FUN O' THE FORGE

STORIES

BY

BRIAN
O'HIGGINS

All Rights Reserved

DUBLIN
WHELAN AND SON
17 UPPER ORMOND QUAY

Cahill & Co., Ltd., Printers, Dublin.

[FOREWORD]

In addition to many other blessings, God has given to us, Gaels of the Irish land, the priceless gift of humour, the saving grace of laughter. May we never lose them! They have been good friends to us in the days of darkness; let it be one of our duties to nurture and strengthen them in the brighter day that has already dawned in Eirinn. Throughout the land, in forge and workshop, in field and by fireside, there is many a Ned McGrane—witty, wise and laughter-loving—who has the power to pull aside the gloomy curtains of melancholy and moodiness and to pour into the hearts of all who will listen to him the sunshine of merriment and mirth, while never saying a word that would offend the most sensitive ear or leave a bad impression on the most susceptible mind. In this, as in a thousand other ways, we differ from the enemy that is still within our gates. His best humour is coarse or smutty, his heartiest laughter is jarring and hurtful, his outlook on life is very different to that of the genial blacksmith of Balnagore. God speed the day when the smutty wit of the Sasanach shall be heard no longer in our land, when the laughter of the open-hearted, clean-minded Gael shall ring from end to end of Eirinn, lighting every mind, lifting up every heart, and softening for all who have suffered the memory of those sadder days that they have known.

Brian O hUiginn.

Samhain, 1917.

[CONTENTS]

[FUN O' THE FORGE.]

[THE BLACKSMITH'S CHARM]

I.

The smithy in which Ned M'Grane carried on his trade was close to the roadside, about a quarter of a mile from the head of the glen. There was no house very close to it on any side, though old Peggy Hogan's cottage was not so far away but that Ned could hear Peggy's shrill "Chuck, chuck, chuck," every evening at sundown, as she called her hens and chickens home to roost. The smithy was sheltered by the big beeches which overhung the road from Rowan's demesne, and when the fire was in full glow it was as fine a place for a seanchus among the "boys" as you'd find in any corner of the broad land of Eireann; and well did the boys know that, because there was scarcely a night during the whole winter on which they didn't gather around the cheery fire in the forge, and discuss in breezy fashion and with a good deal of wit, almost every subject of interest under the sun, while they watched Ned M'Grane at his work, and openly admired the strength of his shapely arms.

Ned was as famous for his wit as for his proficiency in all the mysteries of the trade, and he could tell stories, old and new, that would draw laughter from the loneliest heart that ever beat. He was a favourite with old and young, and there wasn't a boy in the countryside who, sometime or other, didn't make a confidant of the genial blacksmith, and ask the advice which he was always willing to give. To help a man out of a scrape, to stand by a comrade in distress, to make glad a company with clean and ready wit, to resent an evil deed or to show whole-hearted appreciation of a good one, there wasn't in all Ireland a man who could out-match Ned M'Grane, the laughing, jovial, generous blacksmith of Balnagore.

One night, just a week before Shrove (no matter whether 'twas last year or the year before or ten years ago) the smithy was, for a wonder, deserted by all its usual visitors, and the smith was alone with his work and his thoughts, which latter found expression in the snatches of song he sung in the intervals between placing the piece of iron upon which he was working in the fire and the taking out of it again, to be pounded on the anvil. He was just finishing a song, the last verse of which ran like this:

"No! no! across the thundering waves the answer rings full high!
No! no! re-echoes many a heart beneath the Irish sky
The land shall wake, her exiled sons across the sea shall sail
Once more to set a coronet on queenly Grainne Mhaol."

and was giving the finishing touches to a new horse-shoe, when he heard a voice at the door say, "God bless the work," and on looking up his eyes met the open, honest, handsome face of his cousin and dearest friend and comrade, Seumas Shanley of Drumberagh.

"An' you, too, a mhic o," answered Ned M'Grane, with a welcoming smile. "You're the very man I was thinkin' about a few minutes ago, an' I'm glad you're by yourself. Any change in the plan of campaign? Is Old Crusty as determined as ever?"

"Worse than ever," said Seumas Shanley, as he picked up a piece of a broken match-box from the floor, set it blazing at the forge fire, and lighted his pipe with it. "Nannie says that he got into a tearin' rage out an' out last night when she refused again to marry Jack the Jobber, an' he won't let her leave his sight for a minute. All she could do was to send me a note with old Kitty Malone to-day. Kitty was down in it, washin', an' she says Larry has his mind made up that Nannie must marry Flanagan before Shrove. I was over with Father Martin to-day."

"An' what did he say?" asked Ned M'Grane.

"He said 'twould be a cryin' shame to have a sweet little girl like Nannie Boylan tied for life to a man like Jack Flanagan, who never comes home sober from a fair, an' who has no thought for anythin' only cattle, an' money, an' drink. Father Martin is dead against the match-makin', you know, an' he said he'll marry us if we go to him, runaway or no runaway, consent or no consent."

"Faith, then, by my grandfather's whiskers, Seumas Shanley, if that's the case, I'll see you married—yourself an' Nannie—before Shrove yet, an' that's only this day week!" said the blacksmith, as he flung the hammer he held in his hand into a corner, and put the bolt on the forge door, so that no one might enter or interrupt their conversation. "I have the plan in my head all day," he added, "an' if it doesn't work out all right the fault won't be Ned M'Grane's."

"What's the plan?" asked Seumas, in a tone the eagerness of which he could not conceal, although he made an effort to suppress it. He knew that no man in Ireland could devise a plan or carry it through, better than Ned M'Grane, and the hope that had been ebbing out of his heart as Shrove drew near and the danger of losing his cailin ban became every day more apparent, that hope grew as bright as the glow of the forge fire, and leapt into his kindly, dark eyes as he waited for the blacksmith to speak.

"Well, 'tis a simple plan enough, an' there's no great mystery about it at all," said Ned, "an' if you an' Nannie do your share of the work right I give you my word that it'll be the most complete night-cap ever was put on Old Crusty or any match-makin' miser like him. You know the way he goes nearly mad with that old front tooth of his when it begins to pain him for all his miserly ways an' his trickeries, an' you know as well, I suppose, the pishrogues the women do have about every blacksmith havin' a charm for the cure of the toothache. Well, if Nannie can set Old Crusty's tooth tearin' mad before Sunday—let her give him somethin' real sweet to eat an' it's off—I'll guarantee to take him out of the way for three hours, at any rate, an' any Christian with the head set right on him could very easy be married to the girl of his heart in three hours—couldn't he?"

"He could, Ned—God bless you!" said Seumas, in a voice that was a wee bit husky, as he grasped the blacksmith's hand in a firm grip. "I was nearly in despair, an' so was Nannie, an' we couldn't think of a plan at all. We'll not forget it to you, never fear."

"O, it's not over yet," said Ned, as if to put a check on the other's impulsiveness. "You'll have to see Nannie some way or other, an' tell her all you intend to do, an' have her on her guard. She must give a sort of a promise to marry Flanagan, an' then ask Old Crusty to leave her free until after Lent; an' she must have some grievance or other against you. Do you understand? An' there must be nothin' done to make the old lad suspicious, an' you must have everything ready, so that there'll be no fluster or delay. An' above all, the tooth must be set ragin' mad.

"Off you pop now, a mhic o, an' more power to you. It'll be as good as a thousand pound to me to see Old Crusty's face when he finds out the whole thing. Come over Friday night an' tell me how the game is goin'. Good night, now, an' God speed you."

"Good night, Ned. I'll not fail, please God, an' I'll not forget it to you as long as I live."

And Seumas Shanley went, the glow of a great hope lighting all the way before him.

II.

When Ned M'Grane lifted the latch of Larry Boylan's kitchen door and walked into the spacious kitchen itself on the following Sunday afternoon there was a look of concern on his usually jovial face, and when Larry turned his gaze from the fire to greet the visitor, the look of concern on Ned's face deepened very considerably and perceptibly, and he seemed very much perturbed. Larry sat in a crouching attitude quite close to the big fire of blazing turf-sods, a red handkerchief covering his chin, his jaws, and his ears, and knotted on top of his head. He held his hand over his mouth, and now and then he groaned most miserably and lugubriously. An old woman—the same Kitty Malone mentioned by Seumas Shanley—was working about the kitchen; no one else was to be seen.

The blacksmith was a pretty frequent and always a welcome visitor at Larry Boylan's. He was Nannie Boylan's godfather, and old Larry as well claimed relationship with the M'Grane family—usually when he wanted some work done at the forge. He was, therefore, glad to see Ned on the present occasion.

"I'm sorry to see the enemy is at you again, Larry," said Ned, as he seated himself on the stool placed before the fire for him by Kitty. "I wondered when I didn't see you at Mass to-day, an' I didn't know what was up until I met Kitty there, on the road, an' she said it was the tooth. Is it bad? It must be a cold you got."

"Oh, it's a terror, Ned," groaned Larry, as a twinge of pain passed over his weazened face. "I never had it as bad before. I'm nearly cracked with it, an' the head is like to fly off me. Nannie that brought home a curran' cake from the market yesterday, an' sweet, white stuff on the top of it, an' we ate it with the tay, an' about an hour after the old tooth gave one jump, an' it's at me ever since. I never slept a wink all night with it. Nannie herself got the toothache about a couple of hours ago, an' she's mortial bad with it, too. She had to go to bed a while ago."

"The poor thing," said Ned M'Grane, sympathetically. "I'm sorry in troth, for both of you, an' glad that I came down. I might as well not be at home at all, because Seumas Shanley wanted me to go with him over to Knockbride after Mass. He was goin' over to see some of his mother's people that came home from America. I think they're goin' to have a spree or a flare-up of some kind over there to-night. I was near goin' only I knew I'd have to be up early in the mornin' to shoe the Major's horses."

