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diff --git a/78495-0.txt b/78495-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b2f689 --- /dev/null +++ b/78495-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7906 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78495 *** + + + + + COLLECTED WORKS OF + PADRAIC H. PEARSE + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + Sixth Edition + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + +[Illustration: Padraic H. Pearse, From a photograph by Lafayette Ltd. +Dublin] + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + COLLECTED WORKS OF + PADRAIC H. PEARSE + + + _PLAYS_ + _STORIES_ + _POEMS_ + + + THE PHŒNIX PUBLISHING CO., LTD. + DUBLIN CORK BELFAST + 1924 + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + Copyright 1917. Margaret Pearse + + + + + Printed by Maunsel & Roberts Ltd., Dublin + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + CONTENTS + + + INTRODUCTION ix + + PLAYS + + THE SINGER p. 1 + THE KING 45 + THE MASTER 69 + IOSAGAN 101 + + STORIES + + THE MOTHER 125 + THE DEARG-DAOL 137 + THE ROADS 147 + BRIGID OF THE SONGS 169 + THE THIEF 179 + THE KEENING WOMAN 193 + IOSAGAN 227 + THE PRIEST 245 + BARBARA 259 + EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 287 + + POEMS + + LULLABY OF A WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN 311 + A WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN KEENS HER SON 312 + O LITTLE BIRD 314 + WHY DO YE TORTURE ME? 315 + LITTLE LAD OF THE TRICKS 316 + O LOVELY HEAD 318 + LONG TO ME THY COMING 319 + A RANN I MADE 320 + TO A BELOVED CHILD 321 + I HAVE NOT GARNERED GOLD 322 + I AM IRELAND 323 + RENUNCIATION 324 + THE RANN OF THE LITTLE PLAYMATE 326 + A SONG FOR MARY MAGDALENE 327 + CHRIST’S COMING 328 + ON THE STRAND OF HOWTH 329 + THE DORD FEINNE 332 + THE MOTHER 333 + THE FOOL 334 + THE REBEL 337 + CHRISTMAS, 1915 340 + THE WAYFARER 341 + + APPENDIX + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + PUBLISHER’S NOTE + + +This volume of the Collected Works of Padraic Pearse contains his +English Versions of Plays and Poems, many of which have not been +previously published. The Author’s final copies of the manuscripts of +THE SINGER and THE MASTER were burnt in the Publisher’s office at +Easter, 1916, but, fortunately, other copies of these manuscripts, +apparently containing the Author’s corrections, were forthcoming. On +page 35 of THE SINGER, there was one page of manuscript missing which +evidently contained dialogue covering the exit of MacDara and the +entrance of Diarmaid, and it seemed better to leave a blank here than to +have the missing speeches written by another hand. Towards the end of +this play there were some pages of manuscript giving a slightly +different version, and it was difficult to say whether this version was +an earlier or later one than the manuscript which has been followed. +This fragment has been printed as an Appendix. + +The Translations of the Stories from the Irish were made by Mr. Joseph +Campbell. + +In the Author’s Manuscript, the play THE SINGER was dedicated “To My +Mother.” + +The Publisher wishes to thank _An Clodhanna Teoranta_ for the permission +accorded to Mrs. Pearse to publish translations of _Iosagan_, _An +Sagart_, _Bairbre_, _Eogainin na nEan_. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + INTRODUCTION + + +It must be evident to all who read this collection of plays, stories and +poems in the spirit which their author would have wished for, that it +would be utterly wrong to preface them with remarks applying merely to +their literary qualities. + +For they are something more than literature. On the pages as we read +they seem to grow into flesh and blood and spirit. They are a record of +the emotions of a life which was devoured by one idea, the native beauty +of Ireland, its manners, its speech, its people, its history. And we see +how that idea was coupled in the mind with a poignant sense of the +danger that threatened the vitality of all those things. The writer saw +the thought of the Gall spreading like a destructive growth through the +body of Irish nationality. He felt that an imported politeness mocked at +the Gaelic ways; he knew that the Irish language had been extinguished +in the greater part of Ireland by the sense of shame working on poverty, +and that many of the people of the Irish-speaking fringe were also +growing ashamed of the priceless treasure they possessed; he saw that +the lessons of Irish history, which the leaders of the past had taught +by their labours and often sealed with their blood, were being ignored +in the modern political game. + +Earnestness of purpose had always marked him. He threw his heart and +soul and strength into the Gaelic movement; he learned the language so +thoroughly as to be able to use it with ease as his medium of literary +expression, to recapture the old forms of poetry and story-telling, and +to infuse into them the modernity of his own modes of thought. He fought +the battles of Irish with a vigour that we all remember. He founded a +school--against what difficulties!--where education was Irish, and aimed +at the free development of personality in the Irish way. All that was +hard and earnest work, but its earnestness was nothing to the terrible +seriousness that grew upon him when he came to realize the maladies of +the political movement that was supposed to aim at Irish nationhood. The +Volunteers, at whose foundation he had assisted, were at first +negotiated with and then divided by the constitutional Party; the +original founders, who determined to adhere to their principles, were +left high and dry without any constitutional support. The conviction +gained on him that only blood could vivify what tameness and corruption +had weakened, and that he and his comrades were destined to go down the +same dark road by which so many brave and illustrious Irishmen had gone +before them. + +It is in the light of this progress of thought that we must read his +writings. We find the fresh notes of tenderness and sweetness in the +early stories, IOSAGAN, THE PRIEST, BARBARA, and EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS. +The psychology of children, their sorrows and joys, are the theme. The +older people are merely foils to the children; we learn nothing of their +inner story, except in the case of Old Matthias--and even here we have +merely an account of a return to the innocence of second childhood. +Iosagan coming to play with the little ones on the green, while the old +folks are at Sunday Mass, Paraig wearing a surplice and saying _Dominus +Vobiscum_, and _Orate Fratres_, in anticipation of the priestly office, +Brideen holding converse grave and gay with her doll, Eoineen watching +with joy the return of the swallows in spring, and broken-hearted at +their departure in late autumn, all pass before our eyes as dwellers in +a _Tír-ná-n-óg_ in _Iar-Connacht_, where the waves sing a careless song, +and the sun shines only on innocent faces. But in THE MOTHER and other +stories we are on different ground, and are told of “the heavy and the +weary weight” that lies on the hearts of the Western poor. We see the +tragic pride of Gaelic culture that impels old Brigid of the Songs to +walk across Ireland to sing at the Oireachtas in Dublin, only to die of +hunger and exhaustion at the end, the listless face of the old tramp, +who tells how through the Dearg-Daol he had lost his luck, his farm and +his family, and had become “a walking man, and the roads of Connacht +before him, from that day to this”; and even more significant is the +story of the death in prison of Coilin, with its undercurrent of hatred +for the foreign laws. The manner of narration in these stories is brief +and severe; there is scarcely a phrase too many, and even purists would +be hard set to detect an alien note. The most perfect instance seems to +me to be the story of the DEARG-DAOL. + +Of the little collection of poems, _Suantraighe agus Goltraidhe_ (Songs +of Sleep and Sorrow), Mr. MacDonagh rightly said: “One need not ask if +it be worth while having books of such poetry. The production of this is +already a success for the new literature.” The old forms, with their +full-sounding assonances and alliterations are beautifully wrought, and +the modern thoughts, the latter-day enthusiasms and dejections, when +they come, never strike us as intruders. To illustrate their beauty, +quotation in English would not serve my purpose; I will quote from the +Irish original a single verse from the poem, _A Chinn Aluinn_: + + _A ghlóir ionmhuin dob’íseal aoibhinn, + An fíor gó gcualas trém’ shuanaibh thú? + Nó an fíor an t-eólas atá dom’bheo-ghoin? + Mo bhrón, sa tuamba níl fuaim ná guth!_ + +Quite suddenly, in the second last of the collection, the image of +Ireland stands out, bowed beneath the weight of the ages, the mother of +Cuchulainn the valiant, but also of shameful children who betrayed her, +lonely and imperious. And the last poem is an exquisite farewell to the +beauty that is seen and heard and felt, before gathering the pack and +going the stern way whither the service of Ireland pointed. + +The plays, THE SINGER, THE KING, THE MASTER, and the last poems, THE +REBEL, THE FOOL, THE MOTHER, are those of a man in whom meditation on +coming struggle, agony and death have become one with life and art. They +are weighted with the concept of a nation inheriting an original sin of +slavery, for whose salvation the death of one man is a necessity. “One +man can free a nation as one Man redeemed the world,” says MacDara in +THE SINGER. “I will take no pike, I will go into the battle with bare +hands, I will stand up before the Gall as Christ hung naked before men +on the tree!” And the mother says: “My son, MacDara, is the Singer that +has quickened the dead years and all the quiet dust.” And the sharp +anguish of doubt is there too, the ever-recurring thought of the apathy +of the nation, and the vision of those “that cursed me in their hearts +for having brought death into their houses,” of “the wise, sad faces of +the dead, and the keening of women.” But the doubt comes from outside, +it is not born within the soul, and the stern resolution and _saeva +indignatio_ conquer it and persist. The mother is evoked in whose +calendar of saints the martyrs will be inscribed, who will ponder at +night in her heart in religious quiet on “the little names that were +familiar once round her dead hearth.” And through all, as if nature +would have her revenge for the over-strain, breaks in a flash the love +of the old-sought, fugitive beauty of things, the + + “Little rabbits in a field at evening + Lit by a slanting sun, + Or some green hill where shadows drifted by, + Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath sown + And soon would reap; near to the gate of Heaven; + Or children with bare feet upon the sands + Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets + Of little towns in Connacht.” + +Taken in the order I have indicated, the work of Padraic Pearse seems to +me to constitute a mystical book of the love of Ireland. In _Iosagán_ we +have the tender and satisfied love of the fervent novice, delighting in +the old-world, yet ever youthful charm of the Gaelic race, untroubled by +the clouded day of maturity. We find in _An Mátair_, and in some of the +poems and plays the way of purgation by doubt and suffering. In the last +plays and poems we reach unity and illumination, the glow of the soul in +the fire of martyrdom. And all these states of love are interwoven, as +they should be, in the separate stages, though a different one may have +predominance in each. I believe the generations of Irishmen yet to be +born into the national faith will come to the reading of this book as to +a kind of _Itinerarium Mentis ad Deum_, a journey to the realization of +Ireland, past, present and to come, a learning of all the love and +enthusiasm and resolve which that realization implies: + + “Live in these conquering leaves; live all the same; + And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame. + Live here, great heart; and love, and die, and kill; + And bleed and wound; and yield and conquer still.” + +Those who look in these pages for a vision of Pagan Ireland, with its +pre-Christian gods and heroes, will be disappointed. The old divinities +and figures of the sagas are there, and the remnants of the old worship +in the minds of the people are delineated, but everything is +overshadowed by the Christian concept, and the religion that is found +here centres in Christ and Mary. The effect of fifteen centuries of +Christianity is not ignored or despised. The ideas of sacrifice and +atonement, of the blood of martyrs that makes fruitful the seed of the +faith, are to be found all through these writings; nay, they have here +even more than their religious significance, and become vitalizing +factors in the struggle for Irish nationality. The doubts and weaknesses +which are described are not those of people who are inclined to return +to the former beliefs, but of men whose souls are grown faint on account +of the lethargy which they see around them. For years they have preached +and laboured and sung; but the masses remain unmoved. What wonder if +they feel unable to repeat with conviction: “Think you not that I can +ask the Father, and He will give me presently twelve legions of angels?” + +No, the Ireland about which Pearse writes is not the land of the early +heroes, but of people deeply imbued with the Christian idea and will. +And yet we feel that the ancient and mediæval and modern Gaelic currents +meet in him. By his life and death he has become one with Cuchulainn and +Fionn and Oisin, with the early teachers, terrible or gentle, of +Christianity, with Hugh of Dungannon and Owen Roe and all the chieftains +who fought against the growing power of the Sassenach, with Wolfe Tone +and the United Irishmen, with Rossa, O’Leary, and the Fenians. He will +appeal to the imagination of times to come more than any of the rebels +of the last hundred and thirty years, because in him all the tendencies +of Irish thought, culture and nationality were more fully developed. His +name and deeds will be taught by mothers to their children long before +the time when they will be learned in school histories. To older people +he will be a watchword in the national fight, a symbol of the unbroken +continuity and permanence of the Gaelic tradition. And they will think +of him forever in different ways, as a poet who sang the songs of his +country, as a soldier who died for it, as a martyr who bore witness with +his blood to the truth of his faith, as a hero, a second Cuchulainn, who +battled with a divine frenzy to stem the waves of the invading tide. + + P. BROWNE. + +Maynooth, 21st May, 1917. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE SINGER + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + CHARACTERS + + + MACDARA, _the Singer_ + COLM, _his Brother_ + MAIRE NI FHIANNACHTA, _Mother of MacDara_ + SIGHLE + MAOILSHEACHLAINN, _a Schoolmaster_ + CUIMIN EANNA + DIARMAID OF THE BRIDGE + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE SINGER + + + _The wide, clean kitchen of a country house. To the left a door, which + when open, shows a wild country with a background of lonely hills; to + the right a fireplace, beside which another door leads to a room. A + candle burns on the table._ + + _Maire ni Fhiannachta, a sad, grey-haired woman, is spinning wool near + the fire. Sighle, a young girl, crouches in the ingle nook, carding. + She is bare-footed._ + +MAIRE. Mend the fire, Sighle, jewel. + +SIGHLE. Are you cold? + +MAIRE. The feet of me are cold. + + _Sighle rises and mends the fire, putting on more turf; then she sits + down again and resumes her carding._ + +SIGHLE. You had a right to go to bed. + +MAIRE. I couldn’t have slept, child. I had a feeling that something was +drawing near to us. That something or somebody was coming here. All day +yesterday I heard footsteps abroad on the street. + +SIGHLE. ’Twas the dry leaves. The quicken trees in the gap were losing +their leaves in the high wind. + +MAIRE. Maybe so. Did you think that Colm looked anxious in himself last +night when he was going out? + +SIGHLE. I may as well quench that candle. The dawn has whitened. + + _She rises and quenches the candle; then resumes her place._ + +MAIRE. Did you think, daughter, that Colm looked anxious and sorrowful +in himself when he was going out? + +SIGHLE. I did. + +MAIRE. Was he saying anything to you? + +SIGHLE. He was. (_They work silently for a few minutes; then Sighle +stops and speaks._) Maire ni Fhiannachta, I think I ought to tell you +what your son said to me. I have been going over and over it in my mind +all the long hours of the night. It is not right for the two of us to be +sitting at this fire with a secret like that coming between us. Will I +tell you what Colm said to me? + +MAIRE. You may tell me if you like, Sighle girl. + +SIGHLE. He said to me that he was very fond of me. + +MAIRE (_who has stopped spinning_). Yes, daughter? + +SIGHLE. And ... and he asked me if he came safe out of the trouble, +would I marry him. + +MAIRE. What did you say to him? + +SIGHLE. I told him that I could not give him any answer. + +MAIRE. Did he ask you why you could not give him an answer? + +SIGHLE. He did; and I didn’t know what to tell him. + +MAIRE. Can you tell me? + +SIGHLE. Do you remember the day I first came to your house, Maire? + +MAIRE. I do well. + +SIGHLE. Do you remember how lonely I was? + +MAIRE. I do, you creature. Didn’t I cry myself when the priest brought +you in to me? And you caught hold of my skirt and wouldn’t let it go, +but cried till I thought your heart would break. “They’ve put my mammie +in the ground,” you kept saying. “She was asleep, and they put her in +the ground.” + +SIGHLE. And you went down on your knees beside me and put your two arms +around me, and put your cheek against my cheek and said nothing but “God +comfort you; God comfort you.” And when I stopped crying a little, you +brought me over to the fire. Your two sons were at the fire, Maire. Colm +was in the ingle where I am now; MacDara was sitting where you are. +MacDara stooped down and lifted me on to his knee--I was only a weeshy +child. He stroked my hair. Then he began singing a little song to me, a +little song that had sad words in it, but that had joy in the heart of +it, and in the beat of it; and the words and the music grew very +caressing and soothing like, ... like my mother’s hand when it was on my +cheek, or my mother’s kiss on my mouth when I’d be half asleep-- + +MAIRE. Yes, daughter? + +SIGHLE. And it soothed me, and soothed me; and I began to think that I +was at home again, and I fell asleep in MacDara’s arms--oh, the strong, +strong arms of him, with his soft voice soothing me--when I woke up long +after that I was still in his arms with my head on his shoulder. I +opened my eyes and looked up at him. He smiled at me and said, “That was +a good, long sleep.” I ... put up my face to him to be kissed, and he +bent down his head and kissed me. He