixin' up the child an' Dickey an' the place as best she could. An' then she went for Andy Mahon, the herd over in Moyvore, an' got him to scrape the pig, an' salt the bacon an' pack it, an' before night you'd never know that anythin' strange was after takin' place about the house at all, at all. An' Dickey was as mute as a mouse.
"From that day out there was peace an' quietness an' comfort in that house, an' Dickey Moran was as kind an' cheerful a man as you'd meet in a day's walk. An' the only thing Peggy regretted was her darlin' cup that belonged at one time to her mother's aunt's great-grandmother.
"Boys, O boys, it's eleven o'clock!"
ON ELECTIONS
Ned M'Grane was reading the paper as Denis Monaghan came into the forge, with a hearty, "God save all here."
"God save you kindly, Denis," said Ned, "an' keep you from ever aspirin' to be a candidate at an election."
"What's your raison for sayin' such a thing as that, Ned?"
"Well, Denis, I was just turnin' over in me mind all the lies that does be scattered around an' all the trickery an' deceit an' humbug that comes into the world durin' election times, an' I was just sayin' to meself, 'I hope an' pray, Ned M'Grane, that neither you nor any of your friends or relations or dacint neighbours 'll ever be tempted be the divil to go up as candidate for election, either as a Poor Law Guardian, District Councillor, County Councillor, Mimber o' Parliament, or anythin' else that has to be voted for, because as sure as ever you do you'll have to turn on the tap o' the keg where every man keeps his store o' lies in case the truth ever fails him, an' let it flow like the Falls o' Niagara after a flood.' An' that's the raison, Denis, I put that tail on to 'God save you kindly,' because I don't want to see an old friend like yourself ever fallin' as low as that."
"I don't think there's much fear o' me, Ned."
"You never can tell, Denis; you never can tell. I seen sensibler men than Denis Monaghan--because, as you are well aware, you have a streak o' th' amadán in you, the same as meself--an' you'd think they'd never set the few brains they had trottin' an' twistin' about election honours, as they're called, an' then some fine day or another when th' Ould Boy finds it too hot to be at home an' takes to prowlin' an' meandrin' about the world he comes along an' shouts in a whisper into me honest man's brain box that it'd be a grand thing for him to have his name in the papers an' on big strips o' paper as wide as a quilt on every old wall an' gate post, an' to be elected as a councillor or a guardian an' be able to gabble round a table every week an' have people lookin' up to him an' thinkin' him a great fella, an' expectin' him to make the country a plot out o' the Garden of Eden, the same as is promised in every election address, and so me poor man, bein' maybe not on his guard, an' a bit seedy or sick or somethin' finds th' Ould Boy's palaver sweeter than the screechin' o' three hungry pigs, an' with his teeth waterin' he makes up his mind to go forward as a candidate. An' that's how the whole thing happens, Denis.
"You know yourself the blathers an' the humbugs dacint men make o' themselves when they set out on the road to a Council seat or to be a chip o' the Board o' Guardians or an M.P., or anythin' else that has to be voted for, an' you know all the lies an' tomfoolery that's pelted about like clods at such a time. One fella says that he'll cut the taxes across in the middle, the same as if you got a splash-hook at them, an' another fella promises to mend all the broken backed bridges in the barony, an' another is goin' to get a pound a week an' a two story house an' a farm o' land for every labourin' man that he's fond of, an' another is goin' to revive th' old ancient language of Ireland, although he doesn't know a word of it himself, an' another playboy 'll make it his business to see that every child gets a vote as soon as he's in short clothes an' weaned off the bottle, an' they go on romancin' out o' them an' makin' up lies that'd lift the skin off your head, let alone the hair, if you started to consider an' ponder over them, and there you have quiet, honest next-door neighbours callin' each other names an' tryin' to clip th' ears off each other with their ash poles for sake o' puttin' one or th' other o' the tricks I was talkin' about at the head o' the list on the day the election is on. An' when they get in the bridges may mend themselves an' the houses for the labourers may grow like mushrooms or daisies, an' the fairies may bring back th' old ancient language an' the women may go about breakin' the world up into little bits lookin' for votes, but the boyo that was goin' to do everythin' takes a sudden fit of forgettin' an' never gets over it until the next election whistles to say it's comin'. Every time I see an election, Denis, I can't help thinkin' that there's a terrible lot o' knaves an' goms in the world still, in spite o' the free libraries an' everythin'.