"The same bucko is no loss by goin' to Knockbride or anywhere else," said Larry, with a frown; and then in a whisper, and forgetting the toothache for a moment, he said: "I'm thinkin' he's after some lassie in that direction. When he seen I wouldn't let Nannie throw over a well-to-do, comfortable man like Jack Flanagan for a scamp like him, I suppose he took after some other decent man's daughter. He was stravagin' about the market yesterday with some strange girl, an' wouldn't even look at us. I think my lassie," jerking his thumb towards the door of the little bedroom to which Nannie had retired, "had a wish for him up to that, but she saw then it wasn't her, but the place, he was after. And I'm glad she got sense, because it isn't every day she could get married into a place like Jack Flanagan's—an' it's little fortune he wants either. We made the match for after Lent yesterday."

"Is that a fact?" said Ned. "Well, your mind ought to be easy now."

"So it is, Ned; so it is. When it came to the finish, Nannie didn't go against my wishes, an' all she asked was that I'd leave her free until after Lent; an' sure there's no use in rushin' it—is there, Ned?"

"Divil a use," said Ned.

At this juncture the tooth began to ache again worse than ever, and Larry squirmed in his seat with pain.

"I was tellin' Mr. Boylan to-day," said old Kitty Malone to Ned, "that every blacksmith has a charm for the toothache, an' I was wantin' him to go up to you an' see, but he said maybe you haven't it at all. Have you it, Mr. M'Grane?"

"Well, I must be an amadán out an' out not to think of it before now," said Ned. "To be sure I have it. Every blacksmith in the world has it, but it's no use to him outside his own forge. Troth it's many a one came to me with the toothache, an' any o' them that followed my advice hadn't the pain very long."

"Do you tell me so, Ned?" asked Larry, between his groans.

"Aye, indeed," said Ned. "But some o' them is that foolish that they must run away to one o' them lads that pulls teeth, an' get themselves half murdered, an' then pay dear for it. I saw on the paper where a man died after gettin' a tooth pulled, an' I saw where a great doctor said that if you let the pain o' the toothache go on for five days one after the other, or get the tooth pulled wrong, you're liable to drop dead at any minute."

"Lord bless an' save us!" said old Kitty Malone, in tones of awe and fear.

Larry looked startled.

"An' do you have the charm always, Ned?" he asked, with evident anxiety in his voice.

"Of course I do," answered Ned. "It's in my possession from the day I have my trade learned until the day I die, but I can't make use of it anywhere only in my own forge, an' with no one next or nigh me but the person I'm goin' to cure."

"Does it hurt much, Ned?"

"That's the beauty of it entirely, Larry—it doesn't hurt at all. You might as well be asleep when the charm is working on you, for all the bother or pain it gives you."

"Couldn't you do it here, Ned?"

"Not if I was to get all Ireland, an' England, an' Scotland put together, an' the Isle of Man threw on top of them. I couldn't do it anywhere only in my own forge above.

"Do you know what you'll do, Larry? Just keep that handkerchief on your head, an' put your overcoat on you an' come up to the forge with me, an' I promise you that in a couple of hours' time you'll be back here, safe an' sound, an' not as much pain or ache in that tooth as there is in the hearthstone there."

"Aye do, Mr. Boylan," chimed in Kitty. "It's a terrible thing to think of what'd happen if it keeps at you for five days, an' sure it's wearin' you down already."

"An' is it no harm to work the charm on a Sunday, Ned?" asked Larry, who was evidently giving way.

"Not the least bit o' harm in the world," said Ned. "Sunday or Monday, night, noon or mornin', it's all the same."

"Troth, then," said Larry, as he rose, "I think I'll go. Get me that coat, Kitty. If it sticks to Nannie until to-morrow she'll have to go, too."

"The bed is the best place for her at present," said Ned M'Grane, as he passed out after Larry, "but don't let her stay too long in it, Kitty."

And Kitty's nod, in answer to the wink which accompanied this remark, was sufficient to prove that she fully understood.

III.

When they reached the forge it was just nightfall, but Ned lighted a lamp or lantern which hung on the wall, bolted the door, closed the window shutters, and then proceeded to light the fire. Larry watched him with the greatest interest, while he himself moaned and groaned and stamped about with the fierce pain of the big, shaking tooth.

It was one of the front teeth and very prominent. A tooth on each side of it had long since departed, and so it stood out in bold relief, grim and determined-looking. The pain was so constant and so annoying now that Larry would have suffered any torture to get rid of it.

"How do you work the charm, Ned?" he asked at length, when there was no likelihood of the mystic rite being put into practice.

"Oh that's a secret that can't be given away to any man or mortal," said Ned, as he divested himself of his coat and proceeded, slowly and carefully, to roll up his shirt sleeves. "'Twould be a big risk for me to let anyone know that; I might be on the look-out for some terrible punishment. In fact, I hardly know myself how it works. It takes place by some power beyond my knowledge entirely, Larry. I'm only like the means of settin' it in motion, an' then it does all the rest itself in a strange an' mysterious manner.

"Now, I want you, Larry, before I start at all, to give me your solemn word that you'll wait, real patient, until the charm is ready to work, an' that you'll make no complaint either before or after the charm takes place. Some people get impatient an' make some complaint or other, an' then, instead of the charm workin', the pain o' the toothache gets worse than ever, an' sometimes they die that very night. Do you promise, Larry?"

"I promise, Ned, that no matter how severe or how long the workin' o' the charm is I'll not make the least complaint, because I'd suffer anythin' to ease the pain o' this infernal tooth. Sure it'll never annoy me again, Ned?"

"Never," said Ned M'Grane, decisively, as he took from a small box a long, thin strand of flaxen thread, and pulled and jerked it in every conceivable fashion to test its strength. Then he stretched it three times along the anvil, and three times along the sledge hammer, and three times along a bar of iron, uttering all the time in a weird, solemn tone, strange, inarticulate sounds, which silenced Larry's groans and made him feel awed and frightened.

"Now, Larry," said the blacksmith, when this ceremony was over, "you'll have to suffer a little pain while I get this magic band round the achin' tooth. Open your mouth now."

Larry did as he was directed, and in a minute the smith deftly wound the flaxen thread round the tooth, and knotted it tightly.

"Put your hands on your knees now, like a good man, and bend down towards the anvil here," said Ned. "That's just right. Stay that way now for a while, an' don't stir an' don't look up. You'll be all right soon."

Whilst speaking he was tying the two ends of the flaxen thread tightly and securely to the horn of the anvil. When this was accomplished he put the bar of iron into the fire, gathered the glowing embers around it, and commenced to blow the bellows vigorously.

It was a comical picture altogether.

There was Larry, his hands resting on his knees, his head bent down until his nose was within a foot of the horn of the anvil, a stream of water running from his open mouth, his eyes fixed upon the floor, while he tried to groan cheerfully, in fear lest he might be taken as complaining.

Ned now and then blew the bellows, pulled out the bar of iron, looked at it, thrust it back again into the glowing fire, went about the forge uttering the same inarticulate sounds that had so awed Larry at first, and treading very softly, perhaps because he did not wish to drive away the spirit of the charm. In one of his excursions he softly undid the bolt, opened the door, peered out into the night, listened, and smiled.

All this went on for a full hour at least, and then the blacksmith came over and stood beside the anvil, sledge in hand, while he commenced to blow the bellows more vigorously than ever.

At last he broke the silence by saying that he hoped Larry was not in very great pain, and assuring him that relief could not be very far off now.

Larry could only groan in reply, and then Ned went on to tell, with evident pride, of all the wonderful cures he had effected, and all the poor sufferers he had literally snatched from the jaws of death. And all Larry could do was groan and moan as cheerfully as possible, while he wondered if the time for his cure would ever come.

It came when he least expected it. The smith was in the middle of a wonderful story about a miraculous cure he had once been instrumental in effecting, when suddenly he whipped the bar of iron from the fire, placed it on the anvil, and brought down the sledge upon it with such force and vigour, three times in rapid succession, that showers of sparks—millions of them—flew in all directions through the forge!

Larry was taken completely by surprise. He gave one yell of terror as he suddenly jerked backwards, and the next moment he lay stretched at full length on the floor, the eyes almost starting from his head with fright, and a little stream of blood trickling over his chin from his mouth. The tooth hung from the horn of the anvil, suspended by the strand of flaxen thread. The charm had been successful.

Ned M'Grane laughed long and heartily, as he looked at the prostrate and terror-stricken Larry.

"Gorra, it worked the grandest ever I saw," he said, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes; "'twas the neatest job I ever did, an' you're a powerful brave man, Larry."

Larry could hardly speak he was so frightened.

"Is—is it out, Ned?" he said at last, scarcely knowing whether he ought to be vexed or pleased.

"Out!" cried Ned; "don't you see it, man? Didn't I tell you I'd give you relief? Here, wash out your mouth with this sup o' soft water. An' I don't think your appearance is improved very much by you lyin' there on the floor. Now, is it?"

Larry rose and rinsed his mouth, as he had been bidden.

"Do you know what, Ned," he cried, "you're the finest doctor in Ireland, an' that's the greatest charm I ever heard of in my life. I dunno how you done it, but I must send up Nannie to you to-morrow."

At that moment a young lad thrust his head in at the door.

"All right—an hour ago," he cried, and disappeared as quickly as he had come.

"What did he say?" asked Larry, as he saw a look of the utmost pleasure come across Ned M'Grane's face.

"He said," answered Ned, as he folded his arms and leaned his broad shoulder against the wall, "that you've got the best son-in-law in Ireland, an' that Seumas Shanley has the purtiest an' the sweetest little wife that ever stepped in shoe leather!"