was so gentle, so gentle. (_Maire +cries silently._) I had no right to tell you all this. God forgive me +for bringing those tears to you, Maire ni Fhiannachta. + +MAIRE. Whist, girl. You had a right to tell me. Go on, jewel ... my boy, +my poor boy! + +SIGHLE. I was only a weeshy child-- + +MAIRE. Eight years you were, no more, the day the priest brought you +into the house. + +SIGHLE. How old was MacDara? + +MAIRE. He was turned fifteen. Fifteen he was on St. MacDara’s day, the +year your mother died. + +SIGHLE. This house was as dear to me nearly as my mother’s house from +that day. You were good to me, Maire ni Fhiannachta, and your two boys +were good to me, but-- + +MAIRE. Yes, daughter? + +SIGHLE. MacDara was like sun and moon to me, like dew and rain to me, +like strength and sweetness to me. I don’t know did he know I was so +fond of him. I think he did, because-- + +MAIRE. He did know, child. + +SIGHLE. How do you know that he knew? Did he tell you? Did _you_ know? + +MAIRE. I am his mother. Don’t I know every fibre of his body? Don’t I +know every thought of his mind? He never told me; but well I knew. + +SIGHLE. He put me into his songs. That is what made me think he knew. My +name was in many a song that he made. Often when I was at the +_fosaidheacht_ he would come up into the green _mám_ to me, with a +little song that he had made. It was happy for us in the green _mám_ +that time. + +MAIRE. It was happy for us all when MacDara was here. + +SIGHLE. The heart in the breast of me nearly broke when they banished +him from us. + +MAIRE. I knew it well. + +SIGHLE. I used to lie awake in the night with his songs going through my +brain, and the music of his voice. I used to call his name up in the +green _mám_. At Mass his face used to come between me and the white +Host. + +MAIRE. We have both been lonely for him. The house has been lonely for +him. + +SIGHLE. Colm never knew I was so fond of MacDara. When MacDara went away +Colm was kinder to me than ever,--but, indeed, he was always kind. + +MAIRE. Colm is a kind boy. + +SIGHLE. It was not till yesterday he told me he was fond of me; I never +thought it, I liked him well, but I never thought there would be word of +marriage between us. I don’t think he would have spoken if it was not +for the trouble coming. He says it will be soon now. + +MAIRE. It will be very soon. + +SIGHLE. I shiver when I think of them all going out to fight. They will +go out laughing: I see them with their cheeks flushed and their red lips +apart. And then they will lie very still on the hillside,--so still and +white, with no red in their cheeks, but maybe a red wound in their white +breasts, or on their white foreheads. Colm’s hair will be dabbled with +blood. + +MAIRE. Whist, daughter. That is no talk for one that was reared in this +house. I am his mother, and I do not grudge him. + +SIGHLE. Forgive me, you have known more sorrow than I, and I think only +of my own sorrow. (_She rises and kisses Maire._) I am proud other times +to think: of so many young men, young men with straight, strong limbs, +and smooth, white flesh, going out into great peril because a voice has +called to them to right the wrong of the people. Oh, I would like to see +the man that has set their hearts on fire with the breath of his voice! +They say that he is very young. They say that he is one of ourselves,--a +mountainy man that speaks our speech, and has known hunger and sorrow. + +MAIRE. The strength and the sweetness he has come, maybe, out of his +sorrow. + +SIGHLE. I heard Diarmaid of the Bridge say that he was at the fair of +Uachtar Ard yesterday. There were hundreds in the streets striving to +see him. + +MAIRE. I wonder would he be coming here into Cois-Fhairrge, or is it +into the Joyce country he would go? I don’t know but it’s his coming I +felt all day yesterday, and all night. I thought, maybe, it might be-- + +SIGHLE. Who did you think it might be? + +MAIRE. I thought it might be my son was coming to me. + +SIGHLE. Is it MacDara? + +MAIRE. Yes, MacDara. + +SIGHLE. Do you think would he come back to be with the boys in the +trouble? + +MAIRE. He would. + +SIGHLE. Would he be left back now? + +MAIRE. Who would let or stay him and he homing like a homing bird? Death +only; God between us and harm! + +SIGHLE. Amen. + +MAIRE. There is Colm in to us. + +SIGHLE (_looking out of the window_). Aye, he’s on the street. + +MAIRE. Poor Colm! + + _The door opens and Colm comes in. He is a lad of twenty._ + +COLM. Did you not go to bed, mother? + +MAIRE. I did not, Colm. I was too uneasy to sleep. Sighle kept me +company all night. + +COLM. It’s a pity of the two of you to be up like this. + +MAIRE. We would be more lonesome in bed than here chatting. Had you many +boys at the drill to-night? + +COLM. We had, then. There were ten and three score. + +MAIRE. When will the trouble be, Colm? + +COLM. It will be to-morrow, or after to-morrow; or maybe sooner. There’s +a man expected from Galway with the word. + +MAIRE. Is it the mountains you’ll take to, or to march to Uachtar Ard or +to Galway? + +COLM. It’s to march we’ll do, I’m thinking. Diarmaid of the Bridge and +Cuimin Eanna and the master will be into us shortly. We have some plans +to make and the master wants to write some orders. + +MAIRE. Is it you will be their captain? + +COLM. It is, unless a better man comes in my place. + +MAIRE. What better man would come? + +COLM. There is talk of the Singer coming. He was at the fair of Uachtar +Ard yesterday. + +MAIRE. Let you put on the kettle, Sighle, and ready the room. The master +will be asking a cup of tea. Will you lie down for an hour, Colm? + +COLM. I will not. They will be in on us now. + +MAIRE. Let you make haste, Sighle. Ready the room. Here, give me the +kettle. + + _Sighle, who has brought a kettle full of water, gives it to Maire, + who hangs it over the fire; Sighle goes into the room._ + +COLM (_after a pause_). Was Sighle talking to you, mother? + +MAIRE. She was, son. + +COLM. What did she say? + +MAIRE. She told me what you said to her last night. You must be patient, +Colm. Don’t press her to give you an answer too soon. She has strange +thoughts in her heart, and strange memories. + +COLM. What memories has she? + +MAIRE. Many a woman has memories. + +COLM. Sighle has no memories but of this house and of her mother. What +is she but a child? + +MAIRE. And what are you but a child? Can’t you have patience? Children +have memories, but the memories sometimes die. Sighle’s memories have +not died yet. + +COLM. This is queer talk. What does she remember? + +MAIRE. Whist, there’s someone on the street. + +COLM (_looking out of the window_). It’s Cuimin and the master. + +MAIRE. Be patient, son. Don’t vex your head. What are you both but +children yet? + + _The door opens and Cuimin Eanna and Maoilsheachlainn come in. Cuimin + is middle aged; Maoilsheachlainn past middle age, turning grey, and a + little stooped._ + +CUIMIN AND MAOILSHEACHLAINN (_entering_). God save all here. + +MAIRE. God save you men. Will you sit? The kettle is on the boil. Give +the master the big chair, Colm. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN (_sitting down near the fire on the chair which Colm +places for him_). You’re early stirring, Maire. + +MAIRE. I didn’t lie down at all, master. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Is it to sit up all night you did? + +MAIRE. It is, then. Sighle kept me company. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. ’Tis a pity of the women of the world. Too good they +are for us, and too full of care. I’m afraid that there was many a woman +on this mountain that sat up last night. Aye, and many a woman in +Ireland. ’Tis women that keep all the great vigils. + +MAIRE (_wetting the tea_). Why wouldn’t we sit up to have a cup of tea +ready for you? Won’t you go west into the room? + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. We’d as lief drink it here beside the fire. + +MAIRE. Sighle is readying the room. You’ll want the table to write on, +maybe. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. We’ll go west so. + +MAIRE. Wait till Sighle has the table laid. The tea will be drawn in a +minute. + +COLM (_to Maoilsheachlainn_). Was there any word of the messenger at the +forge, master? + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. There was not. + +CUIMIN. When we were coming up the boreen I saw a man breasting Cnoc an +Teachta that I thought might be him. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. I don’t think it was him. He was walking slowly, and +sure the messenger that brings that great story will come on the wings +of the wind. + +COLM. Perhaps it was one of the boys you saw going home from the drill. + +CUIMIN. No, it was a stranger. He looked like a mountainy man that would +be coming from a distance. He might be someone that was at the fair of +Uachtar Ard yesterday, and that stayed the evening after selling. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Aye, there did a lot stay, I’m told, talking about the +word that’s expected. + +CUIMIN. The Singer was there, I believe. Diarmaid of the Bridge said +that he spoke to them all at the fair, and that there did a lot stay in +the town after the fair thinking he’d speak to them again. They say he +has the talk of an angel. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. What sort is he to look at? + +CUIMIN. A poor man of the mountains. Young they say he is, and pale like +a man that lived in cities, but with the dress and the speech of a +mountainy man; shy in himself and very silent, till he stands up to talk +to the people. And then he has the voice of a silver trumpet, and words +so beautiful that they make the people cry. And there is terrible anger +in him, for all that he is shrinking and gentle. Diarmaid said that in +the Joyce country they think it is some great hero that has come back +again to lead the people against the Gall, or maybe an angel, or the Son +of Mary Himself that has come down on the earth. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN (_looking towards the door_). There’s a footstep +abroad. + +MAIRE (_who has been sitting very straight in her chair listening +intently_). That is my son’s step. + +COLM. Sure, amn’t I here, mother? + +MAIRE. That is MacDara’s step. + + _All start and look first towards Maire, then towards the door, the + latch of which has been touched._ + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. I wish it was MacDara, Maire. ’Tis maybe Diarmaid or +the mountainy man we saw on the road. + +MAIRE. It is not Diarmaid. It is MacDara. + + _The door opens slowly and MacDara, a young man of perhaps + twenty-five, dressed like a man of the mountains, stands on the + threshold._ + +MACDARA. God save all here. + +ALL. And you, likewise. + +MAIRE (_who has risen and is stretching out her hands_). I felt you +coming to me, little son! + +MACDARA (_springing to her and folding her in his arms_). Little mother! +little mother! + + _While they still embrace Sighle re-enters from the room and stands + still on the threshold looking at MacDara._ + +MAIRE (_raising her head_). Along all the quiet roads and across all the +rough mountains, and through all the crowded towns, I felt you drawing +near to me. + +MACDARA. Oh, the long years, the long years! + +MAIRE. I am crying for pride at the sight of you. Neighbours, +neighbours, this is MacDara, the first child that I bore to my husband. + +MACDARA (_kissing Colm_). My little brother! (_To Cuimin_), Cuimin +Eanna! (_To Maoilsheachlainn_), Master! (_They shake hands._) + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Welcome home. + +CUIMIN. Welcome home. + +MACDARA (_looking round_). Where is.... (_He sees Sighle in the +doorway._) Sighle! (_He approaches her and takes her hand._) Little, +little Sighle!... I.... Mother, sometimes when I was in the middle of +great crowds, I have seen this fireplace, and you standing with your +hands stretched out to me as you stood a minute ago, and Sighle in the +doorway of the room; and my heart has cried out to you. + +MAIRE. I used to hear the crying of your heart. Often and often here by +the fireside or abroad on the street I would stand and say, “MacDara is +crying out to me now. The heart in him is yearning.” And this while back +I felt you draw near, draw near, step by step. Last night I felt you +very near to me. Do you remember me saying, Sighle, that I felt someone +coming, and that I thought maybe it might be MacDara? + +SIGHLE. You did. + +MAIRE. I knew that something glorious was coming to the mountain with +to-day’s dawn. Red dawns and white dawns I have seen on the hills, but +none like this dawn. Come in, jewel, and sit down awhile in the room. +Sighle has the table laid. The tea is drawn. Bring in the griddle-cakes, +Sighle. Come in, master. Come in, Cuimin. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. No, Maire, we’ll sit here a while. You and the +children will like to be by yourselves. Go in, west, children. Cuimin +and I have plans to make. We’re expecting Diarmaid of the Bridge in. + +MAIRE. We don’t grudge you a share in our joy, master. Nor you, Cuimin. + +CUIMIN. No, go on in, Maire. We’ll go west after you. We want to talk +here. + +MAIRE. Well, come in when you have your talk out. There’s enough tea on +the pot for everybody. In with you, children. + + _MacDara, Colm, Sighle and Maire go into the room, Sighle carrying the + griddle-cakes and Maire the tea._ + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. This is great news, MacDara to be back. + +CUIMIN. Do you think will he be with us? + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Is it a boy with that gesture of the head, that proud, +laughing gesture, to be a coward or a stag? You don’t know the heart of +this boy, Cuimin; the love that’s in it, and the strength. You don’t +know the mind he has, so gracious, so full of wisdom. I taught him when +he was only a little ladeen. ’Tis a pity that he had ever to go away +from us. And yet, I think, his exile has made him a better man. His soul +must be full of great remembrances. + +CUIMIN. I never knew rightly why he was banished. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Songs he was making that were setting the people’s +hearts on fire. + +CUIMIN. Aye, I often heard his songs. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. They were full of terrible love for the people and of +great anger against the Gall. Some said there was irreligion in them and +blasphemy against God. But I never saw it, and I don’t believe it. There +are some would have us believe that God is on the side of the Gall. +Well, word came down from Galway or from Dublin that he would be put in +prison, and maybe excommunicated if he did not go away. He was only a +gossoon of eighteen, or maybe twenty. The priest counselled him to go, +and not to bring sorrow on his mother’s house. He went away one evening +without taking farewell or leave of anyone. + +CUIMIN. Where has he been since, I don’t know? + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. In great cities, I’d say, and in lonely places. He has +the face of a scholar, or of a priest, or of a clerk, on him. He must +have read a lot, and thought a lot, and made a lot of songs. + +CUIMIN. I don’t know is he as strong a boy as Colm. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. He’s not as robust in himself as Colm is, but there +was great strength in the grip of his hand. I’d say that he’d wield a +camán or a pike with any boy on the mountain. + +CUIMIN. He’ll be a great backing to us if he is with us. The people love +him on account of the songs he used to make. There’s not a man that +won’t do his bidding. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. That’s so. And his counsel will be useful to us. He’ll +make better plans than you or I, Cuimin. + +CUIMIN. I wonder what’s keeping Diarmaid. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Some news that was at the forge or at the priest’s +house, maybe. He went east the road to see if there was sign of a word +from Galway. + +CUIMIN. I’ll be uneasy till he comes. (_He gets up and walks to the +window and looks out; Maoilsheachlainn remains deep in thought by the +fire. Cuimin returns from the window and continues._) Is it to march +we’ll do, or to fight here in the hills? + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Out Maam Gap we’ll go and meet the boys from the Joyce +country. We’ll leave some to guard the Gap and some at Leenane. We’ll +march the road between the lakes, through Maam and Cornamona and Clonbur +to Cong. Then we’ll have friends on our left at Ballinrobe and on our +right at Tuam. What is there to stop us but the few men the Gall have in +Clifden? + +CUIMIN. And if they march against us, we can destroy them from the +mountains. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. We can. It’s into a trap they’ll walk. + + _MacDara appears in the doorway of the room with a cup of tea and some + griddle-cake in his hand._ + +MACDARA. I’ve brought you out a cup of tea, master. I thought it long +you were sitting here. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN (_taking it_). God bless you, MacDara. + +MACDARA. Go west, Cuimin. There’s a place at the table for you now. + +CUIMIN (_rising and going in_). I may as well. Give me a call, boy, when +Diarmaid comes. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. This is a great day, MacDara. + +MACDARA. It is a great day and a glad day, and yet it is a sorrowful +day. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. How can the day of your home-coming be sorrowful? + +MACDARA. Has not every great joy a great sorrow at its core? Does not +the joy of home-coming enclose the pain of departing? I have a strange +feeling, master, I have only finished a long journey, and I feel as if I +were about to take another long journey. I meant this to be a +home-coming, but it seems only like a meeting on the way.... When my +mother stood up to meet me with her arms stretched out to me, I thought +of Mary meeting her Son on the Dolorous Way. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. That was a queer thought. What was it that drew you +home? + +MACDARA. Some secret thing that I have no name for. Some feeling that I +must see my mother, and Colm, and Sighle, again. A feeling that I must +face some great adventure with their kisses on my lips. I seemed to see +myself brought to die before a great crowd that stood cold and silent; +and there were some that cursed me in their hearts for having brought +death into their houses. Sad dead faces seemed to reproach me. Oh, the +wise, sad faces of the dead--and the keening of women rang in my ears. +But I felt that the kisses of those three, warm on my mouth, would be as +wine in my blood, strengthening me to bear what men said, and to die +with only love and pity in my heart, and no bitterness. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. It was strange that you should see yourself like that. + +MACDARA. It was foolish. One has strange, lonesome thoughts when one is +in the middle of crowds. But I am glad of that thought, for it drove me +home. I felt so lonely away from here.... My mother’s hair is greyer +than it was. