CHAPTER VI
GOOD ST. PATRICK
Grandmother Barry heard the song, and went to the door to see who was singing it so heartily. When she saw the peddler with the children she hurried to put an extra bowl and plate on the table, and bustled about the room setting out the simple meal.
The potatoes were baking in the embers, the kettle was boiling cheerfully over the burning peat, and a big dish of oaten stirabout was already steaming on the table.
“I’ll make a good cup of tay, and well have a supper fit for the king,” Grandmother Barry said aloud to herself, as she measured out the tea carefully and poured the boiling water over it. Then she went again to the door to give the stranger a hearty welcome.
Kathleen rang the bell to call her father down from his work-bench, Danny milked the little cow, and “in just no time at all” they were ready for supper.
“’Tis a sin and a shame that Kathleen is not wearing her green dress for St. Patrick,” said Grandmother Barry, as she saw the knot of green ribbon in the peddler’s coat. “I put it on her to wear to Mass, but ’tis her best and not to be worn common when she’s here at home. ’Twas a grand morning, and Father Burke gave the children a good talk about St. Patrick.”
“A fine morning it was, woman dear,” said the peddler, “and a grand day for the best saint that ever lived in ould Ireland.
“Tell us what Father Burke said about him,” he added, turning to Kathleen.
Poor Kathleen flushed and hung her head. “Sure, I know he stood on Croagh Patrick, over in County Mayo, and drove all the snakes out of the whole country into the sea,” she said, wishing she could remember some of the stories the good priest had told them.
“I’m not so sure about that,” said the peddler; “but it is true that there is not one to be found in the whole island. Some say there was never a snake here, and some say the good saint drove them all out with one stroke of his big stick. However it is, he is the best saint that ever lived, and a glory to Ireland, praise be to him!”
“Father Burke says he was only a lad when he was stolen away from his father and mother in Scotland, and brought to Ireland to tend swine for one of the chiefs,” said Mary Ellen shyly.
“He was sixteen years old, and as straight and handsome a lad as ever lived,” said the peddler.
“Was he a saint then?” asked Kathleen.
“Whist, child,” exclaimed Grandmother Barry, “would a saint tend wild pigs on the mountains for any man, chief or no chief?”
“He was a brave lad,” repeated the peddler. “It should be told oftener how he served one of the chiefs for six long years, and served him well. He set a good example to the flighty gossoons nowadays that can’t stick to one thing for as long as a month at a time.”
“Danny has worked for Farmer Flynn ten years,” said Mary Ellen, fearing the peddler might think her brother a “flighty gossoon.”
“Father Burke said that St. Patrick went all over Ireland, ringing his bell and preaching to the people,” said Kathleen, beginning to remember some of the story.
“So he did; he was a wonderful preacher,” said Grandmother Barry, “and he was Bishop of all Ireland for many years.”
“Was that when Great-grandmother Connell was a little girl?” asked Mary Ellen, who thought her great-grandmother very old.
“Whist, jewel; it was nearly fifteen hundred years ago that St. Patrick died,” her father told her, “and your great-grandmother’s only ninety.”
“Tell us the story of St. Patrick,” begged Kathleen. “I’ll remember it this time, for sure.”
“Well, now,” the peddler began, “when Patrick was a lad of sixteen he was brought to Ireland and sold as a slave to one of the rich chiefs, who sent him to tend swine on the mountains. At first he was no doubt sad and lonely, but he bore his troubles bravely and thought often of the good Father in Heaven.”
Kathleen’s father rose quickly, and going to a box in the corner of the room, he took out a book and brought it back to the fire.
“This is what the good saint himself wrote about those lonely days in the mountains,” he said, and turning the page he began to read slowly: “I was daily employed tending flocks; and I prayed frequently during the day, and the love of God was more and more enkindled in my heart, my fear and faith were increased, and my spirit was stirred; so much so that in a single day I poured out my prayers a hundred times and nearly as often in the night. Nay, even in the woods and mountains I remained, and rose before the dawn to my prayer, in frost and snow and rain; neither did I suffer any injury from it; for the spirit of the Lord was fervent within me.”