"What do you mean, man; what do you mean?" cried Larry in an angry and excited tone, as he gripped the blacksmith by the arm. "Are you mad, Ned M'Grane?"

"No, Larry, my decent man; I'm not mad, an' I only mean what I say, an' that is that the best part o' the charm that's after bein' worked is that while you were gettin' the pain taken out o' your jaw here, your daughter and Seumas Shanley were gettin' the pain taken out o' their hearts by Father Martin above at the chapel—long life to them!

"The boys an' girls o' Drumberagh are dancin' at their weddin' for the last half-hour, an' every tongue in the country is talkin' o' the Blacksmith's Charm."

[HOW JIMMY SETTLED THE SOJER]

It would be very unjust to say that Ned M'Grane was insufferably vain on account of his storytelling abilities, or that he was a bore who insisted, whenever he could find an audience, on relating some of his wonderful and thrilling experiences, as a goodly number of those who pose as storytellers are in the habit of doing. That wasn't the way with Ned at all: he had acquired all his pleasant stories, or most of them, while he was a boy, unspoiled by travel or by contact with the "clever" world; and it never struck him that he occupied a unique or exalted position in the Glen on account of this, because the gift had come to him naturally, and had been cultivated at a time when there was a seanchaidhe by every hearth, and life and vivacity in the country to provide plenty of material for stories. And in reference to the second matter—the supposition or suspicion in the minds of my readers that Ned was a bore—if such a suspicion exists, there is no foundation whatever for it. Ned M'Grane was not a bore by any means: I never knew him to volunteer the telling of a story, and I think that if we were to remain in the forge for hours each evening and not ask for a story we should never have heard one. I firmly believe that if Ned were to think for a moment that while we listened to his stories we were under the impression, in our own minds, that he was "showin' off" all he knew—I firmly believe that then and there he would have made a vow never again to tell us a story, and I know he would have kept that vow, because Ned M'Grane was a man of his word. Whenever an occasion arose that would suggest a story (we never asked him direct for one) we cautiously felt our way, and then, if we saw that we were on safe ground, we asked him as delicately as we could, to give us the pleasure of listening to one of his stories, and I have never known him to deny us that pleasure. He knew that we hungered for the tales, and his heart was too big and too kind to allow him to refrain from an act that was likely to give pleasure to anyone. There never beat a warmer, kinder heart than that which throbbed beneath Ned M'Grane's torn and soot-stained coat.

Joe Clinton was telling us one evening about a narrow escape he and Tom Brangan and a couple more of the boys had the night before in Rowan's demesne when they went to set their rabbit-snares, and very nearly fell into the hands of the police from Castletown, who had been told by the old Major to keep a look-out for poachers.

"We were just gettin' across the wall below at the dark avenue," Joe told us; "Tom was inside in the wood an' I was on top o' the wall, an' Phil Geraghty an' Andy Reilly was on the road, when we heard the sprigs cracklin' an' breakin' in the wood an' out comes a sheep, runnin' like from the lawn as if somethin' was after frightenin' her, an' then when the moon came out a bit from behind a cloud, didn't we see the two boyos tryin' to steal unknownst to us, along the brink o' the wood. I'm sure they heard me talkin' down to the lads on the road—an' Tom had only time to climb up the wall an' jump down after me, when we heard them tearin' in thro' the leaves an' brosna, an' sure we ran like a go-as-you-please race, an' the dickens a one of us was to be seen when they got as far as the wall."

"Only for the sheep you'd be nabbed," said Seumas Shanley.

"Oh, they had us as neat as could be, an' our darlin' han'ful o' new snares along with us," said Joe, "only that they frightened the sheep in the right time. She was a lucky sheep for us anyway."

"Sheep an' goats must be good to poachers always," said Ned M'Grane, as he let the hammer rest on the anvil, and cast the horse-shoe on which he had been working into the trough, "for 'twas Tim Brogan's old white goat that nearly thumped the life out o' the Scotch game-keeper that was in Archdale's, an' he runnin' after young Joe Magee long ago, an' 'twas a ram that saved Jimmy the Thrick when the Sojer M'Keon came at him an' he after killin' the two hares above on the Mullagh. The sheep an' goats must have a grâdh for the poachers, I'm thinkin'."

At the mention of "Jimmy the Thrick" we cocked our ears, because we knew that whenever Ned spoke of Jimmy he had a story to tell about him, and we knew that a story in which Jimmy figured was sure to be a good one. So we cocked our ears while Joe Clinton was asking Ned how the ram managed to save Jimmy from his enemies, and we were, I need hardly say, delighted when we noticed that Ned took out his pipe and commenced to fill it before he made any reply.

"There wasn't in all Ireland, I think, a poacher that had as much darin' in him as Jimmy the Thrick when he was a young fellow. There wasn't a hare or a rabbit in the country safe from him, an' neither gamekeeper nor peeler could ever lay hands on him. He was within an ace o' bein' caught as often as he has fingers an' toes on his body, an' every time, by hook or by crook, he'd dodge the peelers an' get away from them, an' every gamekeeper in the country 'd swear to you at the time that if there ever was a divil in Ireland that divil was Jimmy Malone. A hundred times they set traps for him an' failed to catch him. He'd take the hares an' rabbits from under their very noses almost, an' he often had a snare set above at Rowan's hall-door, but catch or catch they couldn't do on him. He could run as fast as a hare himself, an' he had more tricks an' dodges an' plans in his head than any hare that ever lay in a form. Sure one day an' the huntsmen an' the beagles in full cry after a hare below in Hoey's Bottom, didn't he watch beside a little gap in the wall that he knew she'd go through, and had a sack opened, with the mouth of it round the hole, an' when the poor hare came along at full speed thro' the gap, where did she go only right into the sack, an' Jimmy had her at home in his own house before the huntsmen knew that the hounds were after losin' the trail. Oh, he was a holy terror, the same Jimmy, but he was that lively an' full o' divilment an' fun, but with no bad turn in him, that the dickens a one in the country 'd say a word against him or give a hint o' where he'd be to peeler or anyone else.

"Well, one summer there came home a fellow that was after bein' a sojer out in India or somewhere—his name was Jack M'Keon, but no one called him anythin' only the Sojer M'Keon—an' o' course none o' the young fellows about 'd be seen in his company an' he after takin' John Bull's shillin' an' fightin' against them that never done him or his country any harm, so who did he get in with only Tony Smith that was gamekeeper in Rowan's at the time, an' it seems Tony promised to get him a job as a sort of under-gamekeeper after a while, because he used to do anythin' Tony 'd ask him to do; an' one o' the things was to pimp after and watch Jimmy Malone, an' to nab him in the act o' poachin' if he could.

"'Twas easy enough to make the Sojer do that, because he hated Jimmy from the time they used to be goin' to school in Kilfane together, an' had some row or other, an' along with that, too, M'Keon began skulkin' after a girl that Jimmy was fond of—Julia Dermody, that's his wife this thirty years nearly—an' that made the two o' them bitter enemies. M'Keon had some money after comin' home, wherever he got it—some used to say he robbed it, but no one was certain—an' old Hugh Dermody was more inclined to give him Julia than he was to give her to Jimmy Malone, because Jimmy was poor, an' old Dermody was a miser always. Julia 'd marry no one only Jimmy, but M'Keon thought that if he got him into jail for poachin' she'd be so much ashamed of it that she'd give him up an' marry himself. So you might say it was a bitter bit o' dodgin' between the peelers an' old Tony Smith an' the Sojer M'Keon against poor Jimmy the Thrick, an' only for he was the man he was, he'd spend many a long day in jail for his poachin'. But it was easier to catch a hare than to catch Jimmy Malone, so it was, an' many a hard run the Sojer M'Keon had after him for nothin', an' many a laugh there was through the country over Jimmy an' his tricks. An' the best of it was that the Sojer himself used to be poachin' as much as Jimmy, an' well the peelers knew that, an' the dickens a much of a grádh they had for him.

"Well, one fine July mornin' about four o'clock, Jimmy went over to the off side o' the Mullaghs to the farthest field next to Appleby's land—'twas called the Sheep Field that time as well as now, an' the Mullaghs belonged to the Rowans o' course—to look at a few snares he was after settin' in it the night before, an' didn't he get two darlin' fine hares an' they just nearly dead with the pullin' an' tuggin' they had to get away. Jimmy wasn't long finishin' them, and he was crossin' back next the wood again when all of a sudden he heard the racin' up behind him, an' before he could turn round he got a bump that lifted him off his feet, and then another, an' the next minute he was sprawlin' on the ground an' a big black-faced ram o' the old Major's standin' over him an' lookin' at him as much as to say, 'You're downed at last, Jimmy Malone!' Jimmy used to tell me after that he could read the very words in the ram's eyes the same as if he was sayin' them.

"'Your behaviour was very unfair, sir,' says Jimmy to the boyo, an' he risin' to his feet, 'but I'll be expectin' your salute the next time, an' I don't think you'll have the pleasure o' givin' it. Just gi'me a fair start, an' see which of us'll be at the wood first. Now, one, two, three, an' off we go.' An' Jimmy started to run quicker nor ever he went before, but he wasn't two minutes runnin' when he got the thump again an' down he had to flop a second time in spite of himself, an' there was the ram standin' over him an' his eyes sayin', 'It's not the Sojer M'Keon or the peelers that's in it this time, Jimmy,' an' all my poor Jimmy could do was groan an' feel himself where he was sore.

"'This won't do for Jimmy Malone, if he doesn't want to be caught, so you'll allow me to lead you to the ditch,' says Jimmy, catchin' hold o' the ram's horns, an' startin' to drag him along as well as he could, an' the bucko draggin' against him. If he got him as far as the wood he knew he'd be all right, because he could manage to get away from him, but in the open field there was no chance. So there was Jimmy with his two hands grippin' the ram's horns, an' the hares tied round his waist, an' he tryin' to coax the lad over to the edge o' the wood till he'd get away from him.