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Aye, she has been ageing. She has had great sorrows: +your father dead and you banished. Colm is grown a fine, strapping boy. + +MACDARA. He is. There is some shyness between Colm and me. We have not +spoken yet as we used to. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. When boys are brought up together and then parted for +a long time there is often shyness between them when they meet again.... +Do you find Sighle changed? + +MACDARA. No; and, yet--yes. Master, she is very beautiful. I did not +know a woman could be so beautiful. I thought that all beauty was in the +heart, that beauty was a secret thing that could be seen only with the +eyes of reverie, or in a dream of some unborn splendour. I had schooled +myself to think physical beauty an unholy thing. I tried to keep my +heart virginal; and sometimes in the street of a city when I have +stopped to look at the white limbs of some beautiful child, and have +felt the pain that the sight of great beauty brings, I have wished that +I could blind my eyes so that I might shut out the sight of everything +that tempted me. At times I have rebelled against that, and have cried +aloud that God would not have filled the world with beauty, even to the +making drunk of the sight, if beauty were not of heaven. But, then, +again, I have said, “This is the subtlest form of temptation; this is to +give to one’s own desire the sanction of God’s will.” And I have +hardened my heart and kept myself cold and chaste as the top of a high +mountain. But now I think I was wrong, for beauty like Sighle’s must be +holy. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Surely a good and comely girl is holy. You question +yourself too much, MacDara. You brood too much. Do you remember when you +were a gossoon, how you cried over the wild duck whose wing you broke by +accident with a stone, and made a song about the crane whose nest you +found ravished, and about the red robin you found perished on the +doorstep? And how the priest laughed because you told him in confession +that you had stolen drowned lilies from the river? + +MACDARA (_laughing_). Aye, it was at a station in Diarmaid of the +Bridge’s, and when the priest laughed my face got red, and everyone +looked at us, and I got up and ran out of the house. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN (_laughing_). I remember it well. We thought it was +what you told him you were in love with his house-keeper. + +MACDARA. It’s little but I was, too. She used to give me apples out of +the priest’s apple-garden. Little brown russet apples, the sweetest I +ever tasted. I used to think that the apples of the Hesperides that the +Children of Tuireann went to quest must have been like them. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. It’s a wonder but you made a poem about them. + +MACDARA. I did. I made a poem in Deibhidhe of twenty quatrains. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Did you make many songs while you were away? + +MACDARA. When I went away first my heart was as if dead and dumb and I +could not make any songs. After a little while, when I was going through +the sweet, green country, and I used to come to little towns where I’d +see children playing, my heart seemed to open again like hard ground +that would be watered with rain. The first song that I made was about +the children that I saw playing in the street of Kilconnell. The next +song that I made was about an old dark man that I met on the causeway of +Aughrim. I made a glad, proud song when I saw the broad Shannon flow +under the bridge of Athlone. I made many a song after that before I +reached Dublin. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. How did it fare with you in Dublin? + +MACDARA. I went to a bookseller and gave him the book of my songs to +print. He said that he dared not print them; that the Gall would put him +in prison and break up his printing-press. I was hungry and I wandered +through the streets. Then a man who saw me read an Irish poster on the +wall spoke to me and asked me where I came from. I told him my story. In +a few days he came to me and said that he had found work for me to teach +Irish and Latin and Greek in a school. I went to the school and taught +in it for a year. I wrote a few poems and they were printed in a paper. +One day the Brother who was over the school came to me and asked me was +it I that had written those poems. I said it was. He told me then that I +could not teach in the school any longer. So I went away. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. What happened to you after that? + +MACDARA. I wandered in the streets until I saw a notice that a teacher +was wanted to teach a boy. I went to the house and a lady engaged me to +teach her little son for ten shillings a week. Two years I spent at +that. The boy was a winsome child, and he grew into my heart. I thought +it a wonderful thing to have the moulding of a mind, of a life, in my +hands. Do you ever think that, you who are a schoolmaster? + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. It’s not much time I get for thinking. + +MACDARA. I have done nothing all my life but think: think and make +poems. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. If the thoughts and the poems are good, that is a good +life’s work. + +MACDARA. Aye, they say that to be busy with the things of the spirit is +better than to be busy with the things of the body. But I am not sure, +master. Can the Vision Beautiful alone content a man? I think true man +is divine in this, that, like God, he must needs create, he must needs +do. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Is not a poet a maker? + +MACDARA. No, he is only a voice that cries out, a sigh that trembles +into rest. The true teacher must suffer and do. He must break bread to +the people: he must go into Gethsemane and toil up the steep of +Golgotha.... Sometimes I think that to be a woman and to serve and +suffer as women do is to be the highest thing. Perhaps that is why I +felt it proud and wondrous to be a teacher, for a teacher does that. I +gave to the little lad I taught the very flesh and blood and breath that +were my life. I fed him on the milk of my kindness; I breathed into him +my spirit. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Did he repay you for that great service? + +MACDARA. Can any child repay its mother? Master, your trade is the most +sorrowful of all trades. You are like a poor mother who spends herself +in nursing children who go away and never come back to her. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Was your little pupil untrue to you? + +MACDARA. Nay; he was so true to me that his mother grew jealous of me. A +good mother and a good teacher are always jealous of each other. That is +why a teacher’s trade is the most sorrowful of all trades. If he is a +bad teacher his pupil _wanders_ away from him. If he is a good teacher +his pupil’s folk grow jealous of him. My little pupil’s mother bade him +choose between her and me. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Which did he choose? + +MACDARA. He chose his mother. How could I blame him? + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. What did you do? + +MACDARA. I shouldered my bundle and took to the roads. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. How did it fare with you? + +MACDARA. It fares ill with one who is so poor that he has no longer even +his dreams. I was the poorest _shuiler_ on the roads of Ireland, for I +had no single illusion left to me. I could neither pray when I came to a +holy well nor drink in a public-house when I had got a little money. One +seemed to me as foolish as the other. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Did you make no songs in those days? + +MACDARA. I made one so bitter that when I recited it at a wake they +thought I was some wandering, wicked spirit, and they put me out of the +house. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Did you not pray at all? + +MACDARA. Once, as I knelt by the cross of Kilgobbin, it became clear to +me, with an awful clearness, that there was no God. Why pray after that? +I burst into a fit of laughter at the folly of men in thinking that +there is a God. I felt inclined to run through the villages and cry +aloud, “People, it is all a mistake; there is no God.” + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. MacDara, this grieves me. + +MACDARA. Then I said, “why take away their illusion? If they find out +that there is no God, their hearts will be as lonely as mine.” So I +walked the roads with my secret. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. MacDara, I am sorry for this. You must pray, you must +pray. You will find God again. He has only hidden His face from you. + +MACDARA. No, He has revealed His Face to me. His Face is terrible and +sweet, Maoilsheachlainn. I know It well now. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Then you found Him again? + +MACDARA. His Name is suffering. His Name is loneliness. His Name is +abjection. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. I do not rightly understand you, and yet I think you +are saying something that is true. + +MACDARA. I have lived with the homeless and with the breadless. Oh, +Maoilsheachlainn, the poor, the poor! I have seen such sad childings, +such bare marriage feasts, such candleless wakes! In the pleasant +country places I have seen them, but oftener in the dark, unquiet +streets of the city. My heart has been heavy with the sorrow of mothers, +my eyes have been wet with the tears of children. The people, +Maoilsheachlainn, the dumb, suffering people: reviled and outcast, yet +pure and splendid and faithful. In them I saw, or seemed to see again, +the Face of God. Ah, it is a tear-stained face, blood-stained, defiled +with ordure, but it is the Holy Face! + + * * * * * + + _There is a page of MS. missing here, which evidently covered the exit + to the room of MacDara and the entrance of Diarmaid._ + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. What news have you with you? + +DIARMAID. The Gall have marched from Clifden. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Is it into the hills? + +DIARMAID. By Letterfrack they have come, and the Pass of Kylemore, and +through Glen Inagh. + +COLM. And no word from Galway yet? + +DIARMAID. No word, nor sign of a word. + +COLM. They told us to wait for the word. We’ve waited too long. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. The messenger may have been caught. Perhaps the Gall +are marching from Galway too. + +COLM. We’d best strike ourselves, so. + +CUIMIN. Is it to strike before the word is given? + +COLM. Is it to die like rats you’d have us because the word is not +given? + +CUIMIN. Our plans are not finished; our orders are not here. + +COLM. Our plans will never be finished. Our orders may never be here. + +CUIMIN. We’ve no one to lead us. + +COLM. Didn’t you elect me your captain? + +CUIMIN. We did: but not to bid us rise out when the whole country is +quiet. We were to get the word from the men that are over the people. +They’ll speak when the time comes. + +COLM. They should have spoken before the Gall marched. + +CUIMIN. What call have you to say what they should or what they should +not have done? Am I speaking lie or truth, men? Are we to rise out +before the word comes? I say we must wait for the word. What do you say, +Diarmaid, you that was our messenger to Galway? + +DIARMAID. I like the way Colm has spoken, and we may live to say that he +spoke wisely as well as bravely; but I’m slow to give my voice to send +out the boys of this mountain--our poor little handful--to stand with +their poor pikes against the big guns of the Gall. If we had news that +they were rising in the other countrysides; but we’ve got no news. + +CUIMIN. What do you say, master? You’re wiser than any of us. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. I say to Colm that a greater one than he or I may give +us the word before the day is old. Let you have patience, Colm-- + +COLM. My mother told me to have patience this morning, when MacDara’s +step was on the street. Patience, and I after waiting seven years before +I spoke, and then to speak too late! + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. What are you saying at all? + +COLM. I am saying this, master, that I’m going out the road to meet the +Gall, if only five men of the mountain follow me. + + _Sighle has appeared in the doorway and stands terror-stricken._ + +CUIMIN. You will not, Colm. + +COLM. I will. + +DIARMAID. This is throwing away men’s lives. + +COLM. Men’s lives get very precious to them when they have bought out +their land. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Listen to me, Colm-- + + _Colm goes out angrily, and the others follow him, trying to restrain + him. Sighle comes to the fire, where she kneels._ + +SIGHLE (_as in a reverie_). “They will go out laughing,” I said, but +Colm has gone out with anger in his heart. And he was so kind.... Love +is a terrible thing. There is no pain so great as the pain of love.... I +wish MacDara and I were children in the green _mám_ and that we did not +know that we loved each other.... Colm will lie dead on the road to Glen +Inagh, and MacDara will go out to die.... There is nothing in the world +but love and death. _MacDara comes out of the room._ + +MACDARA (_in a low voice_). She has dropped asleep, Sighle. + +SIGHLE. She watched long, MacDara. We all watched long. + +MACDARA. Every long watch ends. Every traveller comes home. + +SIGHLE. Sometimes when people watch it is death that comes. + +MACDARA. Could there be a royaller coming, Sighle?... Once I wanted +life. You and I to be together in one place always: that is what I +wanted. But now I see that we shall be together for a little time only; +that I have to do a hard, sweet thing, and that I must do it alone. And +because I love you I would not have it different.... I wanted to have +your kiss on my lips, Sighle, as well as my mother’s and Colm’s. But I +will deny myself that. (_Sighle is crying._) Don’t cry, child. Stay near +my mother while she lives--it may be for a little while of years. You +poor women suffer so much pain, so much sorrow, and yet you do not die +until long after your strong, young sons and lovers have died. + + _Maire’s voice is heard from the room, crying_: MacDara! + +MACDARA. She is calling me. + + _He goes into the room; Sighle cries on her knees by the fire. After a + little while voices are heard outside, the latch is lifted, and + Maoilsheachlainn comes in._ + +SIGHLE. Is he gone, master? + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Gone out the road with ten or fifteen of the young +lads. Is MacDara within still? + +SIGHLE. He was here in the kitchen a while. His mother called him and he +went back to her. + + _Maoilsheachlainn goes over and sits down near the fire._ + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. I think, maybe, that Colm did what was right. We are +too old to be at the head of work like this. Was MacDara talking to you +about the trouble? + +SIGHLE. He said that he would have to do a hard, sweet thing, and that +he would have to do it alone. + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. I’m sorry but I called him before Colm went out. + + _A murmur is heard as of a crowd of men talking as they come up the + hill._ + +SIGHLE. What is that noise like voices? + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. It is the boys coming up the hillside. There was a +great crowd gathering below at the cross. + + _The voices swell loud outside the door. Cuimin Eanna, Diarmaid, and + some others come in._ + +DIARMAID. The men say we did wrong to let Colm go out with that little +handful. They say we should all have marched. + +CUIMIN. And I say Colm was wrong to go before he got his orders. Are we +all to go out and get shot down because one man is hotheaded? Where is +the plan that was to come from Galway? + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Men, I’m blaming myself for not saying the thing I’m +going to say before we let Colm go. We talk about getting word from +Galway. What would you say, neighbours, if the man that will give the +word is under the roof of this house. + +CUIMIN. Who is it you mean? + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN (_going to the door of the room and throwing it open_). +Let you rise out, MacDara, and reveal yourself to the men that are +waiting for your word. + +ONE OF THE NEWCOMERS. Has MacDara come home? + + _MacDara comes out of the room: Maire ni Fhiannachta stands behind him + in the doorway._ + +DIARMAID (_starting up from where he has been sitting_). That is the man +that stood among the people in the fair of Uachtar Ard! (_He goes up to +MacDara and kisses his hand._) I could not get near you yesterday, +MacDara, with the crowds that were round you. What was on me that didn’t +know you? Sure, I had a right to know that sad, proud head. Maire ni +Fhiannachta, men and women yet unborn will bless the pains of your first +childing. + + _Maire ni Fhiannachta comes forward slowly and takes her son’s hand + and kisses it._ + +MAIRE (_in a low voice_). Soft hand that played at my breast, strong +hand that will fall heavy on the Gall, brave hand that will break the +yoke! Men of this mountain, my son MacDara is the Singer that has +quickened the dead years and all the quiet dust! Let the horsemen that +sleep in Aileach rise up and follow him into the war! Weave your +winding-sheets, women, for there will be many a noble corpse to be waked +before the new moon! + + _Each comes forward and kisses his hand._ + +MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Let you speak, MacDara, and tell us is it time. + +MACDARA. Where is Colm? + +DIARMAID. Gone out the road to fight the Gall, himself and fifteen. + +MACDARA. Has not Colm spoken by his deed already? + +CUIMIN. You are our leader. + +MACDARA. Your leader is the man that spoke first. Give me a pike and I +will follow Colm. Why did you let him go out with fifteen men only? You +are fourscore on the mountain. + +DIARMAID. We thought it a foolish thing for fourscore to go into battle +against four thousand, or, maybe, forty thousand. + +MACDARA. And so it is a foolish thing. Do you want us to be wise? + +CUIMIN. This is strange talk. + +MACDARA. I will talk to you more strangely yet. It is for your own +souls’ sakes I would have had the fourscore go, and not for Colm’s sake, +or for the battle’s sake, for the battle is won whether you go or not. + + _A cry is heard outside. One rushes in terror-stricken._ + +THE NEWCOMER. Young Colm has fallen at the Glen foot. + +MACDARA. The fifteen were too many. Old men, you did not do your work +well enough. You should have kept all back but one. One man can free a +people as one Man redeemed the world. I will take no pike, I will go +into the battle with bare hands. I will stand up before the Gall as +Christ hung naked before men on the tree! + + _He moves through them, pulling off his clothes as he goes. As he + reaches the threshold a great shout goes up from the people. He passes + out and the shout dies slowly away. The other men follow him slowly. + Maire ni Fhiannachta sits down at the fire, where Sighle still + crouches._ + + + THE CURTAIN DESCENDS. