“True for you,” said Padna. “We never know what good luck or bad luck the morrow may have for any of us. Howsomever, ’tisn’t grumbling we should be about anything, but take things as they come. The storm rages furiously without, and to-night, for all the wisest of us can tell, may be the very last night of the world. The end must come some time, and when the sun rises on the morrow, this earth of ours, with all its beauty and all its mystery, and all its splendour, may be reduced to particles of dust, that will find its way into the eyes of those who dwell on other spheres. If the gale continues, the world will be swirled from its course, and ‘twill surely strike some weighty satellite of the sun or moon with a mighty crash, and that will be the end of all joy and sorrow. Then the king will be no more than the beggar, and the beggar will be as much as the king.”
“I will place the kettle on the hob,” said Micus, “for ’tis true courage we will want to put into our hearts with a good drop of poteen this blessed night. And a drop of poteen is a wonderful thing to drive away the melancholy thoughts that haunt and bother so many of us. We can fill glass after glass of steaming punch, until the jar in the cupboard is empty. For what is life to some but so many glasses of poteen, the best whiskey or brandy, or wine all the ways from France itself, and so many meals of food, a few good books to read, and maybe a congenial friend or two.”
“Life is a rugged and a lonely road, but flowers always grow on the wayside,” said Padna.
“And when you try to pluck a flower, ’tis a thorn you will find in your hand, maybe,” said Micus.
“That is so, indeed. But let us forget the pitfalls that await us at every turn, and while the wind blows let us fill our pipes and fill our glasses, and sing a merry song if we should feel like doing so, for there is no use looking for the Devil to bid him good-morrow until we will meet him. And the best thing to do when he appears in person, or in disguise, is to pass him by the same as if he was no relation of yours at all,” said Padna.
And then Micus heaped dried faggots and logs on the glowing hearth, and as they crackled and blazed, red sparks flew up the chimney, and the shutters of the windows, and the latch of the door, and the loose tiles on the ridge, and the loose slates on the gable, shook and rattled, and trees were uprooted, and slates were blown from the roofs of houses and so was the golden thatch, and havoc was wrought in the city, the town, and the hamlet, on the mountain side, in the valley, and by the seashore. And as Micus and Padna settled themselves comfortably in two armchairs, the white dog and the black cat drew closer to their feet, while a thrush in his large white cage made of twigs, and a linnet in his small green cage made of wires and beechwood, closed their eyes and buried their heads beneath their wings.
Flash after flash of lightning lit up the darkened countryside, and each peal of thunder was louder than its predecessor, and at times one thought that the whole artillery of hell with the Devil in command had opened fire, and that the fury of the elements would send all to perdition. But Padna and Micus looked on unperturbed at the crackling faggots. And as the first glass of warm punch was raised on high, Micus up and said: “Here’s good luck to us all, the generous as well as the covetous, for ’tis little any of us know why we are what we are, or why we do the things we do, and don’t want to do. And as we can’t always be decent, we might at least be charitable when we can.”
“But alas! alas! we seldom think before we act, and usually act without thinking, and that’s why there are so many strange doings and happenings,” said Padna. “Be all that as it may, neglect not your duty as my host to-night, and take charge of the decanter, and keep my glass well filled with punch, and my pipe well filled with tobacco, and I will tell you a story that may set your heart beating against your ribs, and your knees knocking together, and your hands may shake till the tumbler will fall from your fingers, and your teeth may rattle until the pipe will fall from your mouth.”
“Tell it to me, for I’m filled with curiosity to hear a strange tale. And maybe ’tis a story about some beautiful woman, or the Aurora Borealis, or some monster of the deep,” said Micus.
“It isn’t either one or the other, but the story of a horse,” said Padna.