"He was about three hundred yards from the wood, an' the ram stickin' his feet in the ground an' refusin' to budge an inch, when who did he see comin' across the field at full trot only the Sojer M'Keon an' he leerin' like a monkey. Jimmy got a bit of a start when he saw him first, because he thought the peelers 'd be with him, but when he knew there was only the Sojer in it, he was delighted instead o' bein' afraid.

"The Sojer came up to him, an' a big stick in his hand an' he chucklin' an' grinnin' with delight.

"'Ha, ha, Mister Malone,' says he to Jimmy, 'you're nabbed at last. 'Twasn't enough to be snarin' the Major's hares an' rabbits, but you must turn to stealin' his mountainy sheep. Gettin' a likin' for mutton, is that it, Mister Malone? They'll hardly give you any mutton in jail, though, unless Julia an' myself sends you a bit o' what we'll have at the weddin'. No girl 'd like to marry a sheep-stealer; would she, Mister Malone?'

"Jimmy was ragin', but he knew that if it came to a fight with M'Keon the Sojer 'd beat him, because he was a powerful big man, an' along with that if the peelers came an' they squabblin', M'Keon 'd accuse him o' sheep-stealin' an' poachin' an' he'd be done for. So he kept his temper, an' says he, real quiet an' humble like:

"'You have me this time, Jack,' says he, 'but what's the use o' tormentin' a fellow. I gave the whole lot o' you a good run for it, anyway, an' I'm not goin' to cry over it. An' sure if Julia Dermody doesn't want me she can have the man that caught me, an' welcome. There's your friends, the peelers, comin', an' you can call them to arrest me.'

"'Where?—where are they? Where are they?' says the Sojer, turnin' round, an' he real excited an' like as if he was frightened.

"As soon as he turned round, Jimmy let go his hold o' the ram's horns an' away with him for the wood, racin' faster than ever he went in his life before. M'Keon got as big a surprise as the 'sheep,' as he took Jimmy's gentleman friend to be, but as soon as he saw the dodge, off he started after him an' he shoutin' to him to stop. He couldn't run well, though, because he was stiff an' lazy, an' the dickens a very far he went when he got a thump from the ram's horns that made him yell, an' the next minute there he was stretched at full length on the grass, an' the ram standin' over him as mild as you please. The Sojer gave him a string of army curses an' up he jumps again an' after Jimmy—the boyo was within a few perch o' the wood an' he runnin' for the bare life an' never lookin' behind him—but the dickens a far Mister M'Keon went till the ram was up with him an' had him stretched on the grass the same as before, an' he cursin' for all he was worth.

"When Jimmy got into the shelter o' the wood he drew his breath an' looked round, an' there he saw my brave Sojer an' he havin' a hold o' the ram's horns the same as he was himself a few minutes before that an' he pullin' at his best an' the ram pullin' against him, an' risin' with every jump now an' again that nearly lifted the Sojer off his feet.

"Jimmy couldn't help laughin' if all the peelers in Ireland was in the wood behind him, when he saw the way the ram had the life frightened out o' the Sojer.

"'So you're goin' to have mutton at the weddin', Mister M'Keon,' says he, 'an' you'll maybe send a bit to the sheep-stealer an' he in jail? That's very kind o' you entirely, an' I must tell Julia when I see her, in case you'd forget it. I'm afraid a ram 'd be middlin' tough eatin' though—even for a sojer. Will you stay there till I go home for my camera, an' I'll take your photograph an' show it to Julia? Ah! can't you let the poor old ram go; sure he can't give evidence against the notorious sheep-stealer, Jimmy Malone. Let him go, an' come over here, an' I'll give you the hares. You won't? Well, I'll have to be sayin' good mornin', Mister M'Keon, an' I hope you'll enjoy the game-keepin' if you get it. If I see your friends, the peelers, I'll send them to your assistance. Good mornin', Mister M'Keon.'

"An' off went Jimmy as fast as he could leg it, an' 'twas well for him he did, because the peelers wasn't as far away as he thought they were. The Major sent for them to come over early that mornin' to see where some one tore up a lot o' young trees that he was after gettin' planted above on the side o' the Mullagh, an' when himself an' them came into the Sheep Field didn't they see the Sojer M'Keon an' he beatin' the Major's prize ram with a big stick an' tryin' to drag him over to the ditch. The Sojer was in such a temper with the ram that he never saw them until they were up beside him, an' sure he nearly fell with the start he got when the Major roared at him to let go the ram. Only for the peelers the Major 'd kill him. The Sojer went to tell the story o' catchin' Jimmy Malone, but sure they thought it was all a make-up, an' they arrested him on the spot for abusin' the ram, an' along with that he had a couple o' score o' snares tied round his waist an' a fine big hare under his coat. It was found out, too, that it was him rooted up the young trees an' sold them to a man in Castletown, an' 'gorra if he didn't get six months in jail, an' only he was a sojer they'd give him five years. He never came back here again, an' the dickens a one was sorry for him, because he was a bad weed.

"An' that's how Jimmy settled the Sojer."

[THE CONFISCATED BACON]

The coaxing of a story from Ned M'Grane, the blacksmith, was sometimes the easiest matter in the world, and sometimes a task in the accomplishing of which all the tact and diplomacy of a Government Ambassador would be absolutely essential. It all depended on the humour he was in at the time. If things had gone well with him during the day; if he hadn't been disappointed in getting coal from the town or if nobody had come to ask him in an aggrieved tone, "Why the blazes aren't you doin' them wheels for me?" or if nobody had told him that another penny in the pound had been added to the taxation of Ireland or that some Englishman had said the Irish were only a pack of savages until the English, out of pure charity, came over and civilised them. If none of these things occurred to rile Ned M'Grane, we had no difficulty whatever in getting a story from him whenever we went to the forge; and that was almost every evening throughout the winter months, and sometimes in the summer, too, when the ground was too wet for the hurling.

'Twas easy to know when he was in bad humour. He hardly seemed to hear our conversation at all, but worked away in silence, broken now and then by short and vigorous comments on the matter that had vexed him during the day, such as "Who the dickens cares about him or his wheels? I'd be rich if I was dependin' on his custom—heh!" or "What'll they do next, I wonder? Make us pay rates for every time we say our prayers?—the pack o' robbers. I wish I had some o' their heads under this!" And then there would be a crashing blow on the anvil that shook the forge and awakened memories of the Blacksmith of Limerick who crushed the heads of the Williamites with his sledge, long ago. On such occasions we never attempted to engage Ned in conversation until his work for the day was finished, and the pipe and tobacco were called into requisition. Even then, if we saw by his manner or his countenance that a dark memory of the matters that had disturbed him during the day remained in his mind, we wisely refrained from beating about the bush for a story.

Ned's dark moods, however, were rare, and his grand, hearty laughter and sparkling wit and delightful stories, when in his usual form, more than compensated for them, and never allowed us to adversely criticise them, no matter how dark or fierce they might be; and then we, young fellows, loved Ned M'Grane as devotedly and as warmly as he loved us.

One evening in the springtime we were gathered as usual in the forge, after a good, long day's work in the fields, and Ned was very busy with plough accessories and harrow pins and other farming implements, but he was in the best of humour all the same. He joked some of us about getting married, sang snatches of songs in his big, rich voice, and laughed at some of the news we had brought him with the gay vivacity of a boy. There wasn't a subject under the sun but was debated in the forge, and Ned's witticisms remained in all our minds long after the matters debated had been forgotten.

"I wonder how many'll take the advice Father Martin gave last Sunday about the killin' o' the pigs," said Matty Reilly, as he fiddled with a lot of horse-shoe nails in a box.

"It's all very fine to be talkin'," said Jim Cassidy, "but if the people kill their own pigs, what are they goin' to pay the rent with?"

"Didn't he tell them what they could do it with?" said Jack Dunne, as he cleared the stem of his pipe with a very fine piece of wire which Ned always kept by him for that purpose; "didn't he tell them that they could pay the rent with the money they give to the shopkeepers for bad American bacon that's pisinin' their blood an' that there's no nourishment in? An' sure he said the truth. You might as well be eatin' roasted beech-leaves as some o' the bacon you'd get in shops. The divil another bit of it'll come into our house, if we were never to pay the rent."

"If you saw Peadar Byrne," said Bartle Gormley, from a corner, "when Father Martin was talkin' about the killin' o' the pigs, an' the savin' o' the money. He could only catch an odd word, an' he had the bothered ear cocked in a way that I never saw it at the readin' o' the Gospel."

"Maybe," said Ned, with a comical look, "maybe he thought there was pigs goin' for nothin', an' that he'd miss one if he didn't listen."

The discussion ended in a laugh, as all discussions usually did when Ned M'Grane had spoken, and every man started to light his pipe. Ned worked on in silence for a while, and after a long spell, during which there came no remark from him, he said, in careless fashion:

"I wonder was Jimmy Malone—Jimmy the Thrick—listenin' to Father Martin talkin' about the bacon?"

"He was then," said Bartle Gormley, "because I saw him leanin' over the seat down near the door an' whisperin' somethin' to Andy Cregan, an' whatever it was the two o' them was laughin' over it when they came out on the road."

"I know what he was whisperin' about," said Ned, "an' so well he might laugh, because the bacon he used to get above twenty years ago was better an' cheaper than ever he ate since. He wouldn't get anyone simple enough now to give him bacon for nothin'."