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE KING + + + A MORALITY + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + CHARACTERS + + + GIOLLA NA NAOMH (“_the Servant of the Saints_”), _a Little Boy_ + BOYS + AN ABBOT + MONKS + A KING + HEROES + GILLIES + WOMEN + + +_PLACE_--_An ancient monastery_ + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE KING + + + _A green before the monastery. The voices of monks are heard chanting. + Through the chanting breaks the sound of a trumpet. A little boy runs + out from the monastery and stands on the green looking in the + direction whence the trumpet has spoken._ + +THE BOY. Conall, Diarmaid, Giolla na Naomh! + + _The voices of other boys answer him._ + +FIRST BOY. There is a host marching from the North. + +SECOND BOY. Where is it? + +FIRST BOY. See it beneath you in the glen. + +THIRD BOY. It is the King’s host. + +FOURTH BOY. The King is going to battle. + + _The trumpet speaks again, nearer. The boys go upon the rampart of the + monastery. The murmur of a marching host is heard._ + +FIRST BOY. I see the horses and the riders. + +SECOND BOY. I see the swords and the spears. + +FOURTH BOY. I see the standards and the banners. + +THIRD BOY. I see the King’s banner. + +FOURTH BOY. I see the King! + +FIRST BOY. Which of them is the King? + +FOURTH BOY. The tall comely man on the black horse. + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. Let us salute the King. + +THE BOYS (_with the voice of one_). Take victory in battle and slaying, +O King! + + _The voices of warriors are heard acclaiming the King as the host + marches past with din of weapons and music of trumpet and pipes. + Silence succeeds._ + +FIRST BOY. I would like to be a King. + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. Why? + +FIRST BOY. The King has gold and silver. + +SECOND BOY. He has noble jewels in his jewel-house. + +THIRD BOY. He has slender steeds and gallant hounds. + +FOURTH BOY. He has a keen-edged, gold-hilted sword and a mighty-shafted, +blue-headed spear and a glorious red-emblazoned shield. I saw him once +in my father’s house. + +FIRST BOY. What was he like? + +FOURTH BOY. He was tall and noble. He was strong and broad-shouldered. +He had long fair hair. He had a comely proud face. He had two piercing +grey eyes. A white vest of satin next his skin. A very beautiful red +tunic, with a white hood, upon his body. A royal mantle of purple about +him. Seven colours upon him, between vest and tunic and hood and mantle. +A silver brooch upon his breast. A kingly diadem upon his head, and the +colour of gold upon it. Two great wings rising above his head, as white +as the two wings of a sea-gull and as broad as the two wings of an +eagle. He was a gallant man. + +SECOND BOY. And what was the look of his face? + +THIRD BOY. Did he look angry, stern? + +FOURTH BOY. He did, at times. + +FIRST BOY. Had he a laughing look? + +FOURTH BOY. He laughed only once. + +SECOND BOY. How did he look mostly? Stern or laughing? + +FOURTH BOY. He looked sorrowful. When he was talking to the kings and +the heroes he had an angry and a laughing look every second while, but +when he was silent he was sorrowful. + +FIRST BOY. What sorrow can he have? + +FOURTH BOY. I do not know. The thousands he has slain, perhaps. + +SECOND BOY. The churches he has plundered. + +THIRD BOY. The battles he has lost. + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. Alas, the poor King! + +SECOND BOY. You would not like to be a King, Giolla na Naomh? + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. I would not. I would rather be a monk that I might pray +for the King. + +FOURTH BOY. I may have the kingship of this country when I am a man, for +my father is of the royal blood. + +SECOND BOY. And my father is of the royal blood, too. + +THIRD BOY. Aye, and mine. + +FOURTH BOY. I will not let the kingdom go with either of you. It is +mine! + +SECOND BOY. It is not, but mine. + +THIRD BOY. It matters not whose it is, for _I_ will have it! + +SECOND BOY. No, nor anyone of your house! + +FOURTH BOY (_seizing a switch of sally and brandishing it_). I will ply +the venom of my sword upon you! I will defend my kingdom against my +enemies! Giolla na Naomh, pray for the King! + + _A bell sounds from the monastery._ + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. The bell is ringing. + + _The people of the monastery come upon the green in ones and twos, the + Abbot last. The boys gather a little apart. Distant sounds of battle + are heard._ + +THE ABBOT. My children, the King is giving battle to his foes. + +FIRST MONK. This King has lost every battle into which he has gone up to +this. + +THE ABBOT. In a vision that I saw last night as I knelt before my God it +was revealed to me that the battle will be broken on the King again. + +SECOND MONK. My grief! + +THIRD MONK. My grief! + +FIRST MONK. Tell us, Father, the cause of these unnumbered defeats. + +THE ABBOT. Do you think that an offering will be accepted from polluted +hands? This King has shed the blood of the innocent. He has made spoils +and forays. He has oppressed the poor. He has forsaken the friendship of +God and made friends with evil-doers. + +FIRST MONK. That is true. Yet it is a good fight that the King fights +now, for he gives battle for his people. + +THE ABBOT. It is an angel that should be sent to pour out the wine and +to break the bread of this sacrifice. Not by an unholy King should the +noble wine that is in the veins of good heroes be spilt; not at the +behest of a guilty king should fair bodies be mangled. I say to you that +the offering will not be accepted. + +FIRST MONK. And are all guilty of the sins of the King? If the King is +defeated it’s grief will be for all. Why must all suffer for the sins of +the King? On the King the eric! + +THE ABBOT. The nation is guilty of the sins of its princes. I say to you +that this nation shall not be freed until it chooses for itself a +righteous King. + +SECOND MONK. Where shall a righteous King be found? + +THE ABBOT. I do not know, unless he be found among these little boys. + + _The boys have drawn near and are gathered about the Abbot._ + +FIRST MONK. And shall the people be in bondage until these little lads +are fit for battle? It is not the King’s case I pity, but the case of +the people. I heard women mourning last night. Shall women be mourning +in this land till doom? + +THIRD MONK. As I went out from the monastery yesterday there was a dead +man on the verge of the wood. Battle is terrible. + +SECOND MONK. No, battle is glorious! While we were singing our None but +now, Father, I heard, through the psalmody of the brethren, the voice of +a trumpet. My heart leaped, and I would fain have risen from the place +where I was and gone after that gallant music. I should not have cared +though it were to my death I went. + +THE ABBOT. That is the voice of a young man. The old wait for death, but +the young go to meet it. If into this quiet place, where monks chant and +children play, there were to come from yonder battlefield a bloodstained +man, calling upon all to follow him into the battle-press, there is none +here that would not rise and follow him, but I myself and the old +brother that rings our bell. There is none of you, young brothers, no, +nor any of these little lads, that would not rise from me and go into +the battle. That music of the fighters makes drunk the hearts of young +men. + +SECOND MONK. It is good for young men to be made drunk. + +FIRST MONK. Brother, you speak wickedness. + +THE ABBOT. There is a heady ale which all young men should drink, for he +who has not been made drunk with it has not lived. It is with that ale +that God makes drunk the hearts of the saints. I would not forbid you +your intoxication, O young men! + +FIRST MONK. This is not plain, Father. + +THE ABBOT. Do you think if that terrible, beautiful voice for which +young men strain their ears were to speak from yon place where the +fighters are, and the horses, and the music, that I would stay you, did +ye rise to obey it? Do you think I would grudge any of you? Do you think +I would grudge the dearest of these little boys, to death calling with +that terrible, beautiful voice? I would let you all go, though I and the +old brother should be very lonely here. + +SECOND BOY. Giolla na Naomh would not go, Father. + +THE ABBOT. Why do you say that? + +SECOND BOY. He said that he would rather be a monk. + +THE ABBOT. Would you not go into the battle, Giolla na Naomh? + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. I would. I would go as a gilly to the King, that I +might serve him when all would forsake him. + +THE ABBOT. But it is to the saints you are gilly, Giolla na Naomh, and +not to the King. + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. It were not much for the poor King to have one little +gilly that would not forsake him when the battle would be broken on him +and all forsaking him. + +THE ABBOT. This child is right. While we think of glory he thinks of +service. + + _An outcry as of grief and dismay is heard from the battlefield._ + +FIRST MONK. I fear me that the King is beaten! + +THE ABBOT. Go upon the rampart and tell us what you see. + +FIRST MONK (_having gone upon the rampart_). A man comes towards us in +flight. + +SECOND MONK. What manner of man is he? + +FIRST MONK. A bloodstained man, all spent, his feet staggering and +stumbling under him. + +SECOND MONK. Is he a man of the King’s people? + +FIRST MONK. He is. _A soldier comes upon the green all spent._ + +THE SOLDIER. The King is beaten! + +THE MONKS. My sorrow, my sorrow! + +THE SOLDIER. The King is beaten, I say to you! O ye of the books and the +bells, small was your help to us in the hard battle! The King is beaten! + +THE ABBOT. Where is the King? + +THE SOLDIER. He is flying. + +THE ABBOT. Give us the description of the battle. + +THE SOLDIER. I cannot speak. Let a drink be given to me. + +THE ABBOT. Let a drink be given to this man. + + _The little boy who is called Giolla na Naomh gives him a drink of + water._ + +THE ABBOT. Speak to us now and give us the description of the battle. + +THE SOLDIER. Each man of us was a fighter of ten. The King was a fighter +of a hundred. But what availed us our valour? We were beaten and we +fled. Hundreds lie sole to sole on the lea. + +THE MONKS. My sorrow! My sorrow! _A din grows._ + +SECOND MONK. Who comes? + +FIRST MONK. The King! + + _Riders and gillies come upon the green pell-mell, the King in their + midst. The King goes upon his knees before the Abbot, and throws his + sword upon the ground._ + +THE KING. Give me your curse, O man of God, and let me go to my death! I +am beaten. My people are beaten. Ten battles have I fought against my +foes, and every battle of them has been broken on me. It is I who have +brought God’s wrath upon this land. Ask your God not to wreak his anger +on my people henceforth, but to wreak it on me. Have pity on my people, +O man of God! + +THE ABBOT. God will have pity on them. + +THE KING. God has forsaken me. + +THE ABBOT. You have forsaken God. + +THE KING. God has forsaken my people. + +THE ABBOT. He has not, neither will He. He will save this nation if it +choose a righteous King. + +THE KING. Give it then a righteous King. Give it one of your monks or +one of these little lads to be its King. The battle on your protection, +O man of God! + +THE ABBOT. Not so, but on the protection of the sword of a righteous +King. Speak to me, my children, and tell me who among you is the most +righteous? + +FIRST MONK. I have sinned. + +SECOND MONK. And I. + +THIRD MONK. Father, we have all sinned. + +THE ABBOT. I, too, have sinned. All that are men have sinned. How soon +we exchange the wisdom of children for the folly of men! O wise +children, busy with your toys while we are busy with our sins! I see +clearly now. I shall find a sinless King among these little boys. Speak +to me, boys, and tell me who is most innocent among you? + +THE BOYS (_with one voice_). Giolla na Naomh. + +THE ABBOT. The little lad that waits upon all! Ye are right. The last +shall be first. Giolla na Naomh, will you be King over this nation? + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. I am too young, Father, I am too weak. + +THE ABBOT. Come hither to me, child. (_The child goes over to him._) O +fosterling that I have nourished, if I ask this thing of you, will you +not do it? + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. I will be obedient to you, Father. + +THE ABBOT. Will you turn your face into the battle? + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. I will do the duty of a King. + +THE ABBOT. Little one, it may be that your death will come of it. + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. Welcome is death if it be appointed to me. + +THE ABBOT. Did I not say that the young seek death? They are spendthrift +of all that we hoard jealously; they pursue all that we shun. The +terrible, beautiful voice has spoken to this child. O herald death, you +shall be answered! I will not grudge you my fosterling. + +THE KING. Abbot, I will fight my own battles: no child shall die for me! + +THE ABBOT. You have given me your sword, and I give it to this child. +God has spoken through the voice of His ancient herald, the terrible, +beautiful voice that comes out of the heart of battles. + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. Let me do this little thing, King. I will guard your +banner well. I will bring you back your sword after the battle. I am +only your little gilly, who watches while the tired King sleeps. I will +sleep to-night while you shall watch. + +THE KING. My pity, my three pities! + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. We slept last night while you were marching through the +dark country. Poor King, your marchings have been long. My march will be +very short. + +THE ABBOT. Let this gentle asking prevail with you, King. I say to you +that God has spoken. + +THE KING. I do not understand your God. + +THE ABBOT. Who understands Him? He demands not understanding, but +obedience. This child is obedient, and because he is obedient, God will +do mighty things through him. King, you must yield to this. + +THE KING. I yield, I yield! Woe is me that I did not fall in yonder +onset! + +THE ABBOT. Let this child be stripped that the raiment of a King may be +put about him. (_The child is stripped of his clothing._) Let a royal +vest be put next the skin of the child. (_A royal vest is put upon +him._) Let a royal tunic be put about him. (_A royal tunic is put about +him above the vest, and sandals upon his feet._) Let the royal mantle be +put about him. (_The King takes off the royal mantle and it is put upon +the child._) Let a royal diadem be put upon his head. (_The King takes +off the royal diadem and it is put upon the child’s head._) Let him be +given the shield of the King. (_The shieldbearer holds up the shield._) +A blessing on this shield! May it be firm against foes! + +THE HEROES. A blessing on this shield! + + _The shield is put on the child’s left arm._ + +THE ABBOT. Let him be given the spear of the King. (_The spearbearer +comes forward and holds up the spear._) A blessing on this spear! May it +be sharp against foes! + +THE HEROES. A blessing on this spear! + +THE ABBOT. Let him be given the sword of the King. (_The King lifts his +sword and girds it round the child’s waist. Giolla na Naomh draws the +sword and holds it in his right hand._) A blessing on this sword! May it +be hard to smite foes! + +THE HEROES. A blessing on this sword! + +THE ABBOT. I call this little lad King, and I put the battle under his +protection in the name of God. + +THE KING (_kneeling before the boy_). I do homage to thee, O King, and I +put the battle under thy protection. + +THE HEROES, MONKS, BOYS, etc. (_kneeling_). We do homage to thee, O +King, and we put the battle under thy protection. + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH. I undertake to sustain the battle in the name of God. + +THE ABBOT. Let a steed be brought him. (_A steed is brought._) Let the +banner of the King be unfurled. (_The banner is unfurled._) Turn thy +face to the battle, O King! + +GIOLLA NA NAOMH (_kneeling_). Bless me, Father. + +THE ABBOT. A blessing on thee, little one. + +THE HEROES, etc. (_with one voice_). Take victory in battle and slaying, +O King. + + _The little King mounts, and, with the heroes and soldiers and + gillies, rides to the battle. The Abbot, the King, the Monks, and the + Boys watch them._ + +THE ABBOT. King, I have given you the noblest jewel that was in my +house. I loved yonder child. + +THE KING. Priest, I have never received from my tributary kings a +kinglier gift. + +FIRST MONK. They have reached the place of battle. + +THE ABBOT. O strong God, make strong the hand of this child. Make firm +his foot. Make keen his sword. Let the purity of his heart and the +humbleness of his spirit be unto him a magnifying of courage and an +exaltation of mind. Ye angels that fought the ancient battles, ye +veterans of God, make a battle-pen about him and fight before him with +flaming swords. + +THE MONKS AND BOYS. Amen, Amen. + +THE ABBOT. O God, save this nation by the sword of the sinless boy. + +THE KING. And O Christ, that was crucified on the hill, bring the child +safe from the perilous battle. + +THE ABBOT. King, King, freedom is not purchased but with a great price. +(_A trumpet speaks._) Let the description of the battle be given us. + + _The First Monk and the Second Monk go upon the rampart._ + +FIRST MONK. The two hosts are face to face. _Another trumpet speaks._ + +SECOND MONK. That is sweet! It is the trumpet of the King! _Shouts._ + +FIRST MONK. The King’s host raises shouts. _Other shouts._ + +SECOND MONK. The enemy answers them. + +FIRST MONK. The hosts advance against each other. + +SECOND MONK. They fight. + +FIRST MONK. Our people are yielding. + +THIRD MONK. Say not so. + +SECOND MONK. My grief, they are yielding. _A trumpet speaks._ + +THIRD MONK. Sweet again! It is timely spoken, O trumpet of the King! + +FIRST MONK. The King’s banner is going into the battle! + +SECOND MONK. I see the little King! + +THIRD MONK. Is he going into the battle? + +FIRST MONK. Yes. + +THE MONKS AND BOYS (_with one voice_). Take victory in battle and +slaying, O King! + +SECOND MONK. It is a good fight now. + +FIRST MONK. Two seas have met on the plain. + +SECOND MONK. Two raging seas! + +FIRST MONK. One sea rolls back. + +SECOND MONK. It is the enemy that retreats! + +FIRST MONK. The little King goes through them. + +SECOND MONK. He goes through them like a hawk through small birds. + +FIRST MONK. Yea, like a wolf through a flock of sheep on a plain. + +SECOND MONK. Like a torrent through a mountain gap. + +FIRST MONK. It is a road of rout before him. + +SECOND MONK. There are great uproars in the battle. It is a roaring path +down which the King rides. + +FIRST MONK. O golden head above the slaughter! O shining, terrible sword +of the King! + +SECOND MONK. The enemy flies! + +FIRST MONK. They are beaten! They are beaten! It is a red road of rout! +Raise shouts of exultation! + +SECOND MONK. My grief! + +FIRST MONK. My grief! My grief! + +THE ABBOT. What is that? + +FIRST MONK. The little King is down! + +THE ABBOT. Has he the victory? + +FIRST MONK. Yes, but he himself is down. I do not see his golden head. I +do not see his shining sword. My grief! They raise his body from the +plain. + +THE ABBOT. Is the enemy flying? + +SECOND MONK. Yes, they fly. They are pursued. They are scattered. They +are scattered as a mist would be scattered. They are no longer seen on +the plain. + +THE ABBOT. It’s thanks to God! (_Keening is heard._) Thou hast been +answered, O terrible voice! Old herald, my foster child has answered! + +THIRD MONK. They bear hither a dead child. + +THE KING. He said that he would sleep to-night and that I should watch. + + _Heroes come upon the green bearing the body of Giolla na Naomh on a + bier; there are women keening it. The bier is laid in the centre of + the green._ + +THE KING. He has brought me back my sword. He has guarded my banner +well. + +THE ABBOT (_lifting the sword from the bier_). Take the sword. + +THE KING. No, I will let him keep it. A King should sleep with a sword. +This was a very valiant King. (_He takes the sword from the Abbot and +lays it again upon the bier. He kneels._) I do homage to thee, O dead +King, O victorious child! I kiss thee, O white body, since it is thy +purity that hath redeemed my people. (_He kisses the forehead of Giolla +na Naomh. They commence to keen again._) + +THE ABBOT. Do not keen this child, for he hath purchased freedom for his +people. Let shouts of exultation be raised and let a canticle be sung in +praise of God. + + _The body is borne into the monastery with a Te Deum._ + + + THE SCENE CLOSES. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE MASTER + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + CHARACTERS + + + CIARAN, _the Master_ + PUPILS: + IOLLANN BEAG + ART + BREASAL + MAINE + RONAN + CEALLACH + DAIRE, _the King_ + MESSENGER + THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE MASTER + + + _A little cloister in a woodland. The subdued sunlight of a forest + place comes through the arches. On the left, one arch gives a longer + vista where the forest opens and the sun shines upon a far hill. In + the centre of the cloister two or three steps lead to an inner place, + as it were a little chapel or cell._ + + _Art, Breasal, and Maine are busy with a game of jackstones about the + steps. They play silently._ + + _Ronan enters from the left._ + +RONAN. Where is the Master? + +ART. He has not left his cell yet. + +RONAN. He is late. Who is with him, Art? + +ART. I was with him till a while ago. When he had finished his +thanksgiving he told me he had one other little prayer to say which he +could not leave over. He said it was for a soul that was in danger. I +left him on his knees and came out into the sunshine. + +MAINE. Aye, you knew that Breasal and I were here with the jackstones. + +BREASAL. I served his Mass yesterday, and he stayed praying so long +after it that I fell asleep. I did not stir till he laid his hand upon +my shoulder. Then I started up and said I, “Is that you, little mother?” +He laughed and said he, “No, Breasal, it’s no one so good as your +mother.” + +RONAN. He is merry and gentle this while back, although he prays and +fasts longer than he used to. Little Iollann says he tells him the +merriest stories. + +BREASAL. He is fond of little Iollann. + +MAINE. Aye; when Iollann is late, or when he is inattentive, the Master +pretends not to notice it. + +BREASAL. Well, Iollann is only a little lad. + +MAINE. He is more like a little maid, with his fair cheek that reddens +when the Master speaks to him. + +ART. Faith, you wouldn’t call him a little maid when you’d see him strip +to swim a river. + +RONAN. Or when you’d see him spring up to meet the ball in a hurley +match. + +MAINE. He has, certainly, many accomplishments. + +BREASAL. He has a high, manly heart. + +MAINE. He has a beautiful white body, and, therefore, you all love him; +aye, the Master and all. We have no woman here and so we make love to +our little Iollann. + +RONAN (_laughing_). Why, I thrashed him ere-yesterday for putting +magories down my neck! + +MAINE. Men sometimes thrash their women, Ronan. It is one of the ways of +loving. + +ART. Maine, you have been listening to some satirist making satires. +There was once a Maine that was called Maine Honey-mouth. You will be +called Maine Bitter-Tongue. + +MAINE. Well, I’ve won this game of jackstones. Will you play another? + +CEALLACH (_enters hastily_). Lads, do you know what I have seen? + +ART. What is it, Ceallach? + +CEALLACH. A host of horsemen riding through the dark of the wood. A grim +host, with spears. + +MAINE. The King goes hunting. + +CEALLACH. My grief for the noble deer that the King hunts! + +BREASAL. What deer is that? + +CEALLACH. Our Master, Ciaran. + +RONAN. I heard one of the captains say that the cell was to be +surrounded. + +ART. But why does the King come against Ciaran? + +CEALLACH. It is the Druids that have incited him. They say that Ciaran +is overturning the ancient law of the people. + +MAINE. The King has ordered him to leave the country. + +BREASAL. Aye, there was a King’s Messenger here the other day who spoke +long to the Master. + +ART. It is since then that the Master has been praying so long every +day. + +RONAN. Is he afraid that the King will kill him? + +ART. No, it is for a soul that is in danger that he prays. Is it the +King’s soul that is in danger? + +MAINE. Hush, the Master is coming. + +CIARAN (_comes out from the inner place; the pupils rise_). Are all +here? + +BREASAL. Iollann Beag has not come yet. + +CIARAN. Not yet? + +CEALLACH. Master, the King’s horsemen are in the wood. + +CIARAN. I hope no evil has chanced to little Iollann. + +MAINE. What evil could chance to him? + +CEALLACH. Master, the King is seeking you in the wood. + +CIARAN. Does he not know where my cell is? + +BREASAL. The King has been stirred up against you, Master, rise and fly +before the horsemen surround the cell. + +CIARAN. No, if the King seeks me he will find me here.... I wish little +Iollann were come. (_The voice of Iollann Beag is heard singing. All +listen._) That is his voice. + +ART. He always comes singing. + +MAINE. Aye, he sings profane songs in the very church porch. + +RONAN. Which is as bad as if one were to play with jackstones on the +church steps. + +CIARAN. I am glad little Iollann has come safe. + + _Iollann Beag comes into the cloister singing._ + +IOLLANN BEAG (_sings_). + + We watch the wee lady-bird fly far away, + With an óró and an iero and an úmbó éró. + +ART. Hush, Iollann. You are in God’s place. + +IOLLANN BEAG. Does God not like music? Why then did he make the finches +and the chafers? + +MAINE. Your song is profane. + +IOLLANN BEAG. I didn’t know. + +CIARAN. Nay, Maine, no song is profane unless there be profanity in the +heart. But why do you come so late, Iollann Beag? + +IOLLANN BEAG. There was a high oak tree that I had never climbed. I went +up to its top, and swung myself to the top of the next tree. I saw the +tops of all the trees like the green waves of the sea. + +CIARAN. Little truant! + +IOLLANN BEAG. I am sorry, Master. + +CIARAN. Nay, I am not vext with you. But you must not climb tall trees +again at lesson time. We have been waiting for you. Let us begin our +lesson, lads. _He sits down._ + +CEALLACH. Dear Master, I ask you to fly from this place ere the King’s +horsemen close you in. + +CIARAN. My boy, you must not tempt me. He is a sorry champion who +forsakes his place of battle. This is my place of battle. You would not +have me do a coward thing? + +ART. But the King has many horsemen. It is not cowardly for one to fly +before a host. + +CIARAN. Has not the high God captains and legions? What are the King’s +horsemen to the heavenly riders? + +CEALLACH. O my dear Master!-- + +RONAN. Let be, Ceallach. You cannot move him. + +CIARAN. Of what were we to speak to-day? + + _They have sat down around him._ + +ART. You said you would speak of the friends of Our Lord. + +CIARAN. Aye, I would speak of friendship and kindly fellowship. Is it +not a sad thing that every good fellowship is broken up? No league that +is made among men has more than its while, its little, little while. +Even that little league of twelve in Galilee was broken full soon. The +shepherd was struck and the sheep of the flock scattered. The hardest +thing Our dear Lord had to bear was the scattering of His friends. + +IOLLANN BEAG. Were none faithful to Him? + +CIARAN. One man only and a few women. + +IOLLANN BEAG. Who was the man? + +CEALLACH. I know! It was John, the disciple that He loved. + +CIARAN. Aye, John of the Bosom they call him, for he was Iosa’s bosom +friend. Can you tell me the names of any others of His friends? + +ART. There was James, his brother. + +RONAN. There was Lazarus, for whom He wept. + +BREASAL. There was Mary, the poor woman that loved Him. + +MAINE. There was her sister Martha, who busied herself to make Him +comfortable; and the other Mary. + +CEALLACH. Mary and Martha; but that other Mary is only a name. + +CIARAN. Nay, she was the mother of the sons of Zebedee. She stands for +all lowly, hidden women, all the nameless women of the world who are +just the mothers of their children. And so we name her one of the three +great Marys, with poor Mary that sinned, and with Mary of the Sorrows, +the greatest of the Marys. What other friends can you tell me of? + +IOLLANN BEAG. There was John the Baptist, His little playmate. + +CIARAN. That is well said. Those two Johns were good comrades to Iosa. + +RONAN. There was Thomas. + +CIARAN. Poor, doubting Thomas. I am glad you did not leave him out. + +MAINE. There was Judas who betrayed Him. + +ART. There was Peter who-- + +IOLLANN BEAG. Aye, good Peter of the Sword! + +CIARAN. Nay, Iollann, it is Paul that carries a sword. + +IOLLANN BEAG. Peter should have a sword, too. I will not have him +cheated of his sword! It was a good blow he struck! + +BREASAL. Yet the Lord rebuked him for it. + +IOLLANN BEAG. The Lord did wrong to rebuke him. He was always down on +Peter. + +CIARAN. Peter was fiery, and the Lord was very gentle. + +IOLLANN BEAG. But when He wanted a rock to build His church on He had to +go to Peter. No John of the Bosom then, but the old swordsman. Paul must +yield his sword to Peter. I do not like that Paul. + +CIARAN. Paul said many hard things and many dark things. When you +understand him, Iollann, you will like him. + +MAINE. Let him not arrogate a sword merely because his head was cut off, +and Iollann will tolerate him. + +CIARAN. Who has brought me a poem to-day? You were to bring me poems of +Christ’s friends. + +BREASAL. I have made a Song for Mary Magdalene. Shall I say it to you? + +CIARAN. Do, Breasal. + +BREASAL (_chants_). + + O woman of the gleaming hair + (Wild hair that won men’s gaze to thee), + Weary thou turnest from the common stare, + For the _shuiler_ Christ is calling thee. + + O woman, of the snowy side, + Many a lover hath lain with thee, + Yet left thee sad at the morning tide; + But thy lover Christ shall comfort thee. + + O woman with the wild thing’s heart, + Old sin hath set a snare for thee; + In the forest ways forspent thou art, + But the hunter Christ shall pity thee. + + O woman spendthrift of thyself, + Spendthrift of all the love in thee, + Sold unto sin for little pelf, + The captain Christ shall ransom thee. + + O woman that no lover’s kiss + (Tho’ many a kiss was given thee) + Could slake thy love, is it not for this + The hero Christ shall die for thee? + +CIARAN. That is a good song, Breasal. What you have said is true, that +love is a very great thing. I do not think faith will be denied to him +that loves.... Iollann was to make me a song to-day, too. + +IOLLANN BEAG. I have made only a little rann. I couldn’t think of rhymes +for a big song. + +CIARAN. What do you call your rann? + +IOLLANN BEAG. It is the Rann of the Little Playmate. It is a rann that +John the Baptist made when he was on the way to Iosa’s house one day. + +CIARAN. Sing it to us, Iollann. + +IOLLANN (_sings_): + + Young Iosa plays with me every day + (_With an óró and an iero_) + Tig and Pookeen and Hide-in-the-Hay + (_With an óró and an iero._) + + We race in the river with otters gray, + We climb the tall trees where red squirrels play, + We watch the wee lady-bird fly far away, + (_With an óró and an iero and an imbó éro_). + + _A knocking is heard._ + +CIARAN. Run and open the postern, Iollann. + +CEALLACH. Master, this may be the King’s people. + +CIARAN. If it be, Iollann will let them in. + + _Iollann Beag goes to the door._ + +CEALLACH. Why have good men such pride? + + _A King’s Messenger appears upon the threshold. Iollann Beag holds the + curtain of the door while the Messenger speaks._ + +THE MESSENGER. Who in this house is Ciaran? + +CIARAN. I am Ciaran. + +THE MESSENGER. I bring you greeting from the King. + +CIARAN. Take back to him my greeting. + +THE MESSENGER. The King has come to make the hunting of this wood. + +CIARAN. It is the King’s privilege to hunt the woods of the cantred. + +THE MESSENGER. Not far from here is a green glade of the forest in which +the King with his nobles and good men, his gillies and his runners, has +sat down to meat. + +CIARAN. May it be a merry sitting for them. + +THE MESSENGER. It has seemed to the King an unroyal thing to taste of +the cheer of this greenwood while he is at enmity with you; for he has +remembered the old saying that friendship is more welcome at meat than +ale or music. Therefore, he has sent me to say to you that he has put +all enmity out of his heart, and that in token thereof he invites you to +share his forest feast, such as it is, you and your pupils. + +CIARAN. The King is kind. I would like well to come to him, but my rule +forbids me to leave this house. + +THE MESSENGER. The King will take badly any refusal. It is not usual to +refuse a King’s invitation. + +CIARAN. When I came to this place, after journeying many long roads of +land and sea, I said to myself: “I will abide here henceforth, this +shall be the sod of my death.” And I made a vow to live in this little +cloister alone, or with a few pupils, I who had been restless and a +wanderer, and a seeker after difficult things; the King will not grudge +me the loneliness of my cloister. + +THE MESSENGER. I will say all this to the King. These lads will come +with me? + +CIARAN. Will ye go to the King’s feast, lads? + +BREASAL. May we go, Master. + +CIARAN. I will not gainsay you. + +MAINE. It will be a great thing to sit at the King’s table. + +CEALLACH. Master, it may turn aside the King’s displeasure for your not +going if we go in your name. We may, perchance, bring the King here, and +peace will be bound between you. + +CIARAN. May God be near you in the places to which you go. + +CEALLACH. I am loath to leave you alone, Master. + +CIARAN. Little Iollann will stay with me. Will you not, little Iollann. + + _Iollann Beag looks yearningly towards the Messenger and the others as + if he would fain go; then he turns to Ciaran._ + +IOLLANN BEAG. I will. + +CIARAN (_caressing him_). That is my good little lad. + +ART. We will bring you back some of the King’s mead, Iollann. + +IOLLANN BEAG. Bring me some of his apples and his hazel-nuts. + +RONAN. We will, and, maybe, a roast capon, or a piece of venison. + + _They all go out laughing. Ceallach turns back in the door._ + +CEALLACH. Good-bye, Master. + +CIARAN. May you go safe, lad. (_To Iollann_). You are my whole school +now, Iollann. + +IOLLANN (_sitting down at his knee_). Do you think the King will come +here? + +CIARAN. Yes, I think he will come. + +IOLLANN. I would like to see him. Is he a great, tall man? + +CIARAN. I have not seen him for a long time; not since he and I were +lads. + +IOLLANN. Were you friends? + +CIARAN. We were fostered together. + +IOLLANN. Is he a wicked King? + +CIARAN. No; he has ruled this country well. His people love him. They +have gone into many perilous places with him, and he has never failed +them. + +IOLLANN. Why then does he hate you? Why do Ceallach and the others fear +that he may do you harm? + +CIARAN. For twenty years Daire and I have stood over against each other. +When we were at school we were rivals for the first place. I was first +in all manly games; Daire was first in learning. Everyone said “Ciaran +will be a great warrior and Daire will be a great poet or a great +teacher.” And yet it has not been so. I was nearly as good as he in +learning, and he was nearly as good as I in manly feats. I said that I +would be his master in all things, and he said that he would be my +master. And we strove one against the other. + +IOLLANN BEAG. Why did you want to be his master? + +CIARAN. I do not know. I thought that I should be happy if I were first +and Daire only second. But Daire was always first. I sought out +difficult things to do that I might become a better man than he: I went +into far countries and won renown among strange peoples, but very little +wealth and no happiness; I sailed into seas that no man before me had +sailed into, and saw islands that only God and the angels had seen +before me; I learned outland tongues and read the books of many peoples +and their old lore; and when I came back to my own country I found that +Daire was its king, and that all men loved him. Me they had forgotten. + +IOLLANN BEAG. Were you sad when you came home and found that you were +forgotten? + +CIARAN. No, I was glad. I said, “This is a hard thing that I have found +to do, to live lonely and unbeloved among my own kin. Daire has not done +anything as hard as this.” In one of the cities that I had sailed to I +had heard of the true, illustrious God, and of men who had gone out from +warm and pleasant houses, and from the kindly faces of neighbours to +live in desert places, where God walked alone and terrible; and I said +that I would do that hard thing, though I would fain have stayed in my +father’s house. And so I came into this wilderness, where I have lived +for seven years. For a few years I was alone; then pupils began to come +to me. By-and-bye the druids gave out word that I was teaching new +things and breaking established custom; and the King has forbade my +teaching, and I have not desisted, and so he and I stand opposed as of +old. + +IOLLANN BEAG. You will win this time, little Master. + +CIARAN. I think so; I hope so, dear. (_Aside._) I would I could say “I +know so.” This seems to me the hardest thing I have tried to do. Can a +soldier fight for a cause of which he is not sure? Can a teacher die for +a thing he does not believe?... Forgive me, Lord! It is my weakness that +cries