THE LOST SAINT
An Old Man.
A Teacher.
Conall and other Children.
Scene.—A large room as it was in the old time. A long table in it. A troop of children, a share of them eating their dinner, another share of them sitting after eating. There is a teacher stooping over a book in the other part of the room.
A Child (standing up). Come out, Felim, till we see the new hound.
Another Child. We can't. The master told us not to go out till we would learn this poem, the poem he was teaching us to-day.
Another Child. He won't let anyone at all go out till he can say it.
Another Child. Maisead, disgust for ever on the same old poem; but there is no fear for myself—I'll get out, never fear; I'll remember it well enough. But I don't think you will get out, Conall. Oh, there is the master ready to begin.
Teacher (lifting up his head). Now, children, have you finished your dinner?
Children. Not yet. (A poor-looking, grey old man comes to the door.)
A Child. Oh, that is old Cormacin that grinds the meal for us, and minds the oven.
Old Man. The blessing of God here! Master, will you give me leave to gather up the scraps, and to bring them out with me?
Master. You may do that. (To the children.) Come here now, till I see if you have that poem right, and I will let you go out when you have it said.
Fearall. We are coming; but wait a minute till I ask old Cormacin what is he going to do with the leavings he has there.
Old Man. I am gathering them to give to the birds, avourneen.
Teacher. We will do it now; come over here. (The children stand together in a row.)
Teacher. Now I will tell you who made the poem you are going to say to me: There was a holy, saintly man in Ireland some years ago. Aongus Ceile Dé was the name he had. There was no man in Ireland had greater humility than he. He did not like the people to be giving honour to him, or to be saying he was a great saint, or that he made fine poems. It was because of his humility he stole away one night, and put a disguise on himself; and he went like a poor man through the country, working for his own living without anyone knowing him. He is gone away out of knowledge now, without anyone at all knowing where he is. Maybe he is feeding pigs or grinding meal now like any other poor person.
A Child. Grinding meal like old Cormacin here.
Teacher. Exactly. But before he went away, it is many fine sweet poems he made in the praise of God and the angels; and it was one of those I was teaching you to-day.
A Child. What is the name you said he had?
Teacher. Aongus Ceile Dé, the servant of God. They gave him that name because he was so holy. Now, Felim, say the first two lines you; and Art will say the two next lines; and Aodh the two lines after that, and so on to the end.
Felim.
Up in the kingdom of God, there are
Archangels for every single day.
Art.
And it is they certainly
That steer the entire week.
Aodh.
The first day is holy;
Sunday belongs to God.
Fergus.
Gabriel watches constantly
Every week over Monday.
Conall.
Gabriel watches constantly—
Teacher. That's not it, Conall; Fergus said that.
Conall. It is to God Sunday belongs——
Teacher. That's not it; that was said before. It is at Tuesday we are now. Who is it has Tuesday? (The little boy does not answer.) Who is it has Tuesday? Don't be a fool, now.
Conall (putting the joint of his finger in his eye). I don't know.
Teacher. Oh, my shame you are! Look now; go in the place Fearall is, and he will go in your place. Now, Fearall.
Fearall.
It is true that Tuesday is kept
By Michael in his full strength.
Teacher. That's it. Now, Conall, say who has Monday.
Conall. I can't.
Teacher. Say the two lines before that and I will be satisfied. Who has Monday?
Conall (crying). I don't know.
Teacher. Oh, aren't you the little amadan! I will never put anything at all in your head. I will not let you go out till you know that poem. Now, boys, run out with you; and we will leave Conall Amadan here. (The Teacher and all the other scholars go out.)
The Old Man. Don't be crying, avourneen; I will teach the poem to you; I know it myself.
Conall. Aurah, Cormacin, I cannot learn it. I am not clever or quick like the other boys. I can't put anything in my head (bursts into crying again). I have no memory for anything.
Old Man (laying his hand on his head). Take courage, astore. You will be a wise man yet, with the help of God. Come with me now, and help me to divide these scraps. (The child gets up.) That's it now; dry your eyes and don't be discouraged.
