The Thrush and the Blackbird.
By Charles Joseph Kickham (1828-1882).
A stranger meeting Sally Cavanagh, as she tripped along the mountain road, would consider her a contented and happy young matron, and might be inclined to set her down as a proud one; for Sally Cavanagh held her head rather high, and occasionally elevated it still higher with a toss which had something decidedly haughty about it. She turned up a short boreen for the purpose of calling upon the gruff blacksmith’s wife, who had been very useful to her for some time before. The smith’s habits were so irregular that his wife was often obliged to visit the pawn office in the next town, and poor Sally Cavanagh availed herself of Nancy Ryan’s experience in pledging almost everything pledgeable she possessed. The new cloak, of which even a rich farmer’s wife might feel proud, was the last thing left. It was a present from Connor, and was only worn on rare occasions, and to part with it was a sore trial.
Loud screams and cries for help made Sally Cavanagh start. She stopped for a moment, and then ran forward and rushed breathless into the smith’s house. The first sight that met her eyes was our friend Shawn Gow choking his wife. A heavy three-legged stool came down with such force upon the part of Shawn Gow’s person which happened to be the most elevated as he bent over the prostrate woman, that, uttering an exclamation between a grunt and a growl, he bounded into the air, and, striking his shins against a chair, tumbled head over heels into the corner. When Shawn found that he was more frightened than hurt, and saw Sally with the three-legged stool in her hand, a sense of the ludicrous overcame him, and, turning his face to the wall, he relieved his feelings by giving way to a fit of laughter. It was of the silent, inward sort, however, and neither his wife nor Sally Cavanagh had any notion of the pleasant mood he was in. The bright idea of pretending to be “kilt” occurred to the overthrown son of Vulcan, and with a fearful groan he stretched out his huge limbs and remained motionless on the broad of his back.
Sally’s sympathy for the ill-used woman prevented her from giving a thought to her husband. Great was her astonishment then when Nancy flew at her like a wild cat. “You kilt my husband,” she screamed. Sally retreated backwards, defending herself as best she could with the stool. “For God’s sake, Nancy, be quiet. Wouldn’t he have destroyed you on’y for me?” But Nancy followed up the attack like a fury. “There’s nothing the matter with him,” Sally cried out, on finding herself literally driven to the wall. “What harm could a little touch of a stool on the back do the big brute?”
Nancy’s feelings appeared to rush suddenly into another channel, for she turned round quickly, and kneeling down by her husband, lifted up his head. “Och! Shawn, avourneen, machree,” she exclaimed, “won’t you spake to me?” Shawn condescended to open his eyes. “Sally,” she continued, “he’s comin’ to—glory be to God! Hurry over and hould up his head while I’m runnin’ for somethin’ to rewive him. Or stay, bring me the boulster.”
The bolster was brought, and Nancy placed it under the patient’s head; then, snatching her shawl from the peg where it hung, she disappeared. She was back again in five minutes, without the shawl, but with half-a-pint of whiskey in a bottle.
“Take a taste av this, Shawn, an’ ‘twill warm your heart.”
Shawn Gow sat up and took the bottle in his hand.
“Nancy,” says he, “I believe, afther all, you’re fond o’ me.”