Chapter 19

"'No,' says the saint; 'I'm no tinker by thrade, King O'Toole; I've a betther thrade than a tinker,' says he. 'What would you say,' says he, 'if I made your ould goose as good as new?'

"My dear, at the word o' making his goose as good as new, you'd think the poor ould King's eyes was ready to jump out iv his head, 'and,' says he--'throth, thin, I'd give you more money nor you could count,' says he, 'if you did the like, and I'd be behoulden to you in the bargain.'

"'I scorn your dirty money,' says Saint Kavin.

"'Faith, thin, I'm thinkin' a thrifle o' change would do you no harm,' says the King, lookin' up sly at the ould _caubeen_ that Saint Kavin had on him.

"'I have a vow agin it,' says the saint; 'and I am book sworn,' says he, 'never to have goold, silver, or brass in my company.'

"'Barrin' the thrifle you can't help,' says the King, mighty cute, and looking him straight in the face.

"'You just hot it,' says Saint Kavin; 'but though I can't take money,' says he, 'I could take a few acres o' land, if you'd give them to me.'

"'With all the veins o' my heart,' says the King, 'if you can do what you say.'

"'Thry me!' says Saint Kavin. 'Call down your goose here,' says he, 'and I'll see what I can do for her.'

"With that the King whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound, waddlin' up to the poor ould cripple, her masther, and as like him as two pays. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, 'I'll do the job for you,' says he, 'King O'Toole!'

"'By _Jaminee_,' says King O'Toole, 'if you do, but I'll say you're the cleverest fellow in the sivin parishes.'

"'Oh, by dad,' says Saint Kavin, 'you must say more nor that--my horn's not so soft all out,' says he, 'as to repair your ould goose for nothin'; what'll you gi' me if I do the job for you?--that's the chat,' says Saint Kavin.

"'I'll give you whatever you ax,' says the King; 'isn't that fair?'

"'Divil a fairer,' says the saint; 'that's the way to do business. Now,' says he, 'this is the bargain I'll make with you, King O'Toole: will you gi' me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer, afther I make her as good as new?'

"'I will,' says the King.

"'You won't go back o' your word?' says Saint Kavin.

"'Honor bright!' says King O'Toole, howldin' out his fist.

"'Honor bright,' says Saint Kavin back again, 'it's a bargain,' says he. 'Come here!' says he to the poor ould goose--'come here, you unfort'nate ould cripple,' says he, 'and it's I that'll make you the sportin' bird.'

"With that, my dear, he tuk up the goose by the two wings--'criss o' my crass an you,' says he, markin' her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute--and throwin' her up in the air, 'whew!' says he, jist givin' her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she tuk to her heels, flyin' like one o' the aigles themselves, and cuttin' as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain. Away she wint down there, right forninst you, along the side o' the clift, and flew over Saint Kavin's bed (that is, where Saint Kavin's bed is _now_, but was not _thin_, by raison it wasn't made, but was conthrived afther by Saint Kavin himself, that the women might lave him alone), and on with her undher Lugduff, and round the ind av the lake there, far beyant where you see the watherfall--and on with her thin right over the lead mines o' Luganure (that is, where the lead mines is _now_, but was not _thin_, by raison they worn't discovered, _but was all goold in Saint Kavin's time_). Well, over the ind o' Luganure she flew, stout and studdy, and round the other ind av the _little_ lake, by the Churches (that is, _av coorse_, where the Churches is _now_, but was not _thin_, by raison they wor not built, but aftherwards by Saint Kavin), and over the big hill here over your head, where you see the big clift--(and that clift in the mountain was made by _Finn Ma Cool_, where he cut it acrass with a big swoord that he got made a purpose by a blacksmith out o' Rathdrum, a cousin av his own, for to fight a joyant (giant) that darr'd him an' the Curragh o' Kildare; and he thried the swoord first an the mountain, and cut it down into a gap, as is plain to this day; and faith, sure enough, it's the same sauce he sarv'd the joyant, soon and suddint, and chopped him in two like a pratie, for the glory of his sowl and ould Ireland)--well, down she flew over the clift, and fluttherin' over the wood there at Poulanass. Well--as I said--afther fluttherin' over the wood a little bit, to _plaze_ herself, the goose flew down, and bit at the fut o' the King, as fresh as a daisy, afther flyin' roun' his dominions, jist as if she hadn't flew three perch.

"Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the King standin' with his mouth open, lookin' at his poor ould goose flyin' as light as a lark, and betther nor ever she was; and when she lit at his fut he patted her an the head, and '_ma vourneen_,' says he, 'but you are the _darlint_ o' the world.'

"'And what do you say to me,' says Saint Kavin, 'for makin' her the like?'

"'By gor,' says the King, 'I say nothin' bates the art o' men, 'barrin' the bees.'

"'And do you say no more nor that?' says Saint Kavin.

"'And that I'm behoulden to you,' says the King.

"'But will you gi' me all the ground the goose flewn over?' says Saint Kavin.

"'I will,' says King O'Toole, 'and you're welkim to it,' says he, 'though it's the last acre I have to give.'

"'But you'll keep your word thrue?' says the saint.

"'As thrue as the sun,' says the King.

"'It's well for you,' says Saint Kavin, mighty sharp--'it's well for you, King O'Toole, that you said that word,' says he; 'for if you didn't say that word, _the divil receave the bit o' your goose id iver fly agin_,' says Saint Kavin.

"'Oh, you needn't laugh,' said old Joe, 'for it's thruth I'm telling you.'

"Well, whin the King was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was _plazed_ with him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the King.

"Well, my dear, that's the way that the place kem, all at wanst, into the hands of Saint Kavin; for the goose flew round every individyial acre o' King O'Toole's property, you see, _bein' let into the saycret_ by Saint Kavin, who was mighty _cute_; and so, when he _done_ the ould King out iv his property for the glory of God, he was _plazed_ with him, and he and the King was the best o' friends iver more afther (for the poor ould King was _doatin'_, you see), and the King had his goose as good as new to divart him as long as he lived; and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property, as I tould you, until the day iv his death--and that was soon afther; for the poor goose thought he was ketchin' a throut one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made--and instead of a throut, it was a thievin' horse-eel! and, by gor, instead iv the goose killin' a throut for the King's supper--by dad, the eel killed the King's goose--and small blame to him; but he didn't ate her, bekase he darn't ate what Saint Kavin laid his blessed hands on."

SAMUEL LOVER.

Lament of the Last Leprechaun

For the red shoon of the Shee, For the falling o' the leaf, For the wind among the reeds, My grief.

For the sorrow of the sea, For the song's unquickened seeds, For the sleeping of the Shee, My grief.

For dishonoured whitethorn-tree, For the runes that no man reads Where the grey stones face the sea, My grief.

Lissakeole, that used to be Filled with music night and noon, For their ancient revelry, My grief.

For the empty fairy shoon, Hollow rath and yellow leaf, Hands unkissed to sun or moon, My grief--my grief!

NORA HOPPER.

The Corpse Watchers

There was once a poor woman that had three daughters, and one day the eldest said, "Mother, bake my cake and kill my cock till I go seek my fortune." So she did, and when all was ready, says her mother to her, "Which will you have--half of these with my blessing, or the whole with my curse?" "Curse or no curse," says she, "the whole is little enough." So away she set, and if the mother didn't give her her curse, she didn't give her her blessing.

She walked, and she walked, till she was tired and hungry, and then she sat down to take her dinner. While she was eating it a poor woman came up, and asked for a bit. "The dickens a bit you'll get from me," says she; "it's all too little for myself." And the poor woman walked away very sorrowful. At nightfall she got lodging at a farmer's, and the woman of the house told her that she'd give her a spadeful of gold and a shovelful of silver if she'd only sit up and watch her son's corpse that was waking in the next room. She said she'd do that, and so, when the family were in their bed, she sat by the fire, and cast an eye from time to time on the corpse that was lying under the table.

All at once the dead man got up in his shroud, and stood before her, and said, "All alone, fair maid?" She gave him no answer; when he had said it the third time he struck her with a switch, and she became a grey flag.

About a week after, the second daughter went to seek her fortune, and she didn't care for her mother's blessing no more _nor_ her sister, and the very same thing happened to her. She was left a grey flag by the side of the other.

At last the youngest went off in search of the other two, and she took care to carry her mother's blessing with her. She shared her dinner with the poor woman on the road, and _she_ told her that she would watch over her.

Well, she got lodging in the same place as the others, and agreed to mind the corpse. She sat up by the fire, with the dog and cat, and amused herself with some apples and nuts the mistress had given her. She thought it a pity that the man under the table was a corpse, he was so handsome.