"An' how did he get it for nothin' that time, Ned?" asked Bartle, and as he spoke all other conversation was suspended, and we gathered in close to the anvil, apparently careless, but every mother's son of us eager as could be for the story which we knew from experience lay at the back of Ned's remark on Jimmy Malone's behaviour.

"Do you remember Neddy an' Phil M'Govern that died within a week of each other, just this time two years?" asked Ned.

Of course we had all known the two old brothers and their eccentric ways, and had often peeped in at them as they argued by the fire, and we told Ned as much.

"Well, they were just as odd an' as comical in their ways when they were close on fifty years of age as when eighty was drawin' near them, an' if I could only remember them, I know as many stories about Neddy an' Phil as would keep me talkin' for a whole week without stoppin'. They were the queerest couple ever walked in shoe leather or bare feet—may God be good to them this night. At the time I'm goin' to tell you about they didn't live together, as they did when you knew them. Phil lived with an old uncle o' his beyond at Hogan's well, where you'll see the walls o' the house standin' still, and Neddy lived by himself in the house on the hill there above, where they died, an' where Tom M'Dermott, their sister's son, is livin' now. Neither one nor th' other o' them ever got married, because I suppose no girl 'd have them (you needn't laugh)—some people 'd say because they'd begrudge spendin' any money on the weddin', but I don't believe that, as hard as they were—and the way they had o' livin' was as comical as ever you knew. Jimmy the Thrick, to give him the name he was best known by in his young days, lived over there on the hill, not far away from Neddy—that was, of course, before he married into the wife's place—an' he'd tell you stones about Neddy's housekeepin' that'd make you laugh if you had the toothache. An' the best o' them all is the story that Jimmy himself had most to do with.

"Jimmy, you must know, was a terrible playboy at that time an' nobody was safe from his tricks. He couldn't rest at night unless he was after makin' a fool o' somebody, or after playin' some trick durin' the day. He was never easy, mornin', noon or night.

"The people long ago used to kill their own pigs, an' you'd never see backs of American bacon hangin' up in country houses like you do now, an' signs on it, everyone was twice as healthy. 'Twas the talk about what Father Martin said last Sunday that put this story about Neddy an' Phil an' Jimmy into my head. On account of only the two o' them an' the old uncle bein' in it, they used only kill one pig between them every year an' divide it. Neddy'd kill one this year, an' send the half of it over to Phil an' the uncle, an' whatever he had too much after that he'd give to the sister that was married in Knockbride; then the next year Phil 'd kill a pig an' send the half of it to Neddy, an' so on.

"This year, anyway, that I'm talkin' about, it happened that it was Neddy's turn to kill the pig, an' what do you think but one o' the shopkeepers in Castletown said to him that if he was thinkin' o' killin' a pig that year an' didn't want it all, that he had a customer that wanted a piece o' home-cured bacon, an' would give the highest price for it. Neddy wasn't very rich, an' he thought to himself when he came home that if he could get out o' the obligation o' givin' half the pig to Phil, he'd be all right. He could make a couple o' pound for himself an' have enough o' bacon for the year as well. What was he to do at all? The only thing he could think of was to pretend to sell it along with the other pig at the fair that was near at hand. But then Phil 'd be at the fair an' helpin' to make the bargain, an' he'd see that only one o' the pigs was sold. He couldn't hit on a plan of any kind that'd be good enough, an' he was goin' to give up in despair when who comes in but my brave Jimmy Malone—'twas evenin' time—to have a smoke an' to warm his shins at Neddy's fire.

"Neddy knew that Jimmy was never at a loss for a plan for anythin' an' he ups an' tells him the story o' the pig an' the terrible puzzle he was in. Jimmy listened with great attention, an' was very simple an' solemn-lookin', but the divilment came into his head, an' says he to Neddy, when he heard the whole story:

"'It'd be a mortial shame, Neddy,' says he, 'for you to lose the couple o' pound an' you wantin' it so badly, an' especially when you say that Phil's two pigs is better nor your own an' that he didn't divide fair with you last year. It'd be a terrible shame, Neddy, an' I'm goin' to get you out o' the hobble or know for what. I'll just tell you in a few words the best thing for you to do. Kill the pig unknownst to Phil, an' scrape it, an' clean it out, an' then hang it up at the gable end o' the house, an' leave it there when you're goin' to bed. Then the first thing in the mornin' get up before anyone else thinks o' risin' an' bring in the pig and salt it, an' put it above in the room, an' cover it as much as you can; an' then go round the whole townlan' from this to Larry Boylan's beyond, an' clap your hands an' cry an' moan an' be in a terrible state, an' tell everybody that someone took your pig down from the gable—an' sure that'll be no lie for you—an' no matter what Phil or your uncle or anyone else says, keep on lamentin' and cryin' an' sayin' that your pig is gone from the gable, an' that poor Phil 'll have to be eatin' American bacon this year; an' if that doesn't work all right an' leave your pig with you, my name is not Jimmy Malone.'

"Neddy kep' showerin' blessin's down on top o' Jimmy's head for half-an-hour, an' sayin' he was the cleverest man in Ireland, an' that he ought to be a lawyer, an' there was the boyo, drinkin' it all in as solemn as you please, an' assurin' Neddy that he'd do anythin' for a good neighbour. At last he got up to go home an' the word he said to Neddy an' he goin' out on the door was: 'Remember, Neddy, no matter what anyone says to you keep on cryin' and sayin' that the pig is gone. Don't forget that. In any case, I'll be down again to remind you of it.'

"Neddy said he wouldn't forget anythin', an' away went Jimmy the Thrick up to his own house, an' he laughin' to himself at the way he was goin' to hoax old Neddy M'Govern.

"Phil was away at the bog beyond for the turf the next day—the old uncle never used to stir out o' the house, and along with that he was bothered—an' my brave Neddy sent up for Jimmy Malone an' for Tom Molloy, the herd that was in Rowan's, an' Tom killed the pig, an' went off, an' then Neddy an' Jimmy cleaned it out, an' Jimmy went home, after goin' over the instructions again to Neddy, an' puttin' him on his guard to keep on cryin' the pig, no matter what any man, woman or child in the townland'd say to him.

"About ten o'clock that night—the people used to go to bed early them times—Neddy put a big holdfast the length o' your arm into the gable end o' the house, and tied the pig's hind crubeens together, an' histed it on his back—there wasn't a stronger man in the country than Neddy—an' brought it out an' hung it there, with its snout just tippin' the ground, an' back he goes an' into bed with him, leavin' the pig hangin' there for any dog that might have a fancy for fresh bacon.

"The dogs didn't get much of a chance, though, because Neddy wasn't half-an-hour in bed when down comes Jimmy the Thrick from his own house an' he creepin' along the same as if he didn't want to waken the birds, an' when he came to the gable-end o' Neddy's house he just rubbed down the pig with his hands to see if it was dry enough, an' then got in under it, an' histed it on his back, an' away with him up the path along the hedge to his own house an' he staggerin' under the weight o' the pig.

"He stayed up all that night cuttin' the bacon an' saltin' it—he was the best hand in the whole country at doin' up a pig—an' when he had it all cut he packed it in a big box that he had for turf in a corner o' the kitchen, an' then he went to bed an' slept like a top.

"The daylight was only in it when up gets Neddy an' out he goes to fetch in the pig, but it wasn't an easy job to do, because there was no pig at the gable. He looked all round the place, thinkin' maybe somebody took it down for a joke; but it was nowhere to be seen, an' Neddy ran like a madman over to Phil's, an' nothin' only his shirt an' trousers on him, an' wakened him up, an' accused him of takin' the pig. Phil got into a tearin' rage for he sayin' that at all, an' there was the two o' them into it at five o'clock in the mornin', bargin' away like two old women, an' callin' each other all the names they could think of. At last, Phil an' the uncle hunted Neddy, an' he went round all the neighbours clappin' his hands an' tellin' about some daylight robber stealin' his darlin' pig in the middle o' the night; an' everyone thought Neddy M'Govern was after goin' cracked entirely, an' they gave him no satisfaction at all, only told him to go home an' go to bed or to put the rest of his clothes on him, an' sorra consolation and sorra trace o' the pig Neddy could get, high up or low down; and back he comes to his own house, an' searched round twice as sharp as before in every hole an' corner, but dickens a sight or light o' the pig he could see anywhere.

"Then he thought o' Jimmy Malone, an' that maybe Jimmy could help him, an' away he went up to Jimmy's house an' he like a man out of his mind. Jimmy saw him comin', but he never pretended he was up out o' bed at all, and when Neddy began to knock at the door an' kick it, Jimmy shouted from the room like as if he was only wakenin' out of his sleep:

"'Who's that?'

"'It's me, Jimmy; I want you. Get up!'

"Jimmy put his head out o' the window.

"'Oh, is it you, Neddy?' says he, as if he wasn't expectin' Neddy at all. 'Well, did that work all right?' says he, rubbin' his eyes and yawnin'.

"'The pig is gone, Jimmy! Some robber stole him last night!'

"''Gorra, Neddy, you're a topper! That's the very way I wanted you to say it. What did Phil say, or did you go to him yet?'

"'Phil the divil, man!' shouted Neddy. 'The pig was stole last night, I tell you, an' I can't get sight or light of it.'

"'Good, Neddy, good! There's not an actor in Dublin could do it better than that. Stick at it, my boyo, an' there's not a man in the townland but 'll believe you lost the pig!'

"'Jimmy, will you listen to me, or are you gone mad like the rest o' them? I'm tellin' no lie at all. The pig wasn't there when I came out this mornin', an' tale or tidin's of it I can't find anywhere. What am I to do at all, at all?'

"''Gorra, Neddy, that's grand! An' only I'm in my shirt I'd go out an' clap you on the back. If you could only see your face this minute, you'd nearly believe yourself that the pig is gone. You lost it that didn't go with a circus when you were young, Neddy; you'd be a rich man to-day. Only go round the townland an' your face like that, an' the divil a bit o' the pig Phil 'll ever taste!'

