CORN-CRAIK,
Or Trian-ri-Trian, as it is called in Gaelic.
The gauger, always anxious to show off his skill as a marksman, began to handle his fowling-piece. Eachainn looked on with evident uneasiness, and at last said, ‘Surely, surely, sir, you’ll not be going to shoot her?’
‘And why not, my friend?’
‘What, sir! shoot a trian-ri-trian! it’s shust awful to think on.’
‘And what is the great harm of shooting such a blethering, craiking thing as that?’
‘The harm, sir! why, she’ll be a sacred bird; I’d as soon think of shooting a cuckoo herself, as to be doing the trian-ri-trian any hurt! She’ll be different to any other bird, and when she’ll cry, she’ll be lying on her back, with her feets lifted up to the sky, and the sky would fall down if she’ll not be doing that.’
‘Well, I must have a shot at him, even if the firmament were to come about our ears in consequence,’ and so saying, our sportsman took his usual kneeling shot, and getting a good and near level, fired, when a handful of flying feathers evinced the success of the shot.
The gauger ran to the spot, and Eachainn on the pony trotted after him, but on coming up they could see no bird, or no evidence of the shot having taken effect. Eachainn looked suddenly aghast.
‘What can the gommeril be staring at now?’ exclaimed the disappointed gauger.