THE GIANT’S STAIRS.
A LEGEND OF THE SOUTH OF IRELAND.
“Don’t be for quitting us so airly, Felix, ma bouchal, it’s a taring night without, and you’re better sitting there opposite that fire than facing this unmarciful storm,” said Tim Carthy, drawing his stool closer to the turf-piled hearth, and addressing himself to a young man who occupied a seat in the chimney nook, whose quick bright eye and somewhat humorous curl of the corner of the mouth indicated his character pretty accurately, and left no doubt that he was one of those who would laugh their laugh out, if the ould boy stood at the door. The reply to Tim’s proposal was a jerk of Felix’s great-coat on his left shoulder, and a sly glance at the earthen mug which he held, as he gradually bent it from its upright position, until it was evident that the process of absorption had been rapidly acting on its contents. Tim, who understood the freemasonry of the manoeuvre, removed all the latent scruples of Felix by adding—“There’s more of that stuff—where you know; and by the crook of St. Patrick we’ll have another drop of it to comfort us this blessed night. Whisht! do you hear how the wind comes sweeping over the hills? God help the poor souls at say!”
“Wissha amen!” replied Tim’s wife, dropping her knitting, and devoutly making the sign of the cross upon her forehead.
A silence of a few moments ensued; during which, each person present offered up a secret prayer for the safety of those who might at that moment be exposed to the fury of the warring elements.
I should here inform my readers that the cottage of Tim Carthy was situated in the deep valley which runs inland from the strand at Monkstown, a pretty little bathing village, that forms an interesting object on the banks of the romantic Lee, near the “beautiful city” of Cork.
“I never heard such a jearful storm since the night Mahoon, the ould giant, who lives in the cave under the Giants Stairs, sunk the three West Ingee-men that lay at anchor near the rocks,” observed Mrs. Carthy.
“It’s Felix can tell us, if he plazes, a quare story about that same Mahoon,” added Tim, addressing himself to the young man.
“You’re right there, anyhow, Tim,” replied Felix; “and as my pipe is just out, I’ll give you the whole truth of the story as if I was after kissing the book upon it.
“You must know, then, it was one fine morning near Midsummer, about five years ago, that I got up very airly to go down to the beach and launch my boat, for I meant to try my luck at fishing for conger eels under the Giant’s Stairs. I wasn’t long pulling to the spot, and I soon had my lines baited and thrown out; but not so much as a bite did I get to keep up my spirits all that blessed morning, till I was fairly kilt with fatigue and disappointment. Well, I was thinking of returning home again, when all at once I felt something mortial heavy upon one of my lines. At first I thought it was a big conger, but then I knew that no fish would hang so dead upon my hand, so I hauled in with fear and thrembling, for I was afeard every minnit my line or my hook would break, and at last I got my prize to the top of the water, and then safe upon the gunnel of the boat;—and what do you think it was?”
“In troth, Felix, sorra one of us knows.”
“Well, then, it was nothing else but a little dirty black oak box, hooped round with iron, and covered with say-weed and barnacles, as if it had lain a long time in the water. ‘Oh, ho!’ says myself, ‘it’s in rale good luck I am this beautiful morning. Phew! as sure as turf, ’tis full of goold, or silver, or dollars, the box is.’ For, by dad, it was so heavy intirely I could scarcely move it, and it sunk my little boat a’most to the water’s edge; so I pulled back for bare life to the shore, and ran the boat into a lonesome little creek in the rocks. There I managed somehow to heave out the little box upon dry land, and, finding a handy lump of a stone, I wasn’t long smashing the iron fastenings, and lifting up the lid. I looked in, and saw a weeshy ould weasened fellow sitting in it, with his legs gothered up under him like a tailor. He was dressed in a green coat, all covered with goold lace, a red scarlet waistcoat down to his hips, and a little three-cornered cocked hat upon the top of his head, with a cock’s feather sticking out of it as smart as you plase.
“‘Good morrow to you, Felix Donovan,’ says the small chap, taking off his hat to me, as polite as a dancing-masther.
“‘Musha! then the tip top of the morning to you,’ says I, ‘it’s ashamed of yourself you ought to be, for putting me to such a dale of throuble.’
“‘Don’t mention it, Felix,’ says he, ‘I’ll be proud to do as much for you another time. But why don’t you open the box, and let me out? ’tis many a long day I have been shut up here in this could dark place.’ All the time I was only holding the lid partly open.
“‘Thank you kindly, my tight fellow,’ says myself, quite ’cute; ‘maybe you think I don’t know you, but plase God you’ll not stir a peg out of where you are until you pay me for my throuble.’
“‘Millia murdher!’ says the little chap. ‘What could a poor crather like me have in the world? Haven’t I been shut up here without bite or sup?’ and then he began howling and bating his head agin the side of the box, and making most pitiful moans. But I wasn’t to be deceived by his thricks, so I put down the lid of the box and began to hammer away at it, when he roared out,—
“‘Tare an’ agers! Felix Donovan, sure you won’t be so cruel as to shut me up again? Open the box, man, till I spake to you.’
“‘Well, what do you want now’!’ savs I, lifting up the lid the laste taste in life.
“‘I’ll tell you what, Felix, I’ll give you twenty goolden guineas if you’ll let me out.’
“‘Soft was your horn, my little fellow; your offer don’t shoot.’
“‘I’ll give you fifty.
“‘No.’
“‘A hundred.’
“’T won’t do. If you were to offer me all the money in the Cork bank I wouldn’t take it.’
“‘What the diaoul will you take then?’ says the little ould chap, reddening like a turkey-cock in the gills with anger.
“‘I’ll tell you,’ says I, making answer; ‘I’ll take the three best gifts that you can bestow.’”
(To be continued.)
Why is a butcher like a language master?—Because he is a retailer of tongues.