out. I believe, I believe; help my unbelief. (_To Iollann Beag._) +Why do you think I shall win this time, Iollann,--I who have always +lost? + +IOLLANN BEAG. Because God’s great angels will fight for you. Will they +not? + +CIARAN. Yes, I think they will. All that old chivalry stands harnessed +in Heaven. + +IOLLANN BEAG. Will they not come if you call them? + +CIARAN. Yes, they will come. (_Aside._) Is it a true thing I tell this +child or do I lie to him? Will they come at my call? Will they come at +my call? My spirit reaches out and finds Heaven empty. The great halls +stand horseless and riderless. I have called to you, O riders, and I +have not heard the thunder of your coming. The multitudinous, +many-voiced sea and the green, quiet earth have each its children, but +where are the sons of Heaven? Where in all this temple of the world, +this dim and wondrous temple, does its God lurk? + +IOLLANN BEAG. And would they come if I were to call them--old Peter, and +the Baptist John, and Michael and his riders? + +CIARAN. We are taught that if one calls them with faith they will come. + +IOLLANN BEAG. Could I see them and speak to them? + +CIARAN. If it were necessary for any dear purpose of God’s, as to save a +soul that were in peril, we are taught that they would come in bodily +presence, and that one could see them and speak to them. + +IOLLANN BEAG. If the soul of any dear friend of mine be ever in peril I +will call upon them. I will say, “Baptist John, Baptist John, attend +him. Good Peter of the Sword, strike valiantly. Young Michael, stand +near with all the heroes of Heaven!” + +CIARAN (_aside_). If the soul of any dear friend of his were in peril! +The peril is near! The peril is near! + + _A knock at the postern; Iollann Beag looks towards Ciaran._ + +CIARAN. Run, Iollann, and see who knocks. (_Iollann Beag goes out._) I +have looked back over the journey of my life as a man at evening might +look back from a hill on the roads he had travelled since morning. I +have seen with a great clearness as if I had left this green, dim wood +and climbed to the top of that far hill I have seen from me for seven +years now, yet never climbed. And I see that all my wayfaring has been +in vain. A man may not escape from that which is in himself. A man shall +not find his quest unless he kill the dearest thing he has. I thought +that I was sacrificing everything, but I have not sacrificed the old +pride of my heart. I chose self-abnegation, not out of humility, but out +of pride: and God, that terrible hidden God, has punished me by +withholding from me His most precious gift of faith. Faith comes to the +humble only.... Nay, Lord, I believe: this is but a temptation. Thou, +too, wast tempted. Thou, too, wast forsaken. O valiant Christ, give me +Thy strength! My need is great. _Iollann Beag returns._ + +IOLLANN BEAG. There is a warrior at the door, Master, that asks a +shelter. He says he has lost his way in the wood. + +CIARAN. Bid him to come in, Iollann. (_Iollann Beag goes to the door +again._) I, too, have lost my way. I am like one that has trodden +intricate forest paths that have crossed and recrossed and never led him +to any homestead; or like a mariner that has voyaged on a shoreless sea +yearning for a glimpse of green earth, yet never descrying it. If I +could find some little place to rest, if I could but lie still at last +after so much wayfaring, after such clamour of loud-voiced winds, +methinks that would be to find God; for is not God quiet, is not God +peace? But always I go on with a cry as of baying winds or of vociferous +hounds about me.... They say the King hunts me to-day: but the King is +not so terrible a hunter as the desires and the doubts of a man’s heart. +The King I can meet unafraid, but who is not afraid of himself? (_Daire +enters, wrapped in a long mantle, and stands a little within the +threshold: Iollann Beag behind him. Ciaran looks fixedly at him; then +speaks._) You have hunted well to-day, O Daire! + +DAIRE. I am famed as a hunter. + +CIARAN. When I was a young man I said, “I will strive with the great +untamed elements, with the ancient, illimitable sea and the anarchic +winds;” you, in the manner of Kings, have warred with timid, furtive +creatures, and it has taught you only cruelty and craft. + +DAIRE. What has your warfare taught you? I do not find you changed, +Ciaran. Your old pride but speaks a new language.... I am, as you remind +me, only a King; but I have been a good King. Have you been a good +teacher? + +CIARAN. My pupils must answer. + +DAIRE. Where are your pupils? + +CIARAN. True; they are not here. + +DAIRE. They are at an ale-feast in my tent.... (_Coming nearer to +Ciaran._) I have not come to taunt you, Ciaran. Nor should you taunt me. +You seem to me to have spent your life pursuing shadows that fled before +you; yea, pursuing ghosts over wide spaces and through the devious +places of the world: and I pity you for the noble manhood you have +wasted. I seem to you to have spent my life busy with the little, vulgar +tasks and the little, vulgar pleasures of a King: and you pity me +because I have not adventured, because I have not been tried, because I +have not suffered as you have. It should be sufficient triumph for each +of us that each pities the other. + +CIARAN. You speak gently, Daire; and you speak wisely. You were always +wise. And yet, methinks, you are wrong. There is a deeper antagonism +between you and me than you are aware of. It is not merely that the +little things about you, the little, foolish, mean, discordant things of +a man’s life, have satisfied you, and that I have been discontent, +seeking things remote and holy and perilous-- + +DAIRE. Ghosts, ghosts! + +CIARAN. Nay, they alone are real; or, rather, it alone is real. For +though its names be many, its substance is one. One man will call it +happiness, another will call it beauty, a third will call it holiness, a +fourth will call it rest. I have sought it under all its names. + +DAIRE. What is it that you have sought? + +CIARAN. I have sought truth. + +DAIRE. And have you found truth? (_Ciaran bows his head in dejection._) +Ciaran, was it worth your while to give up all goodly life to follow +that mocking phantom? I do not say that a man should not renounce ease. +I have not loved ease. But I have loved power, and victory, and life, +and men, and women, and the gracious sun. He who renounces these things +to follow a phantom across a world has given his all for nothing. + +CIARAN. Is not the mere quest often worth while, even if the thing +quested be never found? + +DAIRE. And so you have not found your quest? + +CIARAN. You lay subtle traps for me in your speeches, Daire. It was your +way at school when we disputed. + +DAIRE. Kings must be subtle. It is by craft we rule.... Ciaran, for the +shadow you have pursued I offer you a substance; in place of vain +journeying I invite you to rest.... If you make your peace with me you +shall be the second man in my kingdom. + +CIARAN (_in scorn and wrath_). The second man! + +DAIRE. There speaks your old self, Ciaran. I did not mean to wound you. +I am the King, chosen by the people to rule and lead. I could not, even +if I would, place you above me; but I will place you at my right hand. + +CIARAN. You would bribe me with this petty honour? + +DAIRE. No. I would gain you for the service of your people. What other +service should a man take upon him? + +CIARAN. I told you that you did not understand the difference between +you and me. May one not serve the people by bearing testimony in their +midst to a true thing even as by feeding them with bread? + +DAIRE. Again you prate of truth. Are you fond enough to think that what +has not imposed even upon your pupils will impose upon me? + +CIARAN. My pupils believe. You must not wrong them, Daire. + +DAIRE. Are you sure of them? + +CIARAN. Yes, I am sure. (_Aside._) Yet sometimes I thought that that +gibing Maine did not believe. It may be-- + +DAIRE. Where are your pupils? Why are they not here to stand by you in +your bitter need? + +CIARAN. You enticed them from me by guile. + +DAIRE. I invited them; they came. You could not keep them, Ciaran. Think +you my young men would have left me, in similar case? Their bodies would +have been my bulwark against a host. + +CIARAN. You hint unspeakable things. + +DAIRE. I do but remind you that you have to-day no disciples; +(_smiling_) except, perhaps, this little lad. Come, I will win him from +you with an apple. + +CIARAN. You shall not tempt him! + +DAIRE (_laughing_). Ciaran, you stand confessed: you have no faith in +your disciples; methinks you have no faith in your religion. + +CIARAN. You are cruel, Daire. You were not so cruel when we were lads. + +DAIRE. You have come into my country preaching to my people new things, +incredible things, things you dare not believe yourself. I will not have +this lie preached to men. If your religion be true, you must give me a +sign of its truth. + +CIARAN. It is true, it is true! + +DAIRE. Give me a sign. Nay, show me that you yourself believe. Call upon +your God to reveal Himself. I do not trust these skulking gods. + +CIARAN. Who am I to ask that great Mystery to unveil Its face? Who are +you that a miracle should be wrought for you? + +DAIRE. This is not an answer. So priests ever defend their mysteries. I +will not be put off as one would put off a child that asks questions. +Lo, here I bare my sword against God; lo, here I lift up my shield. Let +one of his great captains come down to answer the challenge! + +CIARAN. This the bragging of a fool. + +DAIRE. Nor does that answer me. Ciaran, you are in my power. My young +men surround this house. Yours are at an ale-feast. + +CIARAN. O wise and far-seeing King! You have planned all well. + +DAIRE. There is a watcher at every door of your house. There a tracker +on every path of the forest. The wild boar crouches in his lair for fear +of the men that fill this wood. Three rings of champions ring round the +tent in which your pupils feast. Your God had need to show Himself a +God! + +CIARAN. Nay, slay me, Daire. I will bear testimony with my life. + +DAIRE. What will that prove? Men die for false things, for ridiculous +things, for evil things. What vile cause has not its heroes? Though you +were to die here with joy and laughter you would not prove your cause a +true one. Ciaran, let God send down an angel to stand between you and +me. + +CIARAN. Do you think that to save my poor life Omnipotence will display +Itself? + +DAIRE. Who talks of your life? It is your soul that is at stake, and +mine, and this little boy’s, and the souls of all this nation, born and +unborn. + +CIARAN (_aside_). He speaks true. + +DAIRE. Nay, I will put you to the proof. (_To Iollann._) Come hither, +child. (_Iollann Beag approaches._) He is daintily fashioned, Ciaran, +this last little pupil of yours. I swear to you that he shall die unless +your God sends down an angel to rescue him. Kneel boy. (_Iollann Beag +kneels._) Speak now, if God has ears to hear. _He raises his sword._ + +CIARAN (_aside_). I dare not speak. My God, my God, why hast Thou +forsaken me? + +IOLLANN BEAG. Fear not, little Master, I remember the word you taught +me.... Young Michael, stand near me! + + _The figure of a mighty Warrior, winged, and clothed in light, seems + to stand beside the boy. Ciaran bends on one knee._ + +DAIRE. Who art thou, O Soldier? + +MICHAEL. I am he that waiteth at the portal. I am he that hasteneth. I +am he that rideth before the squadron. I am he that holdeth a shield +over the retreat of man’s host when Satan cometh in war. I am he that +turneth and smiteth. I am he that is Captain of the Host of God. + + _Daire bends slowly on one knee._ + +CIARAN. The Seraphim and the Cherubim stand horsed. I hear the thunder +of their coming.... O Splendour! _He falls forward, dead._ + + + CURTAIN + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + IOSAGAN + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + CHARACTERS + + + IOSAGAN + OLD MATTHIAS + THE PRIEST + + +BOYS:--DARAGH, PADRAIC, COILIN, CUIMIN, FEICHIN, EOGHAN + + +_Daragh and Padraic are a little older than the other boys_ + + +_PLACE--A sea-strand beside a village in Iar-Connacht_ + + +_TIME--The present_ + + + IOSAGAN, loving diminutive of Íosa; “Jesukin” (“Ísuccán”) is the name + of the Child Jesus in the exquisite hymn attributed to St. Ita, b. + 470, d. 580, A.D.--_Author’s Note._ + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + IOSAGAN + + + SCENE I + + _A sea-strand beside a village in Iar-Connacht. A house on the + right-hand side. The sound of a bell comes east, very clearly. The + door of the house is opened. An aged man, old Matthias, comes out on + the door-flag and stands for a spell looking down the road. He sits + then on a chair that is outside the door, his two hands gripping a + stick, his head bent, and he listening attentively to the sound of the + bell. The bell stops ringing. Daragh, Padraic and Coilin come up from + the sea and they putting on their share of clothes after bathing._ + +DARAGH (_stretching his finger towards the sea_). The flowers are white +in the fisherman’s garden. + +PADRAIC. They are, _muise_. + +COILIN. Where are they? + +DARAGH. See them out on the sea. + +COILIN. Those are not white flowers. Those are white horses. + +DARAGH. They’re like white flowers. + +COILIN. No; Old Matthias says those are the white horses that go +galloping across the sea from the Other Country. + +PADRAIC. I heard Iosagan saying they were flowers. + +COILIN. What way would flowers grow on the sea? + +PADRAIC. And what way would horses travel on the sea? + +COILIN. Easy, if they were fairy horses would be in them. + +PADRAIC. And wouldn’t flowers grow on the sea as easy, if they were +fairy flowers would be in them? Isn’t it often you saw the water-lilies +on Loch Ellery? And couldn’t they grow on the sea as well as on the +lake? + +COILIN. I don’t know if they could. + +PADRAIC. They could, _muise_. + +DARAGH. The sea was fine to-day, lad. + +COILIN. It was, but it was devilish cold. + +PADRAIC. Why wouldn’t you be cold when you’d only go into your knees? + +COILIN. By my word, I was afraid the waves would knock me down if I’d go +in any further. They were terrible big. + +DARAGH. That’s what I like, lad. Do you mind yon terrible big one that +came over our heads? + +PADRAIC. Aye, and Coilin screaming out he was drowned. + +COILIN. It went down my throat; it did that, and it nearly smothered me. + +PADRAIC. Sure, you had your mouth open, and you shouting. It would be a +queer story if it didn’t go down your throat. + +COILIN. Yon one gave me enough. I kept out of their way after that. + +DARAGH. Have the other lads on them yet? + +PADRAIC. Aye. Here they are. + +COILIN. Look at Feichin’s hair! + + _Feichin, Eoghan and Cuimin come up from the sea and they drying their + hair._ + +CUIMIN. What’ll we play to-day? + +COILIN. “Blind Man’s Buff!” + +PADRAIC. Ara, shut up, yourself and your “Blind Man’s Buff.” + +COILIN. “High Gates,” then! + +PADRAIC. No. We’re tired of those “High Gates.” + +DARAGH. “Hide and Seek!” + +FEICHIN. Away! + +EOGHAN. “Fox and Chickens!” + +COILIN. No. We’ll play “_Lúrabóg Lárabóg_.” + +PADRAIC. I’ll make a _lúrabóg_ of you! + +COILIN. You do be always at me, Padraic. (_Padraic catches hold of +him._) Listen to me, will you? + +CUIMIN. Ara, listen to him, Padraic. + +DARAGH. Listen to him. _Padraic lets him go._ + +COILIN. Speak yourself, Padraic, if you won’t give leave to anyone else. + +PADRAIC. Let’s jump! + +EOGHAN. Let’s jump! Let’s jump! + +DARAGH. I’ll bet I’ll beat you, Padraic. + +PADRAIC. At jumping, is it? + +DARAGH. Aye. + +PADRAIC. Didn’t I beat you the day before yesterday at the School Rock? + +DARAGH. I’ll bet you won’t beat me to-day. Will you try? + +PADRAIC. I won’t. My feet are sore. (_The other boys begin laughing; +Padraic speaks with a shamed face._) I’d rather play ball. + +EOGHAN. Ball! Ball! + +DARAGH. Has anybody a ball? + +CUIMIN. And if they had, itself, where would we play? + +PADRAIC. Against Old Matthias’s gable-end. There’s no nicer place to be +found. + +COILIN. Who has the ball? + +CUIMIN. My soul, I haven’t it. + +DARAGH. No, nor I. + +PADRAIC. You yourself, Coilin, had it on Friday. + +COILIN. By my word, didn’t the master grab it where I was hopping it in +the school at Catechism? + +FEICHIN. True for you, lad. + +CUIMIN. My soul, but I thought he’d give you the rod that time. + +COILIN. He would, too, only he was expecting the priest to come in. + +DARAGH. It’s the ball he wanted. He’ll have a game with the peelers +to-day after Mass. + +PADRAIC. My soul, but he will, and it’s he can beat the peelers, too. + +DARAGH. He can’t beat the sergeant. The sergeant’s the best man of them +all. He beat Hoskins and the red man together last Sunday. + +FEICHIN. Ara, stop! Did he beat them? + +DARAGH. He did, _muise_. The red man was raging, and the master and the +peelers all laughing at him. + +PADRAIC. I bet the master will beat the sergeant. + +DARAGH. I’ll bet he won’t. + +PADRAIC. Do ye hear him? + +DARAGH. I’ll bet the sergeant can beat any man in this country. + +PADRAIC. Ara, how do you know whether he can or not? + +DARAGH. I know well he can. Don’t I be always watching them? + +PADRAIC. You don’t know! + +DARAGH. I do know! It’s I that know it! + + _They threaten each other. A quarrel arises among the boys, a share of + them saying, _“The sergeant’s the best!”_ and others, _“The master’s + best!”