But at last he got up, and, says he, "All alone, fair maid?" and she wasn't long about an answer:

All alone I am not, I've little dog Douse, and Pussy, my cat; I've apples to roast and nuts to crack, And all alone I am not.

"Ho, ho!" says he, "you're a girl of courage, though you wouldn't have enough to follow me. I am now going to cross the quaking bog, and go through the burning forest. I must then enter the cave of terror and climb the hill of glass, and drop from the top of it into the Dead Sea." "I'll follow you," says she, "for I engaged to mind you." He thought to prevent her, but she was stiff as he was stout.

Out he sprang through the window, and she followed him, till they came to the "Green Hills," and then says he:

"Open, open, Green Hills and let the light of the Green Hills through." "Aye," says the girl, "and let the fair maid too."

They opened, and the man and woman passed through, and there they were on the edge of a bog.

He trod lightly over the shaky bits of moss and sod; and while she was thinking of how she'd get across, the old beggar appeared to her, but much nicer dressed, touched her shoes with a stick, and the soles spread a foot on each side. So she easily got over the shaky marsh. The burning wood was at the edge of the bog, and there the good fairy flung a damp, thick cloak over her, and through the flames she went, and a hair of her head was not singed. Then they passed through the dark cavern of horrors, when she'd have heard the most horrible yells, only that the fairy stopped her ears with wax. She saw frightful things, with blue vapours round them, and felt the sharp rocks and the slimy backs of frogs and snakes.

When they got out of the cavern, they were at the mountain of glass; and then the fairy made her slippers so sticky with a tap of her rod that she followed the young corpse quite easily to the top. There was the deep sea a quarter of a mile under them, and so the corpse said to her, "Go home to my mother, and tell her how far you came to do her bidding. Farewell!" He sprung head-foremost down into the sea, and after him she plunged, without stopping a moment to think about it.

She was stupefied at first, but when they reached the waters she recovered her thoughts. After piercing down a great depth, they saw a green light towards the bottom. At last they were below the sea, that seemed a green sky above them; and, sitting in a beautiful meadow, she half-asleep, and her head resting against his side. She couldn't keep her eyes open, and she couldn't tell how long she slept; but when she woke, she was in bed at his house, and he and his mother sitting by her bedside, and watching her.

It was a witch that had a spite to the young man because he wouldn't marry her, and so she got power to keep him in a state between life and death till a young woman would rescue him by doing what she had done. So, at her request, her sisters got their own shapes again, and were sent back to their mother, with their spades of gold and shovels of silver. Maybe they were better after that, but I doubt it much. The youngest got the young gentleman for her husband. I'm sure she lived happy, and, if they didn't live happy--_that we may_!

PATRICK KENNEDY.

The Mad Pudding of Ballyboulteen

"Moll Roe Rafferty, the daughter of ould Jack Rafferty, was a fine young bouncin' girl, large an' lavish, wid a purty head of hair on her like scarlet, that bein' one of the raisons why she was called _Roe_ or red; her arms and cheeks were much the colour of the hair, an' her saddle nose was the purtiest thing of its kind that ever was on a face.

"Well, anyhow, it was Moll Rafferty that was the _dilsy_. It happened that there was a nate vagabone in the neighbourhood, just as much overburdened wid beauty as herself, and he was named Gusty Gillespie. Gusty was what they call a black-mouth Prosbytarian, and wouldn't keep Christmas day, except what they call 'ould style.' Gusty was rather good-lookin', when seen in the dark, as well as Moll herself; anyhow, they got attached to each other, and in the end everything was arranged for their marriage.

"Now this was the first marriage that had happened for a long time in the neighbourhood between a Prodestant and a Catholic, and faix, there was one of the bride's uncles, ould Harry Connolly, a fairyman, who could cure all complaints wid a secret he had, and as he didn't wish to see his niece married on sich a fellow, he fought bittherly against the match. All Moll's friends, however, stood up for the marriage, barrin' him, and, of coorse, the Sunday was appointed, as I said, that they were to be dove-tailed together.

