Fun o' the Forge: Stories

by Brian O'Higgins

"The first thing he started into was the washin' o' the delph, an' he got along middlin' well till he caught hold o' Peggy's darlin' cup that belonged to her mother's aunt's great-grandmother, an' was as precious to her as gold. There was a crack in it down one side, an' half-way round the bottom, an' whatever the dickens happened Dickey, his fingers were too clumsy or somethin', he never felt till he had a piece o' the cup in each hand, an' there was another bit on the floor. He just looked at it an' said nothin', but he thought a lot.

"It couldn't be helped anyway, so he took the gallon can an' out with him to the byre to milk the cow. You'd think Peggy an' the cow had it made up between them, with the look that was in her eye when she saw Dickey comin' with the can, but she stood as quiet as you please an' chewed the cud, an' seemed to be terrible pleased with the song Dickey sang while he milked. An' the work was goin' on so grand that he forgot all about the cup he broke an' was wonderin' to himself was Peggy repentin' yet, an' was givin' a chuckle or two an' he drawin' the last drop o' milk into the can, when all of a sudden, without 'by your leave' or 'here's at you,' the rogue of a cow lifted her right hind leg an' gave one kick that sent Dickey an' the can o' milk sprawlin' all over the place. The milk was spilled over him, of course, an' the can was made a pancake of, an' he had a pain in his chest like lumbago, but what could he do only curse the cow an' go into the house without can or milk, an' I may tell you he wasn't chucklin'.

"Well, the pigs were yellin' like mad lions, an' nearly breakin' down the sty with the hunger, an' Dickey put the pot on the fire an' boiled a feed for them as fast as he could. An' when it was ready he went to the sty with it, but whatever misfortune was on him that mornin', an' the place bein' purty dark where the pigs were, he bumped his nose against the sharp corner of a board an' the blood began to come like as if there was somebody after it, an' Dickey flung the feed, bucket an' all to the pigs, an' ran into the house an' lay on the broad of his back tryin' to stop the blood an' it runnin' down his neck an' everywhere.

"He got it stopped at last, but he was as weak as a cat, an' then he thought o' the churnin', an' he started to do it as best he could, which wasn't much of a best. It's no joke to do a churnin' without help an' keep a child from cryin' at the same time, an' when Dickey was finished, I tell you, he didn't feel like runnin' a race or jumpin' over a stone wall. He was sweatin' like a fat pig at a fair on a summer's day.

"Then when the churnin' was finished, he went to the well for a can o' water, an' he brought the child with him as it was cryin' fit to lift the roof off the house, an' what do you think but when he was stoopin' to lift the water didn't he lose his footin' an' fall into the well, child an' all, an' only it wasn't too deep, Dickey's housekeepin' days were over. He was all wet anyway, an' the child was wet an' bawlin', which was no wonder, an' the water was runnin' out o' the two o' them an' they goin' back to the house.

"When he got to the door there was a stream o' fresh buttermilk runnin' out to meet him, an' nice little lumps o' butter floatin' on it, an' there was the churn upset in the middle o' the floor, an' the black pig drinkin' away at her ease, an' givin' a grunt o' contentment every now an' then, as much as to say, 'that's the stuff for puttin' a red neck on a pig.'

"For one full minute Dickey didn't know what to do he was that mad an' wet an' disappointed an' tired all at the one time, but when the minute was up he threw the wet child—an' it roarin' all the time, the poor thing—into the cradle, an' grabbed a new spade that was standin' at the cross-wall, an' made one lunge at the black pig as she darted out on the door, knowin' well there was trouble comin'. It caught her just at the back o' the ear, an' with one yell she staggered an' stretched out on the yard as dead as a door-nail.

"An' that's the way things were when Peggy came up from the far field a few minutes later—Dickey nearly dead with fright, an' the child on the borders of a fit, the churnin' all through the house, the gallon can all battered up an' not a drop o' new milk to be seen, the fire out an' no sign of a dinner, the cow in the byre an' she ragin' with the hunger, one pig dead an' the other rootin' up the winter cabbage in the garden, an' the whole place like a slaughterhouse or a battlefield, with milk an' pig's blood an' well-water flowin' in all directions; an' to crown it all, Dickey sat down in the corner an' began to cry.

"Well, it was a nice how-d'ye-do sure enough, but Peggy was a sensible woman, an' she just figured it all out there in a second or two, an' she said to herself that peace was cheap at the price, an' she knew by the look o' Dickey that there was goin' to be peace, an' she just held her tongue, an' set about fixin' up the child an' Dickey an' the place as best she could. An' then she went for Andy Mahon, the herd over in Moyvore, an' got him to scrape the pig, an' salt the bacon an' pack it, an' before night you'd never know that anythin' strange was after takin' place about the house at all, at all. An' Dickey was as mute as a mouse.