"Did I ever tell you about the election that was over in the West--I think it was in Galway--a few years ago? It showed that there was one sensible man left in the world. There was a lot o' fellas up for election an' 'twas goin' to be a close fight, as close as a circus tumbler's shirt. One boyo hit on a plan of advertisin' himself, so he got up a big competition, as he called it, an' offered a ham to be won be the man that could give the best raison why he was to vote for this candidate above all th' others. Well, there was a terrible hub-bub an' hullabuloo over it, an' the night came to decide about the ham, an' every man for five miles around was packed into the town hall, an' everyone o' them wantin' to get his lie in first, an' the teeth waterin' with everyone o' them an' they lookin' up at the ham that was hangin' over the platform. An' when th' examination started every mother's son o' them had a raison as long as your arm, an' some o' them wrote down on paper--one fella said it was because he knew the country 'd be the better of it, an' another because he had a longin' after truth an' honesty, an' another because his conscience said it was the right thing to do, and so on, till it came to a little man that was that tight squeezed against the door at the far end o' the hall that his tongue was out, an' his face red, an' he twistin' like an eel in a cleeve. When it came to his turn: 'Well, me friend,' says the candidate, 'what's your raison for sayin' I ought to be elected?' 'Because I want that ham,' the little man squeaked out of him, an' it's all he was able to say on account o' bein' jammed so tight. But he got the ham."
NED'S TRIP TO DUBLIN
"Well, Ned, how d' you feel after your visit to Dublin, an' how did you like the city?"
"I feel very thankful that I'm alive at all," said Ned M'Grane, "that's how I feel; an' I may as well tell you straight out, 'ithout puttin' a gum in it--because I haven't a tooth--that I didn't like the city at all, good, bad or indifferent, an' I didn't feel aisy in me mind from the first minute I set foot in it, until the train whistled leavin' Amiens Street on the way back."
"An' how is that, Ned?"
"It's the quarest place you ever seen in your life, Denis, an' if you're wise you'll never see it. I can't make out why people are always trippin' over other runnin' up to Dublin an' half o' them 'd be better off at home if they 'd only work hard an' keep sober an' let other people's business alone. What they can see in the city to get fond of passes my understandin'. You'd want to keep one hand on your nose nearly all the time an' th' other in the pocket you had the few shillin's in, because the smell o' cabbage an' fish an' oranges an' things like that, that's qualified for th' old age pension, 'd nearly bid you the time o' day it's that strong, an' there's a lot o' professional pocket cleaners goin' about from mornin' till night, an' as soon as they get to know you're from the country--I don't know how they guess at it--they remember all of a sudden that they're sixth cousin to your mother-in-law's step-uncle, or some other relation that you never seen or heard about, an' if you open your mouth to spake to them they'll know your past history from cover to cover in five minutes an' your business an' all about you, an' if you once make friends with them the dickens a shillin' you'll have in your pocket when they get a sudden call to see a man on business outside in the street. Oh, I can tell you, 'shut your eyes and open your mouth' would not be much use to a man in Dublin.