"Well, the day arrived, and Moll, as became her, went to mass, and Gusty to meeting, afther which they were to join one another in Jack Rafferty's, where the priest, Father Mc. Sorley, was to slip up afther mass to take his dinner wid them, and to keep Misther Mc. Shuttle, who was to marry them, company. Nobody remained at home but ould Jack Rafferty an' his wife, who stopped to dress the dinner, for, to tell the truth, it was to be a great let-out entirely. Maybe, if all was known, too, Father Mc. Sorley was to give them a cast of his office over and above the ministher, in regard that Moll's friends were not altogether satisfied at the kind of marriage which Mc. Shuttle could give them. The sorrow may care about that--splice here, splice there--all I can say is that when Mrs. Rafferty was goin' to tie up a big bag pudden, in walks Harry Connolly, the fairyman, in a rage, and shouts out, 'Blood and blunderbushes, what are yez here for?'

"'Arrah, why, Harry? Why, avick?'

"'Why, the sun's in the suds, and the moon in the high Horricks; there's a clip-stick comin' on, and there you're both as unconsarned as if it was about to rain mether. Go out, an' cross yourselves three times in the name o' the four Mandromarvins, for as prophecy says:--"Fill the pot, Eddy, supernaculum--a blazing star's a rare spectaculum." Go out, both of you, an' look at the sun, I say, an' ye'll see the condition he's in--off!'

"Begad, sure enough, Jack gave a bounce to the door, and his wife leaped like a two-year-ould, till they were both got on a stile beside the house to see what was wrong in the sky.

"'Arrah, what is it, Jack?' says she, 'can you see anything?'

"'No,' says he, 'sorra the full of my eye of anything I can spy, barrin' the sun himself, that's not visible, in regard of the clouds. God guard us! I doubt there's something to happen.'

"'If there wasn't Jack, what'd put Harry, that knows so much, in the state he's in?'

"'I doubt it's this marriage,' says Jack. 'Betune ourselves, it's not over an' above religious of Moll to marry a black-mouth, an' only for--; but, it can't be helped now, though you see it's not a taste o' the sun is willin' to show his face upon it.'

"'As to that,' says his wife, winkin' with both her eyes, 'if Gusty's satisfied wid Moll, it's enough. I know who'll carry the whip hand, anyhow; but in the manetime let us ax Harry within what ails the sun?'

"Well, they accordianly went in, and put this question to him, 'Harry, what's wrong, ahagur? What is it now, for if anybody alive knows 'tis yourself?'

"'Ah,' said Harry, screwin' his mouth wid a kind of a dry smile, 'the sun has a hard twist o' the colic; but never mind that, I tell you, you'll have a merrier weddin' than you think, that's all'; and havin' said this, he put on his hat and left the house.

"Now, Harry's answer relieved them very much, and so, afther callin' to him to be back for dinner, Jack sat down to take a shough o' the pipe, and the wife lost no time in tying up the pudden, and puttin' it in the pot to be boiled.

"In this way things went on well enough for a while, Jack smokin' away, an' the wife cookin' an' dhressin' at the rate of a hunt. At last, Jack, while sittin', as I said, contentedly at the fire, thought he could persave an odd dancin' kind of motion in the pot that puzzled him a good deal.

"'Katty,' says he, 'what the dickens is in this pot on the fire?'

"'Nerra thing but the big pudden. Why do you ax?' says she.

"'Why,' says he, 'if ever a pot tuck it into its head to dance a jig, and this did. Thundher and sparbles, look at it!'

"Begad, and it was thrue enough; there was the pot bobbin' up an' down, and from side to side, jiggin' it away as merry as a grig; an' it was quite aisy to see that it wasn't the pot itself, but what was inside of it, that brought about the hornpipe.

"'Be the hole o' my coat,' shouted Jack, 'there's somethin' alive in it, or it would niver cut sich capers!'

"'Begorra, there is, Jack; somethin' sthrange entirely has got into it. Wirra, man alive, what's to be done?'

"Jist as she spoke the pot seemed to cut the buckle in prime style, and afther a spring that'd shame a dancin' masther, off flew the lid, and out bounced the pudden itself, hoppin' as nimble as a pea on a drum-head about the floor. Jack blessed himself, and Katty crossed herself. Jack shouted, and Katty screamed. 'In the name of goodness, keep your distance; no one here injured you!'

"The pudden, however, made a set at him, and Jack lepped first on a chair, and then on the kitchen table, to avoid it. It then danced towards Katty, who was repatin' her prayers at the top of her voice, while the cunnin' thief of a pudden was hoppin' an' jiggin' it around her as if it was amused at her distress.