"Jimmy kept on like that, an' Neddy kept fumin' an' pleadin' an' cursin' and lamentin' outside in the yard until he saw it was no use to stay there any longer, an' home he went again, tearin' an' swearin' an' he nearly crazy.

"In a few hours after that, Jimmy the lad strolled down as unconcerned as you please, an' there was Neddy with his Sunday clothes on him an' he just ready for a journey.

"'Where are you goin', Neddy?' says he, the same as if he got a terrible surprise.

"'I'm goin' over to Castletown to tell the peelers, an' to get them to look for the thief that stole my pig!' says Neddy, very uncivil like, because he wasn't at all thankful to Jimmy for his plan, when he saw the way it turned out.

"'Ah, that's goin' too far with it, Neddy,' says the Thrick. 'Doesn't Phil believe you yet about the stealin' o' the pig—the plan we made up? You'll only get found out if you go as far as tellin' the peelers.'

"'But, tundher an' ouns, man,' shouted poor Neddy, 'is there any use in tellin' you the pig was stole? See is he in the house, sure, if you don't believe me!'

"Jimmy looked round the house an' he winkin' at Neddy all the time, as much as to say, 'You're the king o' tricks, Neddy,' but at long last he was convinced that Neddy did lose the pig, an' he had great sympathy for him, by the way, an' 'twas no wonder any man to be vexed over such a dirty, mean deed, an' if he had the thief there he'd do this, that an' th'other to him as sure as his name was Jimmy Malone.

"'An' is it any wonder I'm goin' for the peelers, Jimmy?' says Neddy to him.

"'Not a bit o' wonder in the world, Neddy; but I'd advise you not to go.'

"'An why wouldn't I go, man? How do you think I'm goin' to catch the robber if I don't go?'

"'You oughtn't to go for the peelers,' says Jimmy, an' he lookin' about him an' speakin' very low, 'because I think I know who took the pig!'

"'Who?' says Neddy. 'Who, Jimmy?'

"'Sh!' says Jimmy, 'don't talk that loud. I'm thinkin' 'twas the good people—the fairies. Did you ever do anythin' to them—anythin' to vex them?'

"'Never!' says Neddy, 'that I know of!'

"'Are you sure, now?' says Jimmy, 'because they never do anythin' to anyone that doesn't offend them. Did you cut the grass round the lone bush in the Fort Field above last summer, an' you mowin' the meadow?'

"'I did, sure enough!' says Neddy; 'but I didn't touch the tree.'

"'Aye, but you cut the grass, Neddy, an' they claim the grass that grows round every lone bush in the land. It's the fairies that took the pig, Neddy, but that was only to warn you, an' I'm sure they'll give it back. Instead o' goin' for the peelers or anyone else, wait until to-morrow night—it's May Eve—at twelve o'clock, an' go up to the fort an' walk round the lone bush three times, an' you'll be sure to hear somethin' about the bacon. But tell no one, an' let no one see you goin' or you're done for. An' if the fairies speak to you, answer them very respectful, an' do whatever they tell you an' you'll be all right. It's only twice in the year they'd speak to any livin' person—at May Eve an' at Hollantide—an' you ought to make the most of your chance, considerin' that the fort is on your own land.'

"''Gorra, I'll chance it, anyway, Jimmy!' says Neddy, and down he sits himself at the fire, an' says no more about the peelers or the thief.

"Well, to make a long story short, Neddy was at the fort the next night at a quarter to twelve. As soon as Jimmy saw him goin'—for he was watchin' him—he lifts the box o' bacon on to a wheelbarrow—he was after greasin' the axle for twenty minutes so that it wouldn't screech—an' down he goes with it along the path an' left it where he got it, at the gable-end o' Neddy's house, an' then he left the barrow back an' stole away up along the hedges till he was standin' within half a perch o' Neddy, only that the big hedge was between them.

"When Neddy thought it was twelve o'clock he started an' walked three times round the lone bush, an' then he stopped an' listened an' he afraid of his life to look one side or th' other of him.

"'Neddy M'Govern!' says a queer, strange voice from the far side o' the hedge, an' when Neddy heard it he shivered from head to foot.

"'Yes, your Majesty,' says Neddy.

"'We're displeased with you, Neddy M'Govern,' says the voice, an' Neddy thought it was out o' the air it came this time, but he was afraid to look up; 'we're displeased with you, because last summer you cut the grass round this bush that's our property, an' for that reason we confiscated your pig. Are you sorry for cuttin' the grass, Neddy M'Govern?'

"'I am, indeed, your Majesty!' says Neddy, an' his voice shakin'.

"'Will you promise never to cut it again, Neddy M'Govern, an' will you give us your solemn word of honour to carry out all the commands an' conditions we're pleased to impose on you now?'

"'I will, your Majesty!' says Neddy, 'I'll do anything your Majesty wants.'

"'Very well, Neddy M'Govern, we'll give you back your pig on three conditions. You're to divide the bacon as usual with your brother, Phil!'

"'Yes, your Majesty.'

"'There's a decent, honest, respectable man livin' near you, called James Malone. You're to give him the biggest an' best ham off this pig an' off every pig you kill in future!'

"'Yes, your Majesty.'

"'An' you're never to open your lips to anybody about your visit here to-night, nor to tell livin' man or mortal anythin' we're after sayin' to you.'

"'No, your Majesty.'

"'That'll do, Neddy M'Govern. Now, walk round that bush three times again, an' then straight across to the gap an' down the boreen to your own house, an' look neither up in the air, nor behind you, nor to either side o' you, an' when you go home you'll find your pig in the place it was when we confiscated it. It's cut an' salted an' packed, an' will be fit for use in ten days an' ten nights. Remember your promises, Neddy M'Govern!'

"'Yes, your Majesty,' says Neddy again, an' then he done what he was told, an' when he went back there was the bacon at the gable-end o' the house where 'his Majesty,' Jimmy the Thrick, was after leavin' it. Neddy, of course, was delighted, an' he shared the bacon with Phil, an' gave the biggest ham to Jimmy—there was one ham cut very big—an' from that until he died there wasn't a pig he killed but Jimmy got a ham off it, an' no one knew anythin' about it until Jimmy himself told Father Martin about it the day o' Neddy's funeral, an' I dunno how they settled the matter between them. An' that's the whole story about Jimmy Malone an' the bacon."

["BOW-WOW"]

Nobody could listen to Ned M'Grane's laughter and refrain from laughing himself; it was so airy, so wholehearted, so pleasant, that it became, after the initial explosion, contagious, and if the forge were full of young fellows—as it generally was—the smith's hearty "Ha, ha, ha-ah!" set them all in tune, and there would be a chorus of laughter under that old roof fit to rouse the most despondent heart that ever made its owner believe he was in the blues, and that caused passers-by to stand for a moment on the road and listen, and they usually murmured, as they wagged their heads and walked on, "Ned must be after tellin' a good one now." It was, I think, the most cheering and exhilarating thing I have ever heard—the laughter of Ned M'Grane, the blacksmith of Balnagore.

No wonder, then, that we chimed in with Ned's more than usually vigorous "Ha, ha, ha-ah!" when Andy Murtagh was telling the smith about the "tallyvangin'," as he called it, that old Maire Lanigan, of the Red Bog, had given to Larry Boylan of our own townland, at the inquiry in Castletown, under the Old Age Pensions Act. The smith, as Andy proceeded with the story, had laid down the hammer on the anvil, had taken off his cap and wiped his perspiring brow with the back of his hand, and had laughed until we caught the contagion, and were obliged to join him, though as to the real cause of his merriment we were at the time ignorant.

"What else did she say?" he inquired, the tears which the laughter had called forth streaming down his dust-covered cheeks. "I'm sure Old Crusty was sweatin', an' divil mend him! What's the likes of him wantin' with a pension anyhow?"

"She said 'twas a ticket for the next world he ought to be lookin' for an' not an old age pension," said Andy, "an' when she had everyone laughin' at him she said somethin' like the way an old dog'd bark, an' went off with herself, an' whatever it was it made Larry twice as mad as all the tallyvangin' o' the tongue she gave him. He was ragin'."

"Ha, ha, ha-ah!" shouted Ned M'Grane again, and of course we had to join in, though we couldn't see that there was very much to laugh at in Andy's story after all.

When Ned had laughed in boisterous fashion for a minute or two he resumed his work, but every now and then he would give a short chuckle of delight to himself, as he made the sparks fly in showers from the burning iron upon which he was working.

"It's not the first time she set Old Crusty mad," he said at length, more to himself than to us, as he gave the finishing short, sharp taps to the article he was shaping, and cast it from him into the trough beside the anvil to cool. We were beginning to guess from this remark and from his behaviour while Andy was telling him of the encounter between the old pair at the inquiry, that there was a story in Ned's head which we had not yet heard, and as he proceeded to fill his pipe, after donning his coat, I ventured to say:

"Why, what did she do to him before to-day, Ned?"

"What didn't she do to him?" Ned asked, in return. "She made him the maddest man I ever saw in my life, an' as small as—as that bit o' tobacco. I don't wonder what she said an' she goin' off to-day left him vexed enough; it put him in mind o' when she made him a laughin'-stock for the whole county—that's what it did."

"When was that, Ned?" we all asked, in a breath. "Was it long ago?"

"'Twas long ago, sure enough, but not long enough to make Larry forget it," said Ned, as he teased the tobacco in the hollow of his hand, and then packed his pipe.

"Gi' me a match, some o' you, an' when I have a few draws o' this I'll tell you all about it."

