From “Irish Pastorals.”
By Shan Bullock (1865-).
Somewhere near the hill-hedge, with their arms bare, skirts tucked up, and faces peering from the depths of big sunbonnets, Anne Daly and Judy Brady were gathering the hay into long, narrow rows; one raking this side of a row, the other that, and both sweetening toil with laughter and talk. Sometimes Anne leaned on her rake and chattered for a while; now Judy said a word or two and ended with a titter; again, both bobbed heads and broke into merriment. I came nearer to them, got ready my rake, and began on a fresh row.
The talk was of a woman, of her and her absurdities.
“I’ve come to help you to laugh, Anne,” said I. “What friend is this of yours and Judy’s that you’re stripping of her character?”
“The lassie,” said Anne, “we were talkin’ about is a marrit woman—one Hannah Breen be name—an’ she lives in a big house on the side of a hill over there towards the mountain. The husband’s a farmer—an easy-goin’, bull-voiced, good-hearted lump of a man, wi’ a good word for ould Satan himself, an’ a laugh always ready for iverything. But the wife, Hannah, isn’t that kind. Aw, ‘deed she isn’t. ’Tisn’t much good-speakin’ or laughin’ Hannah’ll be doin’; ’tisn’t herself’d get many cars to follow her funeral in these parts. Aw, no. ’Tisn’t milkin’ the cows, an’ makin’ the butter, an’ washin’ John’s shirts, an’ darnin’ his socks, an’ mendin’ her own tatters, an’ huntin’ the chickens from the porridge-pot, Hannah was made for. Aw, no. It’s a lady Hannah must be, a real live lady. It’s step out o’ bed at eight o’clock in the mornin’, Hannah must do, an’ slither down to her tay an’ have it all in grandeur in the parlour; it’s sittin’ half the day she must be, readin’ about the doin’s o’ the quality, an’ the goin’s on o’ the world, an’ squintin’ at fashion-pictures, an’ fillin’ her mind wi’ the height o’ nonsense an’ foolery; it’s rise from the table in a tantrum she must do because John smacks his lips, an’ ates his cabbage wi’ his knife; it’s worry the poor man out o’ his mind she’d be after because he lies and snores on the kitchen table, an’ smokes up to bed, an’ won’t shave more’n once a week, an’ says he’d rather be hanged at once nor be choked up in a white shirt an’ collar o’ Sundays. An’ for herself—aw, now, it’d take me from this till sunset to tell ye about all her fooleries. If you’d only see her, Mr. John, stalkin’ in through the chapel gates, wi’ her skirts tucked up high enough to show the frillin’ on her white petticoat, an’ low enough to hide the big tear in it; an’ black kid gloves on her fists; an’ a bonnet on her wi’out a string to it; an’ light shoes on her; an’ a big hole in the heel o’ her stockin’; and her nose in the air; an’ her sniffin’ at us all just as if we were the tenants at the butter-show an’ herself My Lady come to prance before us all an’ make herself agreeable for five minutes or so.... Aw, Lord, Lord,” laughed Anne, “if ye could only see her, Mr. John.”
“An’ to see her steppin’ down Bunn Street,” Anne went on, as we turned at the hedge, and set our faces once more towards the river, “as if the town belonged to her—a ribbon flutterin’ here, an’ a buckle shinin’ there, an’ a feather danglin’ another place—steppin’ along wi’ her butter-basket on her arm, an’ big John draggin’ at her heels, an’ that look on her face you’d expect to see on the face o’ the Queen o’ France walkin’ on a gold carpet, in goold slippers, to a goold throne! An’ to see the airs of her when someone’d spake; an’ to see the murderin’ look on her when someone’d hint at a drop o’whiskey for the good of her health; an’ to hear the beautiful talk of her to the butter-buyers—that soft an’ po-lite; an’ to see her sittin’ in the ould ramshackle of a cart goin’ home, as straight in the back an’ as stiff as a ramrod, an’ her face set like a plaster image, an’ her niver lettin’ her eye fall on John sittin’ beside her, an’ him as drunk an’ merry as a houseful o’ fiddlers! Aw, sure,” cried Anne, flinging up a hand, “aw, sure, it’s past the power o’ mortial tongue to tell about her.”
“Yours, Anne, makes a good attempt at the telling, for all that,” said I.
“Ach, I’m only bleatherin’,” said Anne. “If ye only knew her—only did.”
“Well, tell me all about her,” said I, “before your tongue gets tired.”