Part 7

"If you seen the houses that some o' the swanks o' lads live in on th' edge o' the city you'd have nightmares for a week. When one o' them goes idle there's a notice about it in the papers to catch th' eye o' some lad that wants to change out o' the place he's in, an' you'd think by readin' it that it wasn't a house but a mansion that was waitin' for a tenant. You'll always read in the notices that there's a 'garden front an' rere,' but you'd want a telescope or somethin' like that to see the gardens. You could lift the front one on a good wide shovel, an' a goat couldn't turn round in the big one at the back 'ithout puttin' her feet up on the wall! An' then if you were to see the size o' the rooms in the houseen that you'd have to pay the rent of a farm o' land for. If you were sittin' in the middle o' the kitchen eatin' a pig's crubeen, an' if you came to a rale grizzly bit that wanted a good chuck to get it away from the bone, you'd soon get a whack o' the wall that 'd show you a beautiful movin' picture o' the whole sky on a starry night. An' it wouldn't do to have a dream about tumblin' the wild-cat an' you in bed in any o' them rooms, as they call them, or the same thing 'd happen you, or maybe you'd be out on top o' your head through the French winda with the Venetian blind and the Manchester curtains. An' then they call rows o' huts like that Prince o' Wales' Terrace, or Dreadnought Villa, or Empire Avenue, or somethin' like that, an' the poor foolish lads that has plenty o' room to walk an' sit an' sleep down here in the country think they'll never get away quick enough to Dublin to live in villas or terraces or avenues, and be swanks, God bless the mark!

"I could tell you a lot more about Dublin, boys, an' maybe I would, too, sometime, but you're after hearin' enough to know that it's the dickens own quare an' comical place out an' out."

THE LAWYER FOR THE DEFENCE

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

One St. Patrick's Night the Gaels were gathered together in their own special corner of Heaven (Ned McGrane told us on a certain evening in the Forge), and were having a glorious time of it. They were there in tens of thousands--Fionn and the Fianna, Brian Boru, the O'Neills and O'Donnells and O'Sullivans and MacCarthys, and every other O and Mac who ever looked upon Ireland as the one and only small nationality that claimed his heart and hand.

They were all clustered round a fine-looking, white-haired old man, who was nearly worn out acknowledging their congratulations and felicitations and hearty words of cheer and greeting. It was because of him the diversion had been set on foot, for he was none other than Padraig, the Patron Saint and Apostle of Ireland, but the poor man looked as if he hoped it would soon be at an end. For no sooner had he recovered from the shock given to his nerves by the handshake of some big, tall chieftain of the North than his limp arm was wrung almost to wrenching point by a towering Gael from some of the other provinces, until in the end he didn't know whether he was in Heaven or on the summit of Cruach Padraig.

At last, to his great relief, a bout of dancing was arranged for between Goll MacMorna, one of the famous Fianna of Fionn, and a celebrated Feis prize-winner, who had only arrived from Ireland a few days previously. Fifty fiddlers and fifty pipers played for them and it was a surprise to the new arrival to see that all the musicians were in perfect agreement, and that all had the same version of the tune. There was terrific excitement as the dance progressed, and Goll MacMorna, carried away by the enthusiasm, finished up with such a jump and a clatter that he broke a piece out of the floor, and sent it hurtling down among the stars. He nearly went after it himself, and was only just saved by being gripped in time by the Blacksmith of Limerick, who was nearest to him at the moment.

The skelp out of the floor kept falling and falling until it vanished from sight altogether. And you'll be surprised to hear where it landed.

Just at that very moment a young son of Belzebub--I forget what the little devil's name was, but it doesn't matter--was playing with a heap of recruiting posters down on the floor of--of--the other place, you know. The nurse was talking to a peeler at the gate and was just telling him about the latest novelette when the yelling and roaring and the noise were heard inside. In she dashed and found the young master flattened out like a pancake on the floor, and a big lump of a rock resting itself on top of him. Then the row started, and the talk that went about and the curses that careered around in column formation would make this book smell of brimstone if I were to set them down.