Everybody fumbled in all his pockets for matches, and soon Ned had a supply sufficient to last for a week. He carefully lighted his pipe, took a few pulls, and then seated himself on a box in which there had been horse-shoe nails—the only easy-chair the forge contained.

"Let me see," he said, as he took the pipe from his mouth for a minute and gazed intently into the bowl, as if his inspiration lay therein. "It's nearer to thirty years ago than it is to twenty, an' the oldest o' you here was only toddlin' from the fire to the dresser an' back again. I was a lump of a gossoon at the time, an' I remember it as well as yesterday, an' good reason I have to remember it, because every man, woman, an' child in the country was talkin' about it, an' laughin' at Larry, as well they might.

"Maire Lanigan, you must know, was a bigger play-actor of a woman when she was younger than she is now. She was as tricky as a fox, an' no one could match her in every kind o' cleverness, though you'd think to look at her that she was only a gom. She an' old Charley the husband—God be good to him!—had that little farm o' the Lynches at that time, an' were middlin' well off, havin' neither chick nor child to bother about. They used to rear calves an' pigs an' sell them at good prices, but the dickens a one o' them ever Charley sold, because he was too shy an' quiet an' easy-goin' always. Maire is the one that could thrash out a bargain an' haggle an' wrangle an' dispute until she'd have the whole fair lookin' at her an' laughin' at her; an' there wasn't a jobber ever came into the fair o' Castletown but knew her as well as they knew a good beast or a bad one.

"Well, one May fair—the biggest fair that ever was in Castletown, the old people 'll tell you—Charley an' Maire had a fine lump of a calf to sell that they reared themselves from he was calved, an' they brought him out brave an' early in the mornin' to get rid of him, if they could come across a buyer. They weren't long in the fair, anyway, when who comes up to them but Mickey Flanagan—God rest him!—Jack the Jobber's father, an' begins to make the bargain with Maire. After a lot o' disputin' an' squabblin' an' dividin' o' this crown an' that half-crown an' a lot o' shoutin' on Maire's part, Mickey bought the calf, an' says he:

"'Meet me at Kennedy's, below near the railway, at three o'clock, an' I'll pay you, along with the rest.'

"'No, but you'll pay me this minute,' says Maire, 'or you'll not get the calf at all. I have my rent to pay at twelve o'clock, an' if you don't gi' me the money now I'll have to sell him to some one that will.'

"Mickey Flanagan saw that the calf was a good one, so he paid for it at once, because he was afraid that if he made any delay Maire might sell to some other jobber. When all was settled says he:

"'Drive him down an' put him into Kennedy's yard, an' tell the gossoon to keep an eye to him till I go down myself with a few more.'

"He forgot with the hurry he was in to mark the calf, an' away he went. Whatever divilment put it into Maire's head, instead o' bringin' the calf to Kennedy's yard what did she do only go stravagle it off to the far end o' the town, an' made Charley go with her an' say nothin'—the poor man was afraid of his life of her always—an', by the powers, if she didn't sell the calf again in less than half an hour to a jobber from the North of Ireland, who sent it off on the eleven o'clock train, an' paid Maire just the same amount she was after gettin' from Mickey Flanagan.

"Maire made away home as fast as she could make Charley step out, an' she laughin' to herself at the way she done Mickey Flanagan, an' she was just after puttin' the pan on the fire with a bit o' meat on it that she brought home, when who comes up to the door but my brave Mickey himself, an' he in a tearin' temper.

"'Where's my calf?' he shouted, as soon as he saw Maire in the middle o' the floor.

"'What do I know where he is?' answered Maire, just as loud, an' a lot sharper, 'didn't I sell him to you? Do you think I ought to stay in the town all day watchin' him for you, an' that poor unfortunate man there, that was up out of his bed at four o'clock this mornin', nearly fallin' out of his standin' with the hunger. Do you think I'm a fool, Mickey Flanagan? I sold you the calf, an' if you can't find him now, you needn't blame anyone but yourself.'

"'You're a darin' woman, that's what y'are,' says Mickey, the eyes nearly jumpin' out of his head with madness, 'an' if you don't tell me where the calf is, or give me back my money, I'll make you remember this day as long as you live.'

"'Faith, if you don't leave that, quick, an' quit your bargin',' cried Maire, as she caught hold o' the pan on the fire, 'I'll make you remember it longer than you live, because I'll give you a taste o' what the Old Boy 'll be givin' you yet for annoyin' an' tryin' to cheat an honest, decent woman! G'long! you cripplin' old rogue! or I'll scald the tongue in your head!'

"An' Mickey had to fly for his life, but he found out, some way or other, about the sellin' o' the calf a second time, an' what do you think but he sends a summons to Maire for the Quarter Sessions in Castletown, chargin' her with defraudin' him out o' the price o' the calf.

"Well, here's where Larry Boylan comes in. There wasn't many lawyers or solicitors in the country places at that time—an' sure, maybe we were as well off without them—but knowledgeable men used to give their opinion about points o' the law, an' used to settle disputes an' the like, an' any o' them that was graspin' or miserly used to charge somethin' for their advice—a couple o' rolls o' butter, or a sack o' praties, or maybe a few shillin's.

"Larry Boylan set up for bein' a knowledgeable man, not because he was extra wise, but because he wanted to make somethin' out of his poorer neighbours whenever he could get the chance.

"To Larry Maire went with the summons, an' asked what 'd be the best thing for her to do, an' if there was any chance of her beatin' Flanagan in the law.

"Larry considered, an' considered, an' pretended to be very wise, an' looked very solemn, an' asked Maire a lot o' questions that he knew the answer to long before that, an' at last says he:

"'Mrs. Lanigan,' says he, 'you're a woman I have a great respect for, an' your husband is one o' the decintest men in the parish, an' on that account,' says he, 'I'll bring all my long experience into the case an' do the best I can for you, an' it isn't for everyone I'd do it, an' it isn't in every case I'd give the advice I'm goin' to give now. But I want to say a word first. On account of it bein' a very delicate case, an' one that everybody is lookin' forward to, an' because my reputation 'll suffer if it goes against us, I'll have to charge you a fee, an' that fee 'll have to be a pound. Are you willin' to pay it, ma'am?' says Larry.

"'Well, indeed an' I am an' welcome, Mister Boylan,' says Maire, 'I'll give the pound, an' two pound, if you only mention it, as soon as the case is over. Make your mind easy on that point, Mister Boylan.'

"'Well, ma'am,' says Larry, 'the only way you can get the upper hand o' Mickey Flanagan is by makin' out you're a little bit gone in the head, an' if you do what I tell you there isn't a judge or a jury or a lawyer in Ireland can prove that you're responsible for the price o' the calf, or for anythin' that took place the day o' the fair.'

"'Musha, more power to you, Mister Boylan,' says Maire.

"'What I want you to do is this,' says Larry; 'when the court day comes just let your hair hang down about your face an' shoulders, an' wear your cloak upside down on you, an' be laughin' an' puttin' out your tongue at everyone you meet. An' when you go into the court, no matter who asks you a question, just laugh and put out your tongue, an' say "Bow-wow" like a dog. Will you do that?' says he.

"'Indeed, an' I will, Mister Boylan,' says Maire, as thankful as you please. 'Wait till you see but I'll do it better than you expect. May God bless you an' prosper you, an' lengthen your days; you're the clever, knowledgeable man!'

"An' off she went in the best o' humour, an' she blessin' Larry all the time.

"Well, at any rate the Quarter Sessions came at long last, an' there was hardly a man, woman, or child in the country but was in the town that day, watchin' an' waitin' for the case against Maire Lanigan, an' when the time for the case came on the courthouse was packed with people. Mickey Flanagan had a lawyer down from Dublin, an' everyone was sure he'd win the case, because Maire had no one at all to speak for her.

"When the case was brought on, an' when Maire stepped up to be examined, you'd think 'twas a circus or somethin' was in the courthouse with the way the people laughed, an' the old judge himself had to laugh, too, when he saw the get-up of her. Everyone was laughin' only Mickey Flanagan an' his lawyer.

"Maire's old grey, greasy-lookin' hair was all hangin' down about her face, an' there was little red an' yalla ribbons tied on it here an' there, like what you'd see on girshas o' ten or twelve; an' her cloak was turned inside out an' she was wearin' it upside down, with the tail of it round her shoulders an' the hood streelin' at her heels; an' there she was, grinnin' an' caperin', an' puttin' out her tongue at everyone. I never saw anythin' like her in my life, an' I laughed after the judge commanded silence. I thought he'd tell some one to put me out.

"The lawyer from Dublin got up to question Maire, an' he fixed his specs on him, an' frowned an' put on a grand air, an' says he:

"'Are you the person who sold a calf to this man, my client, Michael Flanagan?'

"Maire grinned at him, an' put out her tongue, an' all the answer she gave him was:

"'Bow-wow!'

"You could hear the laughin' o' the people all over the town, but the judge said in a loud voice—though I think he was laughin' to himself—that he'd clear out the court if there was any more noise, an' the lawyer put a blacker frown on him, an' says he:

"'Remember, madam,' says he, 'that you're in her Majesty's Court o' Justice, an' give me a straightforward, honest answer, or learn the consequences. Did you, or did you not, sell a calf to this man?'

"'Bow-wow,' says Maire again, an' she puttin' out her tongue at him, an' you'd think she didn't know a word he was sayin'. Everyone laughed again, except Mickey an' his lawyer, an' the judge gave a pull to his wig an' snuffled, an' says he:

"'This woman is a fool! Put her down,' says he; 'I dismiss the case. It's only makin' a humbug o' the court.'

"'She has it,' says Larry Boylan to my father—God rest him!—an' out we all went to the street after Maire, an' sure everyone in the whole place was round her, laughin' an' talkin' an' goin' on.