"'If I could get the pitchfork,' says Jack, 'I'd dale wid it--by goxty, I'd thry its mettle.'

"'No, no,' shouted Katty, thinking there was a fairy in it; 'let us spake it fair. Who knows what harm it might do? Aisy, now,' says she to the pudden, 'aisy, dear; don't harm honest people that never meant to offend you. It wasn't us--no, in troth, it was ould Harry Connolly that bewitched you; pursue _him_, if you wish, but spare a woman like me!'

"The pudden, bedad, seemed to take her at her word, and danced away from her towards Jack, who, like the wife, believin' there was a fairy in it, an' that spakin' it fair was the best plan, thought he would give it a soft word as well as her.

"'Plase your honour,' said Jack, 'she only spaiks the truth, an' upon my voracity, we both feels much oblaiged to you for your quietness. Faith, it's quite clear that if you weren't a gentlemanly pudden, all out, you'd act otherwise. Ould Harry, the rogue, is your mark; he's jist gone down the road there, and if you go fast you'll overtake him. Be my song, your dancin'-masther did his duty, anyway. Thank your honour! God speed you, and may you niver meet wid a parson or alderman in your thravels.'

"Jist as Jack spoke, the pudden appeared to take the hint, for it quietly hopped out, and as the house was directly on the roadside, turned down towards the bridge, the very way that ould Harry went. It was very natural, of coorse, that Jack and Katty should go out to see how it intended to thravel, and as the day was Sunday, it was but natural, too, that a greater number of people than usual were passin' the road. This was a fact; and when Jack and his wife were seen followin' the pudden, the whole neighbourhood was soon up and afther it.

"'Jack Rafferty, what is it? Katty, ahagur, will you tell us what it manes?'

"'Why,' replied Katty, 'it's my big pudden that's bewitched, an' it's out hot foot pursuin''--here she stopped, not wishin' to mention her brother's name--'_someone_ or other that surely put _pishrogues_[3] an it.'

"This was enough; Jack, now seein' that he had assistance, found his courage comin' back to him; so says he to Katty, 'Go home,' says he, 'an' lose no time in makin' another pudden as good, an' here's Paddy Scanlan's wife, Bridget, says she'll let you boil it on her fire, as you'll want our own to dress the rest of the dinner; and Paddy himself will lend me a pitchfork for purshuin' to the morsel of that same pudden will escape, till I let the wind out of it, now that I've the neighbours to back an' support me,' says Jack.

"This was agreed to, an' Katty went back to prepare a fresh pudden, while Jack an' half the townland pursued the other wid spades, graips, pitchforks, scythes, flails, and all possible description of instruments. On the pudden went, however, at the rate of about six Irish miles an hour, an' sich a chase was never seen. Catholics, Prodestants, and Prosbytarians were all afther it, armed, as I said, an' bad end to the thing, but its own activity could save it. Here it made a hop, there a prod was made at it; but off it went, and someone, as eager to get a slice at it on the other side, got the prod instead of the pudden. Big Frank Farrell, the miller, of Ballyboulteen, got a prod backwards that brought a hullabulloo out of him that you might hear at the other end of the parish. One got a slice of a scythe, another a whack of a flail, a third a rap of a spade, that made him look nine ways at wanst.

"'Where is it goin'?' asked one. 'My life for you, it's on its way to Meeting. Three cheers for it, if it turns to Carntaul!' 'Prod the sowl out of it if it's a Prodestan'' shouted the others; 'if it turns to the left, slice it into pancakes. We'll have no Prodestan' puddens here.'

"Begad, by this time the people were on the point of beginnin' to have a regular fight about it, when, very fortunately, it took a short turn down a little by-lane that led towards the Methodist praychin'-house, an' in an instant all parties were in an uproar against it as a Methodist pudden. 'It's a Wesleyan,' shouted several voices; 'an' by this an' by that, into a Methodist chapel it won't put a foot to-day, or we'll lose a fall. Let the wind out of it. Come, boys, where's your pitchforks?'

"The divle purshuin' to the one of them, however, ever could touch the pudden, and jist when they thought they had it up against the gavel of the Methodist chapel, begad, it gave them the slip, and hops over to the left, clane into the river, and sails away before their eyes as light as an egg-shell.