The Magic Bottles
It was in the good old days that a farmer named Mick Purcell rented a few acres of barren ground in the neighbourhood of Mouren, situated about three miles from Mallow and thirteen from the beautiful city called Cork. Mick had a wife and family. They all did what they could, and that was but little, for the poor man had no child grown up big enough to help him in his work; and all the poor woman could do was to mind the children, and to milk the one cow, and to boil the potatoes and carry the eggs to market to Mallow; but with all they could do ’twas hard enough on them to pay the rent. Well, they did manage it for a good while; but at last came a bad year, and the little grain of oats was all spoiled, and the chickens died of the pip, and the pig got the measles—she was sold in Mallow and brought almost nothing; and poor Mick found that he hadn’t enough half to pay his rent.
“Why, then, Molly,” says he, “what’ll we do?”
“Wisha, then, mavourneen, what would you do but take the cow to the fair of Cork and sell her?” says she; “and so you must go to-morrow, that the poor beast may be rested again the fair.”
“And what’ll we do when she’s gone?” says Mick sorrowfully.
“Never a know I know, Mick; but sure God won’t leave us without him, Mick; and you know how good he was to us when poor little Billy was sick, and we had nothing at all for him to take—that good doctor gentleman at Ballydahin came riding and asking for a drink of milk; and how he gave us two shillings; and how he sent the things and bottles for the child and gave me my breakfast when I went over to ask a question, so he did; and how he came to see Billy, and never left off his goodness till he was quite well?”
“Oh! you are always that way, Molly, and I believe you are right after all, so I won’t be sorry for selling the cow; but I’ll go to-morrow, and you must put a needle and thread through my coat, for you know ’tis ripped under the arm.”
Molly told him he should have everything right; and about twelve o’clock next day he left her, getting a charge not to sell his cow except for the highest penny. Mick promised to mind it, and went his way along the road. He drove his cow slowly through the little stream which crosses it, and runs under the old walls of Mourne. As he passed he glanced his eye upon the towers and one of the old elder trees, which were then only little bits of switches.