A LEGEND OF THE TOWER (NOT LONDON).
In the immediate vicinity of the pretty little town of Kells stands one of those peculiar high round towers, the origin of which has so long puzzled the brains of antiquaries. It is invariably pointed out to the curious, as a fit subject for their contemplation, and may, in fact, be looked upon as the great local lion of the place. It appears almost inaccessible. But there is a story extant, and told in very choice Irish, how two small dare-devil urchins did succeed in reaching its lofty summit; and this is the way the legend was done into English by one Barney Riley, the narrator, to whom I am indebted for its knowledge:—
“You see Masther Robert, sir,—though its murduring high, and almost entirely quite aqual in stapeness to the ould ancient Tower of Babel, yet, sir, there is them living now as have been at the top of that same; be the same token I knew both o’ the spalpeens myself. It’s grown up they are now; but whin they wint daws’-nesting to the top there, the little blackguards weren’t above knee-high, if so much.”
“But how did they arrive at the summit?”
“That’s the wonder of it! but sure nobody knows but themselves; but the scamps managed somehow or other to insart themselves in through one of them small loopholes—whin little Danny Carroll gave Tom Sheeney a leg up and a back, and Tom Sheeney hauled little Danny up after him by the scruff o’ the neck; and so they wint squeedging and scrummaging on till, by dad, they was up at the tip-top in something less than no time; and the trouble was all they had a chance o’ gettin for their pains; for, by the hokey, the daws’ nest they had been bruising their shins, breaking their necks, and tearing their frieze breeches to tatters to reach, was on the outside o’ the building, and about as hard to get at as truth, or marcy from a thafe of a tythe proctor.
“‘Hubbabboo,’ says little Danny; ‘we are on the wrong side now, as Pat Murphy’s carroty wig was whin it came through his hat; what will we do, at all, at all?’
“‘Divil a know I know. It would make a parson swear after takin’ tythe. Do you hear the vagabones? Oh, then musha, bad luck to your cawings; its impedence, and nothing but it, to be shouting out in defiance of us, you dirty bastes. Danny, lad, you’re but a little thrifle of a gossoon; couldn’t you squeedge yourself through one o’ them holes?’
“‘What will I stand—or, for the matter o’ that, as I’m by no manes particular,—sit upon, whin I git out—that is, if I can?’
“‘Look here, lad, hear a dacent word—it will be just the dandy thing for yes entirely; go to it with a will, and make yourself as small as a little cock elven, and thin we’ll have our revenge upon them aggravation thaves.’ How the puck he done it nobody knows; but by dad there was his little, ragged, red poll, followed by the whole of his small body, seen coming out o’ that trap-loop there, that doesn’t look much bigger than a button-hole—and thin sitting astride the ould bit of rotten timbers, and laffing like mad, was the tiny Masther Danny, robbing the nests, and shouting with joy as he pulled bird after bird from their nate little feather-beds. ‘This is elegant,’ says he; ‘here’s lashins of ’em.’
“‘How many have you,’ says Tom Sheeney.
“‘Seven big uns—full fledged, wid feathers as black as the priest’s breeches on a Good Friday’s fast.’
“‘Seven is it?’
“‘It is.’
“‘Well, then, hand them in.’
“‘By no manes.’
“‘Why not?’
“‘Seein they’re as well wid me as you.
“‘Give me my half then—that’s your’—
“‘Aisy wid you; who’s had the trouble and the chance of breaking his good-looking neck but me, Mr. Tim Sheeney.’
“‘Devil a care I care; I’ll have four, or I’ll know why.’
“‘That you’ll soon do: I won’t give ’em you.’
“‘Aint I holding the wood?’
“‘By coorse you are; but aint I sitting outside upon it, and by the same token unseating my best breeches.’
“‘I bid you take care; give me four.’
“‘Ha, ha! what a buck your granny was, Mistet Tim Sheeney; it’s three you’ll have, or none.’
“‘Then by the puck I’ll let you go.’
“‘I defy you to do it, you murdering robber.’
“‘Do you! by dad; once more, give me four.’
“‘To blazes wid you; three or none.’
“‘Then there you go!’
“And, worse luck, sure enough he did, and that at the devil’s own pace.
“At this moment I turned my eyes in horror to the Tower, and the height was awful.”
“Poor child,—of course he was killed upon the spot?”
“There’s the wonder; not a ha’porth o’ harm did the vagabone take at all at all. He held on by the birds’ legs like a little nagur; he was but a shimpeen of a chap, and what with the flapping of their wings and the soft place he fell upon, barring a little thrifle of stunning, and it may be a small matter of fright, he was as comfortable as any one could expect under the circumstances; but it would have done your heart good to see the little gossoon jump up, shake his feathers, and shout out at the top of his small voice, ‘Tim Sheeney, you thief, you’d better have taken the three,—for d—n the daw do you get now!’” And so ends the Legend of the Round Tower.