“Well,” said Garret, “it’s often I heard of Puss in Boots, but I never heard of Puss in Brogues afore.”
“Well, I’ll tell you and this good company all about it,” said Maurice, laying down his pipes and wiping his forehead.
“Ay, but afore you begin,” said Garret, “take another dhrop to wet your whistle, and you’ll get on the betther with your story.”
The piper seized the flowing tumbler again, and raising it to his lips, gaily exclaimed, whilst his attenuated hand shook nervously beneath the weight of the smoking goblet,
“Sho-dhurtlh, your healths, my friends, glory to our noble selves; and if this be war, may we never have more peaceable times.”
“Amen,” was the fervent response of every one present.
“Now for the Caith-na-brogueen,” said Garret.
“Ay, and a wild and strange tale it is,” said Maurice. “However, it is a popular tradition in South Munster, and often when a boy have I listened to it, whilst my eyes, now dark for ever, would glisten with delight, and I would even fear to breathe lest one syllable of the legend might escape me.” Then emitting a deep-drawn sigh, and again wiping his polished brow, he thus began.
‘At the foot of a hill in a lonely district of the county of Cork, about a dozen miles from my native village, there lived in old times a poor man named Larry Roche. He was, they say, descended from that family of the Roches once so mighty in the south of Ireland, and some branches of which still retain a considerable degree of their former consequence and respectability. Poor Larry, however, although the blood of kings might flow through his veins, was neither rich nor respectable; and his only means of support was a patch of barren land, which he held from that celebrated sportsman Squire B——, in consideration of his services as care-keeper of a vast extent of bog and heath, the property of the squire, and which extended far westward of poor Larry Roche’s cabin. Yet Larry was not discontented with his situation. His father and grandfather had lived and died in the same cabin; and although sometimes he might feel disposed to envy the fine times which the sporting squire enjoyed, yet on cool reflection he would console himself with the consideration that “it was not every one that was born with a silver spoon in his mouth,” and that even squire B—— himself, as grand as he was, was on the “look down,” or he would not spend so much of his time wading through fens and bogs at home, but like his ancestors be lavishing his thousands amongst the Sassenaghs at the other side of the lough, or driving about on the continent. Thus rolled away poor Larry’s days in poverty and contentment. In the shooting season his time was occupied in following his master over heath and hillock with his game-bag on his shoulder, and his “dhudeen” in his teeth, whilst the rest of the year was spent in lounging about the ditches of the neighbourhood, chatting with the crones of the vicinity about his family connexions, or the fairies of Glendharig, or squabbling with his good woman and his young ones: for Larry was married; and as his wife was exactly a counterpart of himself, every hour of course gave fresh cause for that bickering and disagreement so often the result of untimely and ill-assorted marriages.
The only domestic animal in or about Larry Roche’s cabin was a ferocious-looking old black tom-cat, far bigger and stronger than any cat ever seen in that part of the country. His fur was black, he had strong whiskers, his nails were like a tiger’s, and at the end of his tail was fixed a claw or “gaff” as sharp and hooked as a falcon’s beak; his eyes also flashed by night with an appalling glare, and his cry was a savage howl, baffling all description, and unlike any sound ever heard from any other animal. He was as singular in his habits, too, as in his appearance. He was never known to demand a morsel of food; and if offered any, he would reject it with indignation. Every evening at twilight he left the fire-side, and spent the night scouring over moor and heather, and at daybreak would return from his foray, gaining access through the low chimney of the cabin, and be found in the morning in his usual position on the hob-stone. There he would sit from morning till night; and when Larry and Betty and the “childre” were chatting in a group around the fire, the cat would watch them intently, and if the nature of their conversation was such as to excite laughter or merriment, he would growl in a low tone, evidently dissatisfied; but if their dialogues were held in a jarring, angry strain, as sometimes happened, he would purr hoarsely and loudly, whilst the wagging of his tail testified the pleasure he felt in their feuds and dissensions. The family had often been advised to make away with him, but superstitious awe or family prejudice prevented them; and although the whole neighbourhood averred that “he was no right thing,” yet for the reasons I have stated his owners never could be induced to make any attempt to banish or destroy him.