"They don't walk at all up there--it 'd hurt their corns an' wear out their boots; but they're always runnin' after trams, an' then payin' money to be let sit in them to draw their breath. I didn't know what they were at the first time I seen them doin' it. I was walkin' down from me cousin's house to the chapel one mornin', an' not payin' much heed to anythin', when a fella darted out of a gate an' nearly knocked me down with the bump he gave into me. I was just goin' to grab hould of him or give him a kick when he muttered somethin' about bein' sorry, an' off he wint like forked lightnin' an' his hat in his hand an' he wavin' his arms like a tumblin' rake, an' he wasn't three perch runnin' when a lassie in a hobble skirt started to take buck jumps after him, like a lad in a sack race, an' then an old fat woman an' a middle-aged lad with a rheumatic hop joined in the race an' five or six more made after them as fast as they could leg it, an' they all flingin' their arms about the same as the first fella. 'Is it for a wager'? says I to a man that was walkin' in the same direction as meself. 'Is what for a wager?' says he. 'The race,' says I, pointin' to the crowd that was runnin'. He began to laugh an' looked at me in a way that said as plain as could be, 'You're a softy, anyway,' an' says he: 'Oh, they're only runnin' to catch the tram.' 'An' why wouldn't they wait for this other one that's comin' up now?' says I. 'They never wait for a tram in Dublin,' says he; 'they always run after the one that's ahead o' them, an' then if they can't catch it they spend the rest o' the day writin' letters to all the papers complainin' o' the rudeness o' the tram boys that wouldn't wait for them.' An' some o' the same people, when they were at home in the country two or three year ago wouldn't think a traneen about walkin' five mile to a football match an' five back, or trampin' into the town on a fair day or a market day, an' the dickens a bunion or a corn or a welt on their feet they had that time no more than there'd be on the leg of a creepy stool or on the spout of a kettle. I suppose if there were trams down here the women 'd want to go in them to milk or to cut nettles for the ducks an' the men 'd be runnin' after them on their way to the bog or to the hay field, an' they 'd be all writin' letters to the papers if the tram man wouldn't wait for them till they 'd be after aitin' their dinner or gettin' a drink o' buttermilk.
"You won't get a hand's turn done in Dublin 'ithout payin' for it. If you send a lad for a farthin' box o' matches you must give him a ha'penny for goin' an' maybe his tay when he comes back, an' if you haven't any change till the next day he'll charge you interest on it, an' if you don't pay him he'll make it hot for you the next time you go out, unless you ask a peeler to go along with you an' give him half-a-crown for mindin' you.
"Quare is no name for it. It bates out all that ever came across me, an' I seen some strange holes an' corners in me day. Why, the town over there, the biggest fair day ever it seen, or the finest day of a races 'd be no more to Dublin any day in the week than a tin whistle 'd be to the double-barrelled bugle of a brass band! You'd think that every man, woman an' child in Dublin took a pledge every mornin' to make somebody bothered before night with the fair dint o' noise, or die in the attempt. Such screechin' an' yellin' an' creakin' an' groanin' from old women an' young childre an' dogs an' cats an' drays an' fowls an' motors an' trams an' everythin' was never heard this side o' London or the place beyond it, where Ould Nick keeps his furnace in full blast night an' day. Why, a whisper in Dublin 'd call a man home from the bog to his dinner down here, it has to be that loud, an' if you don't screech for anythin' you want you won't get it at all. I don't wonder that the half of them up there is hoarse, an' th' other half bothered in both ears, an' that not one in every hundred has an inch o' win' to blow out a candle with. I suppose that's why they have the gas an' electric light an' keep the win' for blowin' them out under tap. I think if a man in Dublin had to quench six candles every night he'd die of heart disease in less than a week.
"The looks o' the peelers that they have for keepin' up the corners o' the streets in Dublin 'd make you laugh only you wouldn't like to be seen makin' a fool o' yourself in a crowd. They're for all the world like packs o' wool tied in the middle, an' whenever they have to run after a bould gossoon or a mad dog or a flyin' machine or anythin' like that, you'd see them shakin' like a movin' bog or a dish o' that flip-flop stuff they do have at weddin's an' dinners an' parties an' places like that--I think it's jelly they call it. I suppose the poor fellas never get anythin' to eat an' less to drink, an' the win' comin' round the corners gets into them an' blows them out like the bladder of a football. If a man was comin' to after sickness it'd put him to the pin of his collar to walk round one o' them. I'd like to see them wheelin' turf on a bog one o' these hot days. You could catch as much ile as 'd grease your brogues an' the' axle o' th' ass's dray for a twelve-month. It must take a quare lot o' stuff to make a suit o' clothes for one o' them.