_ Old Matthias gets up to listen to them. He comes forward, + twisted and bent in his body, and barely able to drag his feet along. + He speaks to them quietly, laying his hand on Daragh’s head._ + +MATTHIAS. O! O! O! My shame ye are! + +PADRAIC. This fellow says the master can’t beat the sergeant playing +ball. + +DARAGH. By my word, wouldn’t the sergeant beat anybody at all in this +country, Matthias? + +MATTHIAS. Never mind the sergeant. Look at that lonesome wild goose +that’s making on us over Loch Ellery! Look! _All the boys look up._ + +PADRAIC. I see it, by my soul! + +DARAGH. Where’s she coming from, Matthias? + +MATTHIAS. From the Eastern World. I would say she has travelled a +thousand miles since she left her nest in the lands to the north. + +COILIN. The poor thing. And where will she drop? + +MATTHIAS. To Aran she’ll go, it’s a chance. See her now out over the +sea. My love you are, lonesome wild goose! + +COILIN. Tell us a story, Matthias. + + _He sits on a stone by the strand-edge, and the boys gather round + him._ + +MATTHIAS. What story shall I tell? + +FEICHIN. “The Adventures of the Grey Horse!” + +CUIMIN. “The Hen-Harrier and the Wren!” + +PADRAIC. “The Two-Headed Giant!” + +COILIN. “The Adventures of the Piper in the Snail’s Castle!” + +EOGHAN. Aye, by my soul, “The Adventures of the Piper in the Snail’s +Castle!” + +THE BOYS (_with one voice_). “The Adventures of the Piper in the Snail’s +Castle!” + +MATTHIAS. I’ll do that. “There was a Snail in it long ago, and it’s long +since it was. If we’d been there that time, we wouldn’t be here now; and +if we were, itself, we’d have a new story or an old story, and that’s +better than to be without e’er a story at all. The Castle this Snail +lived in was the finest that man’s eye ever saw. It was greater +entirely, and it was a thousand times richer than Meave’s Castle in Rath +Cruachan, or than the Castle of the High-King of Ireland itself in Tara +of the Kings. This Snail made love to a Spider--” + +COILIN. No, Matthias, wasn’t it to a Granny’s Needle he made love? + +MATTHIAS. My soul, but you’re right. What’s coming on me? + +PADRAIC. Go on, Matthias. + +MATTHIAS. “This Nettle-Worm was very comely entirely--” + +FEICHIN. What’s the Nettle-Worm, Matthias? + +MATTHIAS. Why, the Nettle-Worm he made love to. + +CUIMIN. But I thought it was to a Granny’s Needle he made love. + +MATTHIAS. Was it? The story’s going from me. “This Piper was in love +with the daughter of the King of Connacht--” + +EOGHAN. But you didn’t mention the Piper yet, Matthias! + +MATTHIAS. Didn’t I! “The Piper...” yes, by my soul, the Piper--I’m +losing my memory. Look here, neighbours, we won’t meddle with the story +to-day. Let’s have a song. + +COILIN. “Hi diddle dum!” + +MATTHIAS. Are ye satisfied? + +THE BOYS. We are. + +MATTHIAS. I’ll do that. (_He sings the following rhyme_): + + “Hi diddle dum, the cat and his mother, + That went to Galway riding a drake.” + + THE BOYS. And hi diddle dum! + + MATTHIAS. + “Hi diddle dum, the rain came pelting, + And drenched to the skin the cat and his mother.” + + THE BOYS. And hi diddle dum! + + MATTHIAS. + “Hi diddle dum, ’twas like in the deluge + The cat and his mother would both be drownded.” + + THE BOYS. And hi diddle dum! + + MATTHIAS. + “Hi diddle dum, my jewel the drake was, + That carried his burden--” + + COILIN. Swimming-- + + MATTHIAS. Good man, Coilin. + “That carried his burden swimming to Galway.” + + THE BOYS. And hi diddle dum! + + _Old Matthias shakes his head wearily; he speaks in a sad voice._ + +MATTHIAS. My songs are going from me, neighbours. I’m like an old fiddle +that’s lost all its strings. + +CUIMIN. Haven’t you the “_Báidín_” always, Matthias? + +MATTHIAS. I have, my soul; I have it as long as I’m living. I won’t lose +the “_Báidín_” till I’m stretched in the clay. Shall we have it? + +THE BOYS. Aye. + +MATTHIAS. Are ye ready to go rowing? + +THE BOYS. We are! + + _They order themselves as they would be rowing. Old Matthias sings + these verses._ + + MATTHIAS. + “I will hang a sail, and I will go west.” + + THE BOYS. _Oró, mo churaichín, O!_ + + MATTHIAS. + “And till St. John’s Day I will not rest.” + + THE BOYS. _Oró, mo churaichín, O!_ + _Oró, mo churaichín, O!_ + _’S óró, mo bháidín!_ + + MATTHIAS. + “Isn’t it fine, my little boat, sailing on the bay.” + + THE BOYS. _Oró, mo churaichín, O!_ + + MATTHIAS. “The oars pulling--” + + _He stops suddenly, and puts his hand to his head._ + +PADRAIC. What’s on you, Matthias? + +EOGHAN. Are you sick, Matthias? + +MATTHIAS. Something that came on my head. It’s nothing. What’s this I +was saying? + +COILIN. You were saying the “_Báidín_,” Matthias, but don’t mind if you +don’t feel well. Are you sick? + +MATTHIAS. Sick? By my word, I’m not sick. What would make me sick? We’ll +start again: + + “Isn’t it fine, my little boat, sailing on the bay.” + + THE BOYS. _Oró, mo churaichín, O!_ + + MATTHIAS. “The oars pulling strongly--” (_He stops again._) +Neighbours, the “_Báidín_” itself is gone from me. (_They remain silent +for a spell, the old man sitting and his head bent on his breast, and +the boys looking on him sorrowfully. The old man speaks with a start._) +Are those the people coming home from Mass? + +CUIMIN. No. They won’t be free for a half hour yet. + +COILIN. Why don’t you go to Mass, Matthias? + + _The old man rises up and puts his hand to his head again. He speaks + angrily at first, and after that softly._ + +MATTHIAS. Why don’t I go?... I’m not good enough. By my word, God +wouldn’t hear me.... What’s this I’m saying?... (_He laughs._) And I +have lost the “_Báidín_,” do ye say? Amn’t I the pitiful object without +my “_Báidín_!” + + _He hobbles slowly across the road. Coilin rises and puts his shoulder + under the old man’s hand to support him. The boys begin playing + “jackstones” quietly. Old Matthias sits on the chair again, and Coilin + returns. Daragh speaks in a low voice._ + +DARAGH. There’s something on Old Matthias to-day. He never forgot the +“_Báidín_” before. + +CUIMIN. I heard my father saying to my mother, the other night, that +it’s not long he has to live. + +COILIN. Do you think is he very old? + +PADRAIC. Why did you put that question on him about the Mass? Don’t you +know he hasn’t been seen at Mass in the memory of the people? + +DARAGH. I heard Old Cuimin Enda saying to my father that he himself saw +Old Matthias at Mass when he was a youth. + +COILIN. Do you know why he doesn’t go to Mass now? + +PADRAIC (_in a whisper_). It’s said he doesn’t believe there’s a God. + +CUIMIN. I heard Father Sean Eamonn saying it’s the way he did some +terrible sin at the start of his life, and when the priest wouldn’t give +him absolution in confession there came a raging anger on him, and he +swore an oath he wouldn’t touch priest or chapel for ever again. + +DARAGH. That’s not how I heard it. One night when I was in bed the old +people were talking and whispering by the fireside, and I heard Maire of +the Bridge saying to the other old women that it’s the way Matthias sold +his soul to some Great Man he met once on the top of Cnoc-a’-Daimh, and +that this Man wouldn’t allow him to go to Mass. + +PADRAIC. Do you think was it the devil he saw? + +DARAGH. I don’t know. A “Great Man,” said Maire of the Bridge. + +CUIMIN. I wouldn’t believe a word of it. Sure, if Matthias sold his soul +to the devil it must be he’s a wicked person. + +PADRAIC. He’s not a wicked person, _muise_. Don’t you mind the day +Iosagan said that his father told him Matthias would be among the saints +on the Day of the Mountain? + +CUIMIN. I mind it well. + +COILIN. Where’s Iosagan from us to-day? + +DARAGH. He never comes when there does be a grown person watching us. + +CUIMIN. Wasn’t he here a week ago to-day when old Matthias was watching +us? + +DARAGH. Was he? + +CUIMIN. He was. + +PADRAIC. Aye, and a fortnight to-day, as well. + +DARAGH. There’s a chance he’ll come to-day, then. + + _Cuimin rises and looks east._ + +CUIMIN. O, see, he’s coming. + + _Iosagan enters--a little, brown-haired boy, a white coat on him, and + he without shoes or cap like the other boys. The boys welcome him._ + +THE BOYS. God save you, Iosagan! + +IOSAGAN. God and Mary save you! + + _He sits among them, a hand of his about Daragh’s neck; the boys begin + playing again, gently, without noise or quarrelling. Iosagan joins in + the game. Matthias rises with a start on the coming of Iosagan, and + stands gazing at him. After they have played for a spell he comes + towards them, and then stands again and calls over to Coilin._ + +MATTHIAS. Coilin! + +COILIN. What do you want? + +MATTHIAS. Come here to me. (_Coilin rises and goes to him._) Who is that +boy I see among you this fortnight back--he, yonder, with the brown head +on him--but take care it’s not red he is; I don’t know is it black or is +it fair he is, the way the sun is burning on him? Do you see him--him +that has his arm about Daragh’s neck? + +COILIN. That’s Iosagan. + +MATTHIAS. Iosagan? + +COILIN. That’s the name he gives himself. + +MATTHIAS. Who are his people? + +COILIN. I don’t know, but he says his father’s a king. + +MATTHIAS. Where does he live? + +COILIN. He never told us that, but he says his house isn’t far away. + +MATTHIAS. Does he be among you often? + +COILIN. He does, when we do be amusing ourselves like this. But he goes +from us when grown people come near. He will go from us now as soon as +the people begin coming from Mass. + + _The boys rise and go, in ones and twos, when they have finished the + game._ + +COILIN. O! They are going jumping. + + _He runs out after the others. Iosagan and Daragh rise and go. + Matthias comes forward and calls Iosagan._ + +MATTHIAS. Iosagan! (_The Child turns back and comes towards him at a +run._) Come here and sit on my knee for a little while, Iosagan. (_The +Child links his hand in the old man’s hand, and they cross the road +together. Matthias sits on his chair and draws Iosagan to him._) Where +do you live, Iosagan? + +IOSAGAN. Not far from this my house is. Why don’t you come to see me? + +MATTHIAS. I would be afraid in a royal house. They tell me that your +father’s a king. + +IOSAGAN. He is High-King of the World. But there’s no call for you to be +afraid of Him. He’s full of pity and love. + +MATTHIAS. I fear I didn’t keep His law. + +IOSAGAN. Ask forgiveness of Him. I and my Mother will make intercession +for you. + +MATTHIAS. It’s a pity I didn’t see You before this, Iosagan. Where were +You from me? + +IOSAGAN. I was here always. I do be travelling the roads and walking the +hills and ploughing the waves. I do be among the people when they gather +into My house. I do be among the children they do leave behind them +playing on the street. + +MATTHIAS. I was too shy, or too proud, to go into Your house, Iosagan: +among the children, it was, I found You. + +IOSAGAN. There isn’t any place or time the children do be making fun to +themselves that I’m not with them. Times they see Me; other times they +don’t see Me. + +MATTHIAS. I never saw You till lately. + +IOSAGAN. All the grown people do be blind. + +MATTHIAS. And it has been granted me to see You, Iosagan. + +IOSAGAN. My Father gave Me leave to show Myself to you because you loved +His little children. (_The voices are heard of the people returning from +Mass._) I must go now from you. + +MATTHIAS. Let me kiss the hem of Your coat. + +IOSAGAN. Kiss it. _He kisses the hem of His coat._ + +MATTHIAS. Shall I see You again, Iosagan? + +IOSAGAN. You will. + +MATTHIAS. When? + +IOSAGAN. To-night. + + _Iosagan goes. The old man stands on the door-flag looking after Him._ + +MATTHIAS. I will see Him to-night. + + _The people pass along the road, returning from Mass._ + + + CURTAIN + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + SCENE II + + _Old Matthias’s room. It is very dark. The old man lying on his bed. + Some one knocks outside the door. Matthias speaks in a weak voice._ + +MATTHIAS. Come in. (_The Priest enters. He sits down beside the bed and +hears the old man’s confession. When they have finished, Matthias +speaks._) Who told you I was wanting you, Father? I was praying God that +you’d come, but I hadn’t a messenger to send for you. + +PRIEST. But, sure, you did send a messenger for me? + +MATTHIAS. No. + +PRIEST. You didn’t? But a little boy came and knocked at my door, and he +said you were wanting my help. + + _The old man straightens himself back in the bed, and his eyes flash._ + +MATTHIAS. What sort of a little boy was he, Father? + +PRIEST. A mannerly little boy, with a white coat on him. + +MATTHIAS. Did you take notice if there was a shadow of light about his +head? + +PRIEST. I did, and it put great wonder on me. + + _The door opens. Iosagan stands on the threshold, and He with His two + arms stretched out towards Matthias; a miraculous light about His face + and head._ + +MATTHIAS. Iosagan! You’re good, Iosagan. You didn’t fail me, love. I was +too proud to go into Your house, but at the last it was granted me to +see You. “I was here always,” says He. “I do be travelling the roads and +walking the hills and ploughing the waves. I do be among the people when +they gather into My house. I do be among the children they do leave +behind playing on the street.” Among the children, it was, I found You, +Iosagan. “Shall I see You again?” “You will,” says He. “You’ll see Me +to-night.” _Sé do bheatha, a Iosagáin!_ + + _He falls back on the bed, and he dead. The Priest goes softly to him + and closes his eves._ + + + CURTAIN + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE MOTHER + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE MOTHER + + +There was a company of women sitting up one night in the house of +Barbara of the Bridge, spinning frieze. It would be music to you to be +listening to them, and their voices making harmony with the drone of the +wheels, like the sound of the wind with the shaking of the bushes. + +They heard a cry. The child, it was, talking in its sleep. + +“Some evil thing that crossed the door,” says Barbara. “Rise, Maire, and +stir the cradle.” + +The woman spoken-to got up. She was sitting on the floor till that, +carding. She went over to the cradle. The child was wide awake before +her, and he crying pitifully. Maire knelt down beside the cradle. As +soon as the child saw her face he ceased from crying. A long, beautiful +face she had; a brow, broad and smooth, black hair and it twisted in +clusters about her head, and two grey eyes that would look on you slow, +serious, and troubled-like. It was a gift Maire had, the way she would +quieten a cross child or put a sick child to sleep, looking on that +smooth, pleasant face and those grey, loving eyes of hers. + +Maire began singing the “_Crónán na Banaltra_” (The Nurse’s Lullaby) in +a low voice. The other women ceased from their talk to listen to her. It +wasn’t long till the child was in a dead sleep. Maire rose and went back +to where she was sitting before. She fell to her carding again. + +“May you have good, Maire,” says Barbara. “There’s no wonder in life but +the way you’re able to put children asleep. Though that’s my own heir, I +would be hours of the clock with him before he would go off on me.” + +“Maire has magic,” says another woman. + +“She’s like the harpers of Meave that would put a host of men asleep +when they would play their sleep-tunes,” says old Una ní Greelis. + +“Isn’t it fine she can sing the _Crónán na Banaltra_?” says the second +woman. + +“My soul, you would think it was the Virgin herself that would be saying +it,” says old Una. + +“Do you think is it true, Una, that it was the Blessed Virgin (praise to +her for ever) that made that tune?” says Barbara. + +“I know it’s true. Isn’t it with that tune she used put the Son of God +(a thousand glories to His name) asleep when He was a child?” + +“And how is it, then, the people do have it now?” says Barbara. + +“Coming down from generation to generation, I suppose, like the Fenian +tales,” says one of the women. + +“No, my soul,” says old Una. “The people it was heard the tune from the +Virgin’s mouth itself, here in this countryside, not so long ago.” + +“And how would they hear it?” + +“Doesn’t the world know that the glorious Virgin goes round the +townlands every Christmas Eve, herself and her child?” + +“I heard the people saying she does.” + +“And don’t you know if the door is left ajar and a candle lighting in +the window, that the Virgin and her Child will come into the house, and +that they will sit down to rest themselves?” + +“My soul, but I heard that, too.” + +“A woman of the Joyce country, it was, waiting up on Christmas Eve to +see the Virgin, that heard the tune from her for the first time and +taught it to the country. It’s often I heard discourse about her, and I +a growing girl. ‘Maire of the Virgin’ was the name they gave her. It’s +said that it’s often she saw the glorious Virgin. She died in the +poor-house in Uachtar Ard a couple of years before I was married. The +blessing of God be with the souls of the dead.” + +“Amen, O Lord,” say the other women. + +But Maire did not speak. She and her two big grey eyes were going, as +you would say, through old Una’s forehead, and she telling the story. +She spoke after a spell. + +“Are you sure, Una, that the Virgin and her Child come into the houses +on Christmas Eve?” says she. + +“As sure as I’m living.” + +“Did you ever see her?” + +“I did not, then. But the Christmas Eve after I was married I waited up +to see her, if it would be granted me. A cloud of sleep fell on me. Some +noise woke me, and when I opened my eyes I thought I saw, as it would +be, a young woman and a child in her arms going out the door.” + +No one spoke for a long time. Nothing was heard in the house but the +drone of the spinning-wheels and the crackling of the fire, and the +chirping of the crickets. Maire got up. + +“I’ll be shortening the road,” says she. “May God give you good night, +women.” + +“God speed you, Maire,” they answered together. + +She drew-to the door on herself. + +There was, as it would be, a blaze of fire in that woman’s heart, and +she going the road home in the blackness of night. The great longing of +her soul was plundering and desolating her--the longing for children. +She had been married four years, and hadn’t clann. It’s often she would +spend the hours on her knees, praying God to send her a child. It’s +often she would rise from the bed in the night-time, and go on her two +naked knees on the cold, hard stone making the same petition. It’s many +a penance she used put on herself in hopes that the torture of her body +would soften God’s heart. It’s often when her man would be from home, +that she would go to sleep without dinner and without supper. Once or +twice, when her man was asleep, she left the bed and went out and stood +a long while under the dew of the night sending her prayer to the dark, +lonesome skies. Once she drew blood from her shoulder-blades with blows +she gave herself with a switch. Another time she stuck thorns into her +flesh in memory of the crown of thorns that went on the brow of the +Saviour. The penances and the heart-scald were preying on her health. +Nobody guessed what was wrong with her. Her own husband--a decent, +kindly man--didn’t understand the story right, though it’s often he +would hear her in the night talking to herself as a mother would be +talking to a child, when she would feel its hand or its mouth at her +breast. Ah! it’s many a woman hugs her heart and whispers in the dead +time of night to the child that isn’t born, and will not be. + +Maire thought long until Christmas Eve came. But as there’s a wearing on +everything, so there was a wearing on the delay of that time. The day of +Christmas Eve was tedious to her until evening came. She swept the floor +of the house, and she cleaned the chairs, and she made up a good fire +before going to sleep. She left the door on the latch, and she put a +tall, white candle in the window. When she stretched herself beside her +man it wasn’t to sleep it was, but to watch. She thought her man would +never sleep. She felt at last by the quiet breath he was drawing that he +was gone off. Then she got up. She put on her dress, and she stole out +to the kitchen. No one was there. Not even a mouse was stirring. The +crickets themselves were asleep. The fire was in red ashes. The candle +was shining brightly. She bent on her knees in the room door. It’s sweet +the calm of the house was to her in the middle of the night, though, I +tell you, it was terrible. There came a heightening of mind on her as it +used to come betimes in the chapel, and she going to receive communion +from the priest’s hands. She felt, somehow, that the Presence wasn’t far +from her, and that it wouldn’t be long until she would hear a footstep. +She listened