"Who threw the stone?" asked Belzebub for the twentieth time, "that's the question."

"It was down it came," says a man standing near him. He had no horns and no hoof, but he was well scorched.

"How do you know?" says Belzebub.

"I have a way of knowing all such things," says the man. "As you may remember, I used to be a Crown witness in Ireland before I came here."

"This stone," says another man exactly like the last speaker, "this stone came a long way. It came as far as it could come. It didn't grow in this country or near it--the heat is too great. I know the sort of stone it is, because I used to be a Department expert in Ireland long ago. It grew in no other place than in Heav--I mean where the goo--I beg your pardon, I mean the--the--the place where people go who don't come here."

"It was Peter killed my child!" shouted Belzebub, as he switched his tail and blew clouds of brimstone smoke from his nostrils.

"Wait a moment," says another well-scorched man--a sleek-looking fellow with a rogue's eye and a hangdog appearance, "I know who the culprits are. I used to be a felon-setter in Ireland before my services were transferred here, and I ought to know. This is St. Patrick's Night. The Irish crowd up in the other place are always allowed to hold demonstrations on this night--a most illegal and seditious gathering it usually is, too--and it's their unruly conduct that has sent this missile flying down here. If you get into communication with the _Freeman_ over the private wire, you'll find----"

"But it's in Peter's place they are," shouted Belzebub, "and Peter is responsible for their actions. Will you bear witness to it?"

"We will, certainly," they all shouted, "but to what?"

"To the fact that Peter is responsible for my son's death."

"We're ready to take twenty oaths on it."

"Is there any lawyer here who is willing to take up the case?" asked Belzebub.

"There is!" came the shout from thousands of throats, and every corner in the place echoed back the roar of it.

"Count them," said Belzebub to his confidential clerk, who had once been Chief Secretary in Ireland, and was well up in figures. The clerk began, but when he had used up all the paper in the place and all the figures he knew, he came to Belzebub and said there were still ten divisions and a battalion of lawyers to be counted.

"Shut your eyes and pick out any one at all," says Belzebub, "they're all the same. Is there a bailiff here?"

There came an immense crowd of them.

"Go," says Belzebub to one fellow, "and serve a writ on Peter."

The bailiff did as he was ordered, and when the writ reached poor St. Peter he was perturbed. He brought it to St. Patrick.

"See the mess you people have landed me in," he said, "the night you had the ceilidh--your feast night--the piece that your champion dancer knocked out of the floor fell on Belzebub's son and killed him." The Gaels weren't the least bit sorry. The only comment was made by Conan Maol.

"Pity it wasn't on the father it fell," says he.

"O dear, O dear," says St. Peter, with a sigh, and off he went to look for legal advice.

Everybody noticed that for the next few days he was terribly troubled, that he was searching for something or somebody, high up and low down, going here, there and everywhere.

The court day came. Belzebub and his big staff of lawyers and witnesses were in attendance, but St. Peter wasn't up to time.

They waited for him a long time. They were impatient. Then came a messenger.

"He'll be here shortly," says the messenger. "He seems to be looking for something. He has the whole place above nearly turned upside down."

They waited on and waited on, but there was no sign of St. Peter. The judge was getting vexed. At last they saw somebody coming, running, perspiration dropping from him, his face and figure showing signs of haste and worry. It was St. Peter. He only put his head in at the door.

"Wait a few minutes longer, if you please," says he to the judge, "I may be able to do it yet." And away he raced again.

A half hour passed, then an hour, then two hours, but there was no sign of St. Peter. A messenger was sent out to watch for him. At long last the messenger shouted in through the open window:

"Here he comes!"

They all looked out and saw him coming. But it was a slow-moving, dispirited, disappointed-looking St. Peter they saw. You'd think that everyone belonging to him had just died or that he had heard some sorrowful tidings. He stopped at the door and looked sadly at the judge. Everyone was silent. St. Peter spoke.

"I give it up," says he, shaking his head, "there's no use in going on with it. I've searched Heaven seven times over, from top to bottom, from end to end and from side to side, here, there and everywhere, but in any part or portion of it I couldn't find lawyer of any description that I might ask to plead my case for me."

