“WITH A SPRING AND A ROAR HE JUMPED TO THE DOOR.”
“THE GANDHER ID BE AT HIS HEELS, AN’ RUBBIN’ HIMSELF AGIN HIS LEGS.”
THE QUARE GANDER.
Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well-to-do, an’ he rinted the biggest farm on this side iv the Galties, an’ bein’ mighty cute an’ a sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest; but unluckily he was blessed with an iligant large family iv daughters, an’ iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, strivin’ to make up fortunes for the whole of them—an’ there wasn’t a conthrivance iv any soart or discription for makin’ money out iv the farm but he was up to. Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin’ up in the world, he always kep a power iv turkeys, and all soarts iv poultry; an’ he was out iv all raison partial to geese—an’ small blame to him for that same—for twiste a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand—an’ get a fine price for the feathers, and plenty of rale sizable eggs—an’ when they are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an’ sell them to the gintlemen for gozlings, d’ye see,—let alone that a goose is the most manly bird that is out. Well, it happened in the coorse iv time, that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin’ to Terence, an’ divil a place he could go serenadin’ about the farm, or lookin’ afther the men, but the gandher id be at his heels, an’ rubbin’ himself agin his legs, and lookin’ up in his face just like any other Christian id do; and the likes iv it was never seen,—Terence Mooney an’ the gandher wor so great. An’ at last the bird was so engagin’ that Terence would not allow it to be plucked any more; an’ kept it from that time out, for love an’ affection—just all as one like one iv his childhren. But happiness in perfection never lasts long; an’ the neighbours bigin’d to suspect the nathur and intentions iv the gandher; an’ some iv them said it was the divil, and more iv them that it was a fairy. Well, Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin’, and you may be sure he was not altogether asy in his mind about it, an’ from one day to another he was gettin’ more ancomfortable in himself, until he detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in Garryowen, an’ it’s he was the iligant hand at the business, and divil a sperit id say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest. An’ moreover he was very great wid ould Terence Mooney, this man’s father that was. So without more about it, he was sint for; an’ sure enough the divil a long he was about it, for he kem back that very evenin’ along wid the boy that was sint for him; an’ as soon as he was there, an’ tuck his supper, an’ was done talkin’ for a while, he bigined of coorse to look into the gandher. Well, he turned it this away an’ that away, to the right, and to the left, an’ straight-ways an’ upside down, an’ when he was tired handlin’ it, says he to Terence Mooney—
“Terence,” says he, “you must remove the bird into the next room,” says he, “an’ put a pettycoat,” says he, “or any other convaynience round his head,” says he.
“An’ why so?” says Terence.
“Becase,” says Jer, says he.
“Becase what?” says Terence.