"Larry wanted to show himself off as the great man o' the day, an' says he, goin' over an' shakin' Maire's hand:

"'You done it the best I ever saw! There's not the beatin' o' you on Ireland's ground. Have you the pound, Mrs. Lanigan?' says he, in a lower tone o' voice, but plenty of us heard him all the same.

"Maire shook his hand, an' Larry was feelin' proud of himself, when she just looked him straight in the face, an' grinned like a monkey an' put out her tongue down to her chin, an' says she, at the top of her voice:

"'Bow-wow, Larry Boylan! Bow-wow!'

"An' with that she made a run through the crowd, an' away home with her, an' Charley after her as fast as he could trot, an' the poor man ashamed of his life. If ever any man got laughed at that man was Larry Boylan. He couldn't go out anywhere, to fair or market or meetin' for long an' long after, but every gossoon in the country'd shout 'Bow-wow' at him till they'd have him ragin'. An' that's what old Maire said to him to-day, that Andy Murtagh was tellin' us about, an' it's thinkin' o' the law case made Larry so mad."

And as Ned M'Grane closed the door of the forge after we had left we heard him laugh softly to himself.

[HOW JOHNNIE GOT HIS DEGREE]

The forge in Balnagore was a sort of library of reference to all the young fellows of the district. No matter what information was sought for regarding events of importance that had occurred in Ireland during the past couple of hundred years (we had not much access to books down there) the one and only thought of the seeker after knowledge was to repair at once, or as soon as his work was finished, to the smithy in which Ned M'Grane reigned, and to ask the same Ned a few questions on the matter which puzzled himself; and Ned, to his credit let me say it, was never, in my recollection, found wanting on any such occasion. His mind was a well-stocked storehouse of local and national history, as well as of humour, which he was ever willing to impart to "the risin' generation," as he called us.

He could remember every droll occurrence that had taken place in the parish for at least forty years, and every stirring event of national importance that had taken place in the country during the same period, and along with all this he had, in his young days, set himself the task of acquiring knowledge of events of an earlier period from the people who were old when he was a boy, so that when I state that he could bring us back over the happenings of a couple of hundred years I do not by any means overstep the mark. He often told us that in his young days he had a veritable thirst for old stories and for knowledge of every kind, and he used to make a round of the neighbours' houses night after night to hear the tales the old people told about the "ould times" and the "good people," and of the far-off days in an Ireland that was free. And if the news was conveyed to him that a "poor scholar" was staying at any farmer's house within a radius of seven miles, he used tramp across the country to hear the learned man talk about his travels, and to hear him read out of the books which he carried with him on his journeys.

"From all the goin' about I used to have, an' the way I used to be askin' questions o' the old people, an' the way I used to have the wits worried out o' Master Sweeney o' Kilfane," said Ned to us more than once, "what do you think but some o' the playboys put the nick-name o' 'the poor scholar' on myself, an' every one o' the youngsters used to be jibin' at me about it. I didn't care tuppence as long as I was a gossoon, but it was stickin' so tight to me an' I growin' up a big lad that I gave over my stravagin' a good bit, an' they forgot it after a while. I didn't mind at that time, because the old people were gettin' feeble an' bothered, an' a lot of them dyin' away, too, an' them that came after them didn't care a wisp o' straw for the stories or anythin' only cattle, an' money, an' land. An' signs on it, they're all old men an' women at fifty, with their worryin' over grass land and con-acres, an' calves, an' things you'd think they could bring to the grave with them. God be with the old times! when the people knew somethin' about Ireland, an' had life an' spirit in them, an' weren't always breakin' their necks runnin' after the world, an' never catchin' up with it, like them we see round us every day. Aye! God be with the old times, when it's not backbitin' each other they'd be round the fire at night, or makin' up law cases against each other. I wish it was the old times again!"

I reproduce the above speech of Ned's, which was delivered partly to us and partly to himself many a time when the retrospective mood held possession of him—I reproduce it, I say, to show that Ned M'Grane's outlook on life was neither narrow nor sordid, but that there was in his mind and heart a great deal of the old-world philosophy of life, viz., that it was better to be rich intellectually than materially; that was Ned's firm opinion and belief, and he was never done impressing upon us the foolishness of seeking after wealth and worldly emoluments, and of neglecting at the same time to enrich and beautify the mind with the lore of the years gone by. Whether he was right or wrong I leave to my readers to decide.

There were in the forge, now and then, what I may call "impromptu" evenings—that is, there were times when Ned, reminded of past episodes through hearing some name casually mentioned in our conversation, drew at random from his well-filled storehouse of stories one of the delightfully droll occurrences which he himself remembered to have happened in the neighbourhood long years before, and told it to us while he worked, without calling upon any of the aids, such as a well-filled pipe and a comfortable seat, which he called into requisition when relating one of the longer tales to which he treated us now and then. On such occasions, too, he often gave out riddles to us that set our brains hard at work, and sang for us some of the fine songs he had learned from the old people and from the "poor scholars" in the happy evenings of the past, which he designated the "old times."

I remember one of those impromptu evenings in particular, because I thought, and think so still, that the story he told us about Johnnie Finnegan's "Degree" was as good as I had ever heard. He had just finished singing a favourite song of ours about a young Wexfordman who escaped from the Yeos in '98, and we were bestowing upon him our hearty praise and applause, when an old grumpy farmer from Knockbride, called Johnnie Finnegan, but who was best known by the nick-name of "Johnnie the Doctor," came to the forge door and asked Ned to tighten one of the hind shoes on his mare, as he was afraid 'twould fall off before he should reach home. Ned performed the task, and when he returned to the work which he had in hand before Johnnie appeared upon the scene, some of us asked him the reason why "Johnnie the Doctor" was the name everybody had for Johnnie Finnegan.

"Did I never tell you how Johnnie got his degree?" asked Ned, with a merry twinkle in his eye.

"No, you never told us that, Ned; but now's the time for it," a couple of us answered, and the eager faces of the others signified their whole-hearted approval of our suggestion.

"Troth, you'll hear it, boys, an' welcome," said Ned, as he went on with his work. "An' it doesn't take long in the tellin', though if I told it to you while Johnnie was here you'd see him in a flarin' fine temper an' the dickens a nail I'd ever get the chance o' drivin' in a shoe, or a sock I'd put on a plough for Johnnie again, because you might as well roll him in a heap o' nettles an' his clothes tore, as mention 'Johnnie the Doctor' an' he listenin'.

"The way it was is this. Old Jimmy Finnegan, his father, was as poor as a rat in an empty barn, an' so were all his people before him, but one day—Johnnie was the only child, an' he was no more than nine years old at the time—up comes a postman from Castletown to Jimmy Finnegan's and hands in a letter, an' when they got Master Sweeney up to read it, they found out that it was from a lawyer in America to say that a brother o' Jimmy's—Phil Finnegan—was after dyin'—a rich man—in Boston, an' that he left all his money to Jimmy, an' the letter went on to say that after the cost o' settlin' up the will 'd be took out of it, the legacy'd amount to somethin' like four thousand pounds.

"They could hardly believe the story was true, because they were nearly on the road for rent, but sure enough a cheque came to Jimmy for that whole four thousand pounds in a couple o' months after that. Well, you never saw anythin' in your life like the way Jimmy and the wife made fools o' themselves. They began to try to talk grand, an' dressed themselves up like gentry, an' bought a car like Father Fagan's, an' wouldn't talk to the people that knew them all their lives, an' that often gave them a helpin' hand when they wanted it an' they in debt.

"Everyone, of course, was laughin' at them, an' some o' the playboys used to salute Jimmy for fun when they'd meet him on the road, an' Jimmy used to think they were in earnest, an' he used to put up his hand to his hat, the same as Father Fagan 'd do, an' the lads puttin' out their tongues at him behind his back. He wouldn't let Johnnie go to school the same as other gossoons, but paid Master Sweeney ten pound a year to come up an' teach him at the house, an' sure if the Master—God rest him—was alive still an' goin' up to teach Johnnie every day since, he wouldn't be a bit better nor he was when the poor Master gave him up in despair; because Johnnie was as thick as the post of a gate, every day ever, an' he's that yet.

"Well what do you think but when Johnnie was a big, soft lump of a lad of seventeen or eighteen, didn't Jimmy bring him over to old Doctor Dempsey that lived beyond near the chapel o' Kilfane, an' asked him to make a doctor o' the bucko, an' offered the doctor a fee o' so much a year while Johnnie 'd be learnin' the trade. Doctor Dempsey knew be the look o' the lad that he'd never be a doctor as long as there was a bill on a crow, but he was hard up for money at the time, an' didn't he take Johnnie; an' old Jimmy went home as proud as a peacock an' he boastin' an' blowin' out of him to everybody that the next doctor for the district 'd be no other than 'Doctor John Finnegan.' He used to drive over on the car every mornin' to Doctor Dempsey's an' call for him again in the evenin', an' he havin' him dressed up like a young lord or somethin'. An' sure the whole country was laughin' at them more than ever.

"Johnnie was with Doctor Dempsey for a few years, anyway, an' sure he knew as much then as he did the first day; the doctor used to bring him about the country with him on some of his visits, to give him experience, he used to tell Jimmy, but I think 'twas mostly for holdin' the horse he had him.

"One day they went to see a rich old lady that lived beyond in Moylough, an' when Doctor Dempsey was after lookin' at her tongue for awhile, an' feelin' her pulse, says he:

"'You ate oranges, ma'am,' says he.

"'I did then, sure enough, doctor,' says she.

"'Well, don't eat them again,' says he, 'an' you'll be in the best o' health.'

"Johnnie was listenin', an' his mouth opened wide with wonder, an' when they were comin' home says he to Doctor Dempsey: