THE CURRAH CUT;
OR, HOW WE ALL GOT A FI’PENNY BIT A-PIECE.
“Are the two ponies ready?”
“Yes!”
“And the ass?”
“All right!”
“And you’ve, all five of you, got your fi’pennies for Tony Dolan, the barber, at Kells?”
“Every one of us.”
“Then be off; there’s good boys! Ride and tie like Christians, and don’t be going double on the brute beasts; for a bit of a walk now and then will just stretch your legs. Be back at five to dinner; and let us see what bucks you’ll look with your new-trimmed curls. Stay, there’s another fi’penny; spend that among you, and take care of yourselves, my little jewels!”
Such were the parting queries and instructions of my kind old uncle to five as roaring, mischievous urchins as ever stole whisky to soak the shamrock on St. Patrick’s day. The chief director, schemer, and perpetrator of all our fun and devilry, was, strange to say, “my cousin Bob:” the smallest, and, with one exception, the youngest of the party. But Bob was his grandmother’s “ashey pet”—his mother’s “jewel”—his father’s “mannikin”—his nurse’s “honey”—and the whole world’s “darlin’ little devil of a rogue!” The expression of a face naturally arch, beaming with good humour, and radiant with happy laughter, was singularly heightened by a strange peculiarity of vision, which I am at a loss to describe. It was, if the reader can idealise the thing, an absolute “beauty,” which, unfortunately, can only be written about by the appliances of some term conveying the notion of a blemish. The glances from his bright eyes seemed to steal out from under their long fringe, the most reckless truants of exulting mirth. No matter what he said, he looked a joke. Now for his orders:—
“Aisy with you, lads. Cousin Harry, take first ride on St. Patrick (the name of the ass)—here’s a leg up. The two Dicks can have Scrub and Rasper. Jack and Billy, boys, catch a hold of the bridles, or devil a ha’p’worth of ride and tie there’ll be in at all, if them Dicks get the start—Shanks’ mare will take you to Kells. Don’t be galloping off in that manner, but shoot aisy! Remember, the ass has got to keep up with you, and I’ve got to keep up with the ass. That’s the thing—steady she goes! It’s an elegant day, and no hurry in life. Spider! come here, boy—that’s right. Down, sir! down, you devil, or wipe your paws. Bad manners to you—look at them breeches! Never mind, there’s a power of rats at Tony Carroll’s barn—it’s mighty little out o’ the way, and may be we’ll get a hunt. What say you?”
“A hunt, a hunt, by all manes! there’s the fun of it! Come on, lads—here’s the place!—turn off, and go to work! Wait, wait! get a stick a-piece, and break the necks of ’em! Hurrah!—in Spider!—find ’em boy! Good lad! Tare an ouns, you may well squeak! Good dog! good dog! that’s a grandfather!—we’ll have more yet; the family always come to the ould one’s berrin’. I’ve seen ’em often, and mighty dacent they behave. Damn Kells and the barber, up with the boords and go to work!—this is something like sport! Houly Paul, there’s one up my breeches—here’s the tail of him—he caught a hould of my leather-garter. Come out of that, Spider! Spider, here he is—that’s it—give him another shake for his impudence—serve him out! Hurrah!”
“Fast and furious” grew our incessant urging on of the willing Spider, for his continued efforts at extermination. At the end of two hours, the metamorphosed barn was nearly stripped of its flooring—nine huge rats lay dead, as trophies of our own achievements—the panting Spider, “by turns caressing, and by turns caressed,” licking alternately the hands and faces of all, as we sat on the low ledge of the doorway, wagging his close-cut stump of tail, as if he were resolved, by his unceasing exertions, to get entirely rid of that excited dorsal ornament.
“This is the rael thing,” said Bob.
“So it is,” said Dick; “but”—
“But what?”
“Why, devil a ha’p’orth of Kells or hair-cutting there’s in it.”
“Not a taste,” chimed in Jack.
“Nothing like it,” echoed Will.
“What will we do?” said all at once. There was a short pause—after which the matter was resumed by Dick, who was intended for a parson, and therefore rather given to moralising.
“Life,” quoth Dick—“life’s uncertain.”
“You may say that,” rejoined Bob; “look at them rats.”
“Tony Dowlan’s a hard-drinking man, and his mother had fits.”
“Of the same sort,” said Bob.
“Well, then,” continued Dick, “there’s no knowing—he may be dead—if so, how could he cut our hair?”
Here Dick, like Brutus, paused for a reply. Bob produced one.
“It’s a good scheme, but it won’t do; the likes of him never does anything he’s wanted to. He’s the contrariest ould thief in Ireland! I wish mama hadn’t got a party; we’d do well enough but for that. Never mind, boys, I’ve got it. There’s Mikey Brian, he’s the boy!
“What for?”
“To cut the hair of the whole of us.”
“He can’t do it.”
“Can’t! wait, a-cushla, till I tell you, or, what’s better, show you. Come now, you devils. Look at the heels (Rasper’s and Scrub’s) of them ponies! Did ever you see anything like them!—look at the cutting there—Tony Dowlan never had the knack o’ that tasty work in his dirty finger and thumb—and who done that? Why Mikey Brian—didn’t I see him myself; and isn’t he the boy that can ‘bang Bannaker’ at anything! Oh! he’ll cut us elegant!—he’ll do the squad for a fi’penny—and then, lads, there’s them five others will be just one a-piece to buy gut and flies! Come on, you Hessians!”
No sooner proposed than acceded to—off we set, for the eulogised “Bannaker banging Mikey Brian.”
A stout, handsome boy he was—rising four-and-twenty—a fighting, kissing, rollicking, ball-playing, dancing vagabone, as you’d see in a day’s march—such a fellow as you only meet in Ireland—a bit of a gardener, a bit of a groom, a bit of a futboy, and a bit of a horse-docthor.
We reached the stables by the back way, and there, in his own peculiar loft, was Mikey Brian, brushing a somewhat faded livery, in which to wait upon the coming quality.
Bob stated the case, as far as the want of our locks’ curtailment went, but made no mention of the delay which occasioned our coming to Mikey; on the contrary, he attributed the preference solely to our conviction of his superior abilities, and the wish to give him a chance, as he felt convinced, if he had fair play, he’d be engaged miles round, instead of the hopping old shaver at Kells.
“I’m your man, Masther Robert.”
“Who’s first?”
“I am—there’s the fi’penny—that’s for the lot!”
“Good luck to you, sit down—will you have the Currah thoro’bred-cut?”
“That’s the thing,” said Bob.
“Then, young gentlement, as there ain’t much room—and if you do be all looking on, I’ll be bothered—just come in one by one.”
Out we went, and, in an inconceivably short space, Bob emerged.
Mikey advising: “Master Robert, dear, keep your hat on for the life of you, for fear of cowld.” A few minutes finished us all.
“This is elegant,” said Bob. “Mikey, it will be the making of you; but don’t say a word till you hear how they’ll praise you at dinner.”
“Mum!” said Mikey, and off we rushed.
I felt rather astonished at the ease with which my hat sat; while those of the rest appeared ready to fall over their noses. Being in a hurry, this was passed over. The second dinner-bell rang—we bolted up for a brief ablution—our hats were thrown into a corner, and, as if by one consent, all eyes were fixed upon each other’s heads!
Bob gave tongue: “The Devil’s skewer to Mikey Brian! and bad luck to the Currah thoro’bred cut! Not the eighth part of an inch of ‘air there is amongst the set of us. What will the master say? Never mind; we’ve got the fi’pennies! Come to dinner!—by the Puck we are beauties!”
We reached the dining-room unperceived; but who can describe the agony of my aunt Kate, when she clapped her eyes upon five such close-clipped scarecrows. She vowed vengence of all sorts and descriptions against the impudent, unnatural, shameful monster! Terms which Mikey Brian, in the back-ground, appropriated to himself, and with the utmost difficulty restrained his rising wrath from breaking out.
“What,” continued aunt Kate, “what does he call this?”
“It’s the thoro’bred Currah-cut, ma’am,” said Bob, with one of his peculiar glances at Mikey and the rest.
“And mighty cool wearing, I’ll be bail,” muttered Mikey.
“Does he call that hair-cutting?” screamed my aunt.
“That, and nothing but it,” quietly retorted Bob, passing his hand over his head; “you can’t deny the cutting, ma’am.”
“The young gentlemen look elegant,” said Mikey.
“I’m told it’s all the go, ma’am,” said Bob.
“Wait!” said my aunt, with suppressed rage; “wait till I go to Kells.”
This did not happen for six weeks; our aunt’s anger was mollified as our locks were once more human. Upon upbraiding “Tony Knowlan” the murder came out. A hearty laugh ensured our pardon, and Mikey Brian’s; and the story of the “thoro’bred Currah-cut” was often told, as the means by which “we all got a fi’penny bit a-piece.”—FUSBOS.
There is a portrait of a person so like him, that, the other day, a friend who called took no notice whatever of the man, further than saying he was a good likeness, but asked the portrait to dinner, and only found out his mistake when he went up to shake hands with it at parting.
An American hearing that there was a fire in his neighbourhood, and that it might possibly consume his house, took the precaution to bolt his own door; that he might be, so far at least, beforehand with the devouring element.
BAD EITHER WAY.
The peace, happiness, and prosperity of England, are threatened by Peel; in Ireland, the picture is reversed: the safety of that country is endangered by Re-peal. It would be hard to say which is worst.
A CONSTANT PAIR.
Jane is a constant wench (so Sibthorp says);
For in how many shops you see Jean stays!
A COUNT AND HIS SCHNEIDER.
The Count’s fashioner sent in, the other day, his bill, which was a pretty considerable time overdue, accompanied by the following polite note:—
“Sir,—Your bill having been for a very long time standing, I beg that it may be settled forthwith.
“Yours,
“B——.”
To which Snip received the following reply:—
“Sir,—I am very sorry that your bill should have been kept standing so long. Pray request it to sit down.
“Yours,
“**”