Conall (wiping his eyes). What are you making three shares of the scraps for?
The Old Man. I am going to give the first share to the geese; I am putting all the cabbage on this dish for them; and when I go out, I will put a grain of meal on it, and it will feed them finely. I have scraps of meat here, and old broken bread, and I will give that to the hens; they will lay their eggs better when they will get food like that. These little crumbs are for the little birds that do be singing to me in the morning, and that awaken me with their share of music. I have oaten meal for them. (Sweeps the floor, and gathers little crumbs of bread.) I have a great wish for the little birds. (The old man looks up; he sees the little boy lying on a cushion, and he asleep. He stands a little while looking at him. Tears gather in his eyes; then he goes down on his knees.)
Old Man. O Lord, O God, take pity on this little soft child. Put wisdom in his head, cleanse his heart, scatter the mist from his mind, and let him learn his lesson like the other boys. O Lord, Thou wert Thyself young one time: take pity on youth. O Lord, Thou Thyself shed tears: dry the tears of this little lad. Listen, O Lord, to the prayer of Thy servant, and do not keep from him this little thing he is asking of Thee. O Lord, bitter are the tears of a child, sweeten them; deep are the thoughts of a child, quiet them; sharp is the grief of a child, take it from him; soft is the heart of a child, do not harden it.
(While the old man is praying, the Teacher comes in. He makes a sign to the children outside; they come in and gather about him. The old man notices the children; he starts up, and shame burns on him.)
Teacher. I heard your prayer, old man; but there is no good in it. I praise you greatly for it, but that child is half-witted. I prayed to God myself once or twice on his account, but there was no good in it.
The Old Man. Perhaps God heard me. God is for the most part ready to hear. The time we ourselves are empty without anything, God listens to us; and He does not think on the thing we are without, but gives us our fill.
Teacher. It is the truth you are speaking; but there is no good in praying this time. This boy is very ignorant. (He and the old man go over to the child, who is still asleep, and signs of tears on his cheeks.) He must work hard, and very hard; and maybe with the dint of work, he will get a little learning some time. (He puts his hand on the cheek of the little boy, and he starts up, and wonder on him when he sees them all about him.)
The Old Man. Ask it to him now.
Teacher. DO you remember the poem now, Conall?
Conall.
Up in the heaven of God, there are
Archangels for every day.
And it is they certainly
That steer the entire week.
The first day is holy;
Sunday belongs to God.
Gabriel watches constantly
Every week over Monday.
It is true that Tuesday is kept
By Michael in his full strength.
Rafael, honest and kind and gentle,
It is to him Wednesday belongs.
To Sachiel, that is without crookedness,
Thursday belongs every week.
Haniel, the Archangel of God,
It is he has Friday.
Bright Cassiel, of the blue eyes,
It is he directs Saturday.
Teacher. That is a great wonder, not a word failed on him. But tell me, Conall astore, how did you learn that poem since?
Conall. When I was sleeping, just now, there came an old man to me, and I thought there was every colour that is in the rainbow upon him. And he took hold of my shirt, and he tore it; and then he opened my breast, and he put the poem within in my heart.
Old Man. It is God that sent that dream to you. I have no doubt you will not be hard to teach from this out.
Conall. And the man that came to me, I thought it was old Cormacin that was in it.
Fearall. Maybe it was Aongus Ceile Dé himself that was in it.
Aodh. Maybe Cormacin is Aongus.
Teacher. Are you Aongus Ceile Dé? I desire you in the name of God to tell me.
The Old Man (bowing his head). Oh, you have found it out now! Oh, I thought no one at all would ever know me. My grief that you have found me out!
Teacher (going on his knees). O holy Aongus, forgive me; give me your blessing. O holy man, give your blessing to these children. (The children fall on their knees round him.)
The Old Man (stretching out his hand). The blessing of God on you. The blessing of Christ and His Holy Mother on you. My own blessing on you.