“He was a good lad,” said Grandmother Barry, wiping a tear from her wrinkled cheek, and taking up her knitting again.
“That he was, praise be to him,” the peddler agreed. “He tended the swine for six years, and then he escaped and made his way back to his home in Scotland; but he could not forget the Irish people and he longed to go back and teach them to be Christians. He studied for many years in France and other countries, but all the time his thoughts turned back to Ireland and he had dreams and visions about it.
“At last the Pope gave his permission, and Patrick set out for Ireland, landing on the north coast, in what is now County Down. Dicho, the chief of the district, thought that Patrick and his companions were pirates, and went to meet them and drive them out of the country; but when he saw their calm and peaceful ways he saluted them and invited them to his castle.
“Here Patrick told the chief his story and explained his belief in God, and Dicho and his whole family became Christians and were baptized.”
“He was a wonderful preacher,” repeated Grandmother Barry, with a nod of her head.
“Father Burke says that no missionary, since the time of the apostles, ever preached the gospel with more success than St. Patrick,” said Danny.
“That was because he cared nothing for riches and honor,” said the peddler. “He loved the people of Ireland and longed to make them all good Christians.
“After living with Dicho for some time and converting all the people roundabout, he bade good-bye to his friends and sailed down to the mouth of the river Boyne. From there he walked to the Hill of Tara, where the high-king of all Ireland lived in a great palace.
“He arrived at the palace on Easter morning, and presented himself before the king and his court. Patrick was robed in white, as were also his companions, and he wore his mitre and carried his crosier in his hand. He converted many of the king’s followers, and preached to the people throughout all the king’s dominions.
“’Twas so all over Ireland,—wherever Patrick went he turned pagans to Christians and built churches.
“He died in the very place where he first preached to Dicho, on the seventeenth day of March, about the year 465.”
“Is that why we call the seventeenth of March St. Patrick’s Day?” asked Mary Ellen.
“Yes,” replied her father, “it is the day that he died. We don’t rightly know just what day he was born.”
“How do you know so many things about St. Patrick, then, if he lived so many hundred years ago?” asked Kathleen.
“The old books tell us,” her father said. “Patrick, himself, wrote about his wanderings, and the monks copied these books and many others, painting pictures on the pages to illustrate them. It is from these ancient Gaelic books that we learn much about the life and customs of the people.”
“There were books of laws for the kings and the people, too,” said the peddler.
“Did the kings have to obey laws?” asked Kathleen, who supposed kings did just as they chose.
“That they did,” replied the peddler. “There was a law that no man could rule at Tara who was not perfect in his looks; so when Cormac mac Art lost an eye he had to give up being king.”
“’Twas a shame, too, for he was a good king,” said the father.
“It was also against the law for the sun to rise while the king was lying in bed at Tara,” said the peddler.
The children laughed merrily, and Danny asked, “How could they keep the sun from rising till the king was out of his bed?”
“Faith, they made the king get up before the sun did,” the peddler answered.
While the children were laughing over his joke, Grandmother Barry put down her knitting and went to the cupboard for a plate of oat-cakes and her precious pound of honey.
Everyone was quiet for a few minutes over the feast, and little Mary Ellen was the first to break the silence. “Father told us a story about St. Columbkille one day,” she said. “He was born here in our own Donegal and he had little cakes baked for him with the letters of the alphabet on them. I’m thinkin’ if I had cakes like that I could learn the letters with my fingers.”
“Faith, he must have had a fine time picnicking on his letters,” said the peddler.
“There was St. Bridget, too,” said Grandmother Barry; “she was a fine woman and took great pride in learning and teaching. And I doubt not her fingers had magic in them to turn wool into yarn and yarn into stockings, like any colleen of Donegal,” she added, with a look at Kathleen.
But Kathleen was sound asleep in her chair and had forgotten all about the stocking she was going to finish knitting that very day.
“The child is tired out with our stories,” said her father.
“I mind we should all be in our beds,” said Grandmother Barry, and soon they were tucked away comfortably for the night.