Then he turned on his heel and walked back as he had come.

THE FIRST PLUM PUDDING

It was drawing near Christmas and we were gathered one night in the Forge, joking and laughing and smoking, and discussing various matters of no importance with Ned M'Grane, the jovial and kindly blacksmith of Balnagore. After a time the talk naturally turned on the great festival that was near at hand, and all the old and new observances that came with it as sure as sparks came when the smith's sledge hit the heated steel or iron on the anvil. And Ned, who was in his best form, was willing to talk in his own humorous fashion about everything connected with Christmas, from three-foot high candles to penny bugles, and from plum puddings to holly and ivy.

"I wonder who invented the sort of a Christmas we have nowadays?" said Ned, as he lighted his pipe and laid the sledge on the anvil. "I'm told that in the big towns an' the cities they start buyin' Christmas presents in the middle o' summer, so as to get them cheap, an' that some people go near losin' their mind tryin' to think o' what to give this person an' that an' strivin' to figure out what they're goin' to get themselves from their friends. Long ago the people thought it good enough to give an' get a Christmas greetin' at the fair or market or comin' home from Mass or goin' the road, but now you have to go to the town or send away to Dublin or London or somewhere for a bit of a card with a green robin redbreast on it, an' holly berries, an' about five feet o' snow, an' you must put it in a letter an' stamp it an' post it to the man or woman that lives next door to you, an' that you'll be talkin' to five minutes before an' after he gets it. An' he must do the same thing for you, an' if his card looks cheaper than yours, although you're after sendin' him a printed verse about good-will an' eternal friendship an' charity an' peace, you won't stop talkin' about his meanness for a month o' Sundays. I don't know what Christmas is comin' to at all."

"I wonder who thought o' the first plum puddin'," said Joe Clinton, as he looked meditatively into the big turf fire that Ned kept burning in a huge open grate for our special benefit. "Whoever he was, he didn't think he'd sicken so many people before the end o' the world. Some o' the things they call plum puddin's are a holy terror. An' the fun of it is that they never put as much as the skin of a plum in one o' them."

"Well, Joe," answered Ned, "I don't know who took out the plum puddin' patent first in the world, but I know who was the first who tried to make one in Balnagore, an' I know what happened to it, an' how often it was laughed over for many a long day after." And Ned chuckled softly as he coaxed mighty clouds of blue and white smoke from his veteran pipe. We saw at once that there was a story behind his remark, for Ned's brain was a storehouse for yarns, and our hearts thumped with excitement as we waited breathlessly for Joe Clinton to say the word that would set Ned's tongue working.

"Who was that, Ned--I never heard of it," said Joe at last.

"It was Judy Connell," Ned answered, as he looked away into the shadows as if his gaze was fixed on a cinematograph picture that had suddenly appeared on the far wall of the forge, "an' I remember it the same as if 'twas only yesterday, though it's a good twenty-five years since it happened. In them times the only sort of a puddin' people had at Christmas was a bit o' rice an' a few currants in it, an' it was a bigger luxury than you'd imagine, because it's little o' sweets or dainties the old people bothered their heads about: an' signs on it there wasn't a fellow for pullin' teeth an' stuffin' teeth at every fair an' market, nor bottles by the score in every 'pothacary's shop window for the cure o' constipation an' twenty other 'ations' an' 'isms' that the people o' them days knew nothin' about. An' sure nearly every man brought a full set o' teeth to the grave with him an' left them there to be dug up when some other man was goin' down on top of him. Nowadays every second man you meet has teeth made out o' melted lead or somethin' tied on to his gums with wire, an' some people have plum puddin' for their tay every time a friend or relation comes to see them, an' they have to keep on the dresser a bottle o' somethin' or other to shift the plum puddin' out of their stomach the next day. That's how things has changed in this country since I was a gossoon.

"But I'm ramblin' away from Judy Connell's plum puddin'.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transcriber's Notes:

Italics are represented using _underscores_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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