patiently. The house itself, she thought, and what was in +it both living and dead, was listening as well. The hills were +listening, and the stones of the earth, and the starry stars of the sky. + +She heard a sound. A footstep on the door-flag. She saw a young woman +coming in and a child in her arms. The young woman drew up to the fire. +She sat down on a chair. She began crooning, very low, to the child. +Maire recognised the music. The tune that was on it was the “_Crónán na +Banaltra_.” + +A while to them like that. The woman hugging the child to her breast, +and crooning, very sweetly, very softly. Maire on her two knees, under +the shadow of the door. It wasn’t in her to speak nor to move. She was +barely able to draw her breath. + +At last the woman rose. It’s then Maire rose. She went hither to the +woman. + +“_A Mhuire_,” says she, whispering-like. + +The woman turned her countenance towards her. A lovely, noble +countenance it was. + +“_A Mhuire_,” says Maire again. “I have a request of you.” + +“Say it,” says the other woman. + +“A child drinking the milk of my breast,” says Maire. “Don’t deny me, _a +Mhuire_.” + +“Come closer to me,” says the other woman. + +Maire came closer to her. The other woman raised her child. The child +stretched out its two little hands, and it laid a hand softly on each +cheek of Maire’s two cheeks. + +“That blessing will make you fruitful,” says the Mother. + +“Its a good woman you are, _a Mhuire_,” says Maire. “It’s good your Son +is.” + +“I leave a blessing in this house,” says the other woman. + +She squeezed her child to her breast again and went out the door. Maire +fell on her knees. + + * * * * * + +It’s a year since that Christmas Eve. The last time I passed Maire’s +house there was a child in her breast. There was that look on her that +doesn’t be on living soul but a mother when she feels the mouth of her +firstborn at her nipple. + +“God loves the women better than the men,” said I to myself. “It’s to +them He sends the greatest sorrows, and it’s on them He bestows the +greatest joy.” + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE DEARG-DAOL + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE DEARG-DAOL + + +A walking-man, it was, come into my father’s house out of the Joyce +Country, that told us this story by the fireside one wild winter’s +night. The wind was wailing round the house, like women keening the +dead, while he spoke, and he would make his voice rise or fall according +as the wind’s voice would rise or fall. A tall man he was, with wild +eyes, and his share of clothes almost in tatters. There was a sort of +fear on me of him when he came in, and his story didn’t lessen my fear. + +The three most blessed beasts in the world, says the walking-man, are +the haddock, the robin redbreast, and God’s cow. And the three most +cursed beasts in the world are the viper, the wren, and the _dearg-daol_ +(“black chafer”). And it’s the _dearg-daol_ is the most cursed of them. +’Tis I that know that. Woman of the house, if a man would murder his +son, don’t call him the _dearg-daol_. If a woman would come between +yourself and the husband of your bed, don’t put her in comparison with +the _dearg-daol_. + +“God save us,” says my mother. + +“Amen, Lord,” says the walking-man. + +He didn’t speak again for a spell. We all listened, for we knew he was +going to tell a story. It wasn’t long before he began. + +When I was a lad, says the walking-man, there was a woman of our people +that everybody was afraid of. In a little, lonely cabin in a gap of a +mountain, it was, she lived. No one would go near her house. She, +herself, wouldn’t come next or near any other body’s house. Nobody would +speak to her when they met her on the road. She wouldn’t put word nor +wisdom on anybody at all. You’d think a pity to see the creature and she +going the road alone. + +“Who is she,” I would say to my mother, “or why wouldn’t they speak to +her?” + +“Whisht, boy,” my mother would say to me. “That’s the _Dearg-Daol_. ’Tis +a cursed woman she is.” + +“What did she do, or who put the curse on her?” I would say. + +“A priest of God that put the curse on her,” my mother would say. “No +one in life knew what she did.” + +And that’s all the knowledge I got of her until I was a grown chap. And +indeed to you, neighbours, I never heard anything about her but that she +committed some dreadful sin at the start of her life, and that the +priest put his curse on her before the people on account of that sin. +One Sunday, when the people were gathered at Mass, the priest turned +round on them, and says he:-- + +“There is a woman here,” says he, “that will merit eternal damnation for +herself and for every person that makes familiar with her. And I say to +that woman,” says he, “that she is a cursed woman, and I say to you, let +you not have intercourse or neighbourliness with that woman but as much +as you’d have with a _dearg-daol_. Rise up now, _Dearg-Daol_,” says he, +“and avoid the company of decent people henceforth.” + +The poor woman got up, and went out the chapel door. There was no name +on her from that out but the _Dearg-Daol_. Her own name and surname were +put out of mind. ’Twas said that she had the evil eye. If she’d look on +a calf or a sheep that wasn’t her own, the animal would die. The women +were afraid to let their children out on the street if the _Dearg-Daol_ +was going the road. + +I married a comely girl when I was of the age of one-and-twenty. We had +a little slip of a girl, and we had hopes of another child. One day when +I was cutting turf in the bog, my wife was feeding the fowl on the +street, when she saw--God between us and harm--the _Dearg-Daol_ making +on her up the bohereen, and she with the little, soft _pataire_ of a +child in her arms. An arm of the child was about the woman’s neck, and +her shawl covering her. Speech left my wife. + +The _Dearg-Daol_ laid the little girl in her mother’s breast. My woman +took notice that her clothes were wet. + +“What happened the child?” says she. + +“Falling into Lochán na Luachra (the Pool of the Rushes), she did it,” +says the _Dearg-Daol_. “Looking for water-lilies she was. I was crossing +the road, and I heard her scream. In over the dyke with me. It was only +by dint of trouble I caught her.” + +“May God reward you,” says my wife. The other woman went off before she +had time to say more. My wife fetched the little wee thing inside, she +dried her, and put her to sleep. When I came in from the bog she told me +the story. The two of us prayed our blessing on the _Dearg-Daol_ that +night. + +The day after, the little girl began prattling about the woman that +saved her. “The water was in my mouth, and in my eyes, and in my ears,” +says she. “I saw shining sparks, and I heard a great noise; I was +slipping and slipping,” says she; “and then,” says she, “I felt a hand +about me, and she lifted me up and she kissed me. I thought it was at +home, I was, when I was in her arms and her shawl about me,” says she. + +A couple of days after that my wife noticed the little thing away from +her. We sought her for the length of two hours. When she came home she +told us that she was after paying a visit to the woman that saved her. +“She made a cake for me,” says she. “She has ne’er a one in the house at +all but herself, and she said to me I should go visiting her every +evening.” + +Neither I nor my wife was able to say a word against her. The +_Dearg-Daol_ was after saving our girl’s life, and it wouldn’t be +natural to hinder the child going into her house. From that day out the +little girl would go up the hill to her every day. + +The neighbours said to us that it wasn’t right. There was a sort of +suspicion on ourselves that it wasn’t right, but how could we help it? + +Would you believe me, people? From the day the _Dearg-Daol_ laid eyes on +the little girl, she began dwindling and dwindling, like a fire that +wouldn’t be mended. She lost her appetite and her activity. After a +quarter she was only a shadow. After another month she was in the +churchyard. + +The _Dearg-Daol_ came down the mountain the day she was buried. She +wouldn’t be let into the graveyard. She went her road up the mountain +again alone. My heart bled for the creature, for I knew that our trouble +was no heavier than her trouble. I myself went up the hill the morning +of the next day. I meant to say to her that neither my wife nor myself +had any upbraiding for her. I knocked at the door. I didn’t get any +answer. I went into the house. The ashes were red on the hearth. There +was no one at all to be seen. I noticed a bed in the corner. I went over +to the bed. The _Dearg-Daol_ was lying there, and she cold dead. + +There wasn’t any luck on me or on my household from that day out. My +wife died a month after that, and she in childbirth. The child didn’t +live. There fell a murrain on my cattle the winter following. The +landlord put me out of my holding. I am a walking man, and the roads of +Connacht before me, from that day to this. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE ROADS + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE ROADS + + +Rossnageeragh will mind till death the night the Dublin Man gave us the +feast in the schoolhouse of Turlagh Beg. We had no name or surname for +that same man ever but the “Dublin Man.” Peatin Pharaig would say to us +that he was a man who wrote for the newspapers. Peatin would read the +Gaelic paper the mistress got every week, and it’s a small thing he +hadn’t knowledge of, for there was discourse in that paper on the doings +of the Western World and on the goings-on of the Eastern World, and +there would be no bounds to the information Peatin would have to give us +every Sunday at the chapel gate. He would say to us that the Dublin Man +had a stack of money, for two hundred pounds in the year were coming to +him out of the heart of that paper he wrote for every week. + +The Dublin Man would pay a fortnight’s or a month’s visit to Turlagh +every year. This very year he sent out word calling poor and naked to a +feast he was gathering for us in the schoolhouse. He announced that +there would be music and dancing and Gaelic speeches in it; that there +would be a piper there from Carrowroe; that Brigid ni Mhainin would be +there to give _Conntae Mhuigheó_; that Martin the Fisherman would tell a +Fenian story; that old Una ni Greelis would recite a poem if the +creature wouldn’t have the asthma; and that Marcuseen Mhichil Ruaidh +would do a bout of dancing unless the rheumatic pains would be too bad +on him. Nobody ever knew Marcuseen to have the rheumatics but when he’d +be asked to dance. “Bedam, but I’m dead with the pains for a week,” he’d +always say when a dance would be hinted. But no sooner would the piper +start on “Tatter Jack Walsh,” than Marcuseen would throw his old hat in +the air, “hup!” he’d say, and take the floor. + +The family of Col Labhras were drinking tea the evening of the feast. + +“Will we go to the schoolhouse to-night, daddy?” says Cuimin Col to his +father. + +“We will. Father Ronan said he’d like all the people to go.” + +“Won’t we have the spree!” says Cuimin. + +“You’ll stay at home, Nora,” says the mother, “to mind the child.” + +Nora put a lip on herself, but she didn’t speak. + +After tea Col and his wife went into the room to ready themselves for +the road. + +“My sorrow that it’s not a boy God made me,” says Nora to her brother. + +“_Muise_, why?” says Cuimin. + +“For one reason better than another,” says Nora. With that she gave a +little slap to the child that was half-asleep and half-awake in the +cradle. The child let a howl out of him. + +“_Ara_, listen to the child,” says Cuimin. “If my mother hears him +crying, she’ll take the ear off you.” + +“I don’t care if she takes the two ears off me,” says Nora. + +“What’s up with you?” Cuimin was washing himself, and he stopped to look +over his shoulder at his sister, and the water streaming from his face. + +“Tired of being made a little ass of by my mother and by everybody, I +am,” says Nora. “I working from morning till night, and ye at your ease. +Ye going to the spree to-night, and I sitting here nursing this child. +‘You’ll stay at home, Nora, to mind the child,’ says my mother. That’s +always the way. It’s a pity it’s not a boy God made me.” + +Cuimin was drying his face meanwhile, and “s-s-s-s-s” coming out of him +like a person would be grooming a horse. + +“It’s a pity, right enough,” says he, when he was able to speak. + +He threw the towel from him, he put his head to one side, and looked +complacently at himself in the glass was hanging on the wall. + +“A parting in my hair now,” says he, “and I’ll be first-class.” + +“Are you ready, Cuimin?” says his father, coming out of the room. + +“I am.” + +“We’ll be stirring on then.” + +The mother came out. + +“If he there is crying, Nora,” says she, “give him a drink of milk out +of the bottle.” + +Nora didn’t say a word. She remained sitting on the stool beside the +cradle, and her chin laid in her two hands and her two elbows stuck on +her knees. She heard her father and her mother and Cuimin going out the +door and across the street; she knew by their voices that they were +going down the bohereen. The voices died away, and she understood that +they were after taking the road. + +Nora began making fancy pictures in her mind. She saw, she thought, the +fine, level road and it white under the moonlight. The people were in +groups making for the schoolhouse. The Rossnageeragh folk were coming +out the road, and the Garumna folk journeying round by the mistress’s +house, and the Kilbrickan folk crowding down the hill, and the Turlagh +Beg’s crowding likewise; there was a band from Turlagh, and an odd +sprinkling from Glencaha, and one or two out of Inver coming in the +road. She imagined her own people were at the school gate by now. They +were going up the path. They were entering in the door. The schoolhouse +was well-nigh full, and still no end to the coming of the people. There +were lamps hung on the walls, and the house as bright as it would be in +the middle of day. Father Ronan was there, and he going from person to +person and bidding welcome to everybody. The Dublin Man was there, and +he as nice and friendly-like as ever. The mistress was there, and the +master and mistress from Gortmore, and the lace-instructress. The +schoolgirls sitting together on the front benches. Weren’t they to sing +a song? She saw, she thought, Maire Sean Mor, and Maire Pheatin Johnny, +and Babeen Col Marcus, and the Boatman’s Brigid, and her red head on +her, and Brigid Caitin ni Fhiannachta, with her mouth open as usual. The +girls were looking round and nudging one another, and asking one another +where was Nora Col Labhras. The schoolhouse was packed to the door now. +Father Ronan was striking his two hands together. They were stopping +from talk and from whispering. Father Ronan was speaking to them. He was +speaking comically. Everybody was laughing. He was calling on the +schoolgirls to give their song. They were getting up and going to the +head of the room and bowing to the people. + +“My sorrow, that I’m not there,” says poor Nora to herself, and she laid +her face in her palms and began crying. + +She stopped crying, suddenly. She hung her head, and rubbed a palm to +her eyes. + +It wasn’t right, says she in her own mind. It wasn’t right, just, or +decent. Why should she be kept at home? Why should they always keep her +at home? If she was a boy she’d be let out. Since she was only a girl +they would keep her at home. She was, as she had said to Cuimin that +evening, only a little ass of a girl. She wouldn’t put up with it any +longer. She would have her own way. She would be as free as any boy that +came or went. It’s often before that she set her mind to the deed. She +would do the deed that night. + +It’s often Nora thought that it would be a fine life to be going like a +flying hawk, independent of everybody. The roads of Ireland before her, +and her face on them; the back of her head to home and hardship and the +vexation of her people. She going from village to village, and from glen +to glen. The fine, level road before her, fields on both sides of her, +little, well-sheltered houses on the slopes of the hills. If she’d get +tired she could stretch back by the side of a ditch, or she could go +into some house and ask the good woman for a drink of milk and a seat by +the fire. To make the night’s sleep in some wood under the shadow of +trees, and to rise early in the morning and stretch out again under the +lovely fresh air. If she wanted food (and it’s likely she would want +it), she would do a day’s work here and a day’s work there, and she +would be full-satisfied if she got a cup of tea and a crumb of bread in +payment for it. Wouldn’t it be a fine life that, besides being a little +ass of a girl at home, feeding the hens and minding the child! + +It’s not as a girl she’d go, but as a boy. No one in life would know +that it’s not a boy was in it. When she’d cut her hair and put on +herself a suit of Cuimin’s bawneens, who would know that it’s a girl she +was? + +It’s often Nora took that counsel to herself, but the fear would never +let her put it in practice. She never had right leave for it. Her mother +would always be in the house, and no sooner would she be gone than she’d +feel wanted. But she had leave now. None of them would be back in the +house for another hour of the clock, at the least. She’d have a power of +time to change her clothes, and to go off unbeknown to the world. She +would meet nobody on the road, for all the people were gathered in the +schoolhouse. She would have time to go as far as Ellery to-night and to +sleep in the wood. She would rise early on the morrow morning, and she +would take the road before anybody would be astir. + +She jumped from the stool. There were scissors in the drawer of the +dresser. It wasn’t long till she had a hold of them, and snip! snap! She +cut off her back hair, and the fringe that was on her brow, and each +ringleted tress that was on her, in one attack. She looked at herself in +the glass. _A inghean O!_ isn’t it bald and bare she looked. She +gathered the curls of hair from the floor, and she hid them in an old +box. Over with her then to the place where a clean suit of bawneens +belonging to Cuimin was hanging on a nail. Down with her on her knees +searching for a shirt of Cuimin’s that was in a lower drawer of the +dresser. She threw the clothes on the floor beside the fire. + +Here she is now taking off her own share of clothes in a hurry. She +threw her dress and her little blouse and her shift into a chest that +was under the table. She put Cuimin’s shirt on herself. She stuck her +legs into the breeches, and she pulled them up on herself. She minded +then that she had neither belt nor gallowses. She’d have to make a belt +out of an old piece of cord. She put the jacket on herself. She looked +in the glass, and she started. It’s how she thought Cuimin was before +her! She looked over her shoulder, but she didn’t see anybody. It’s then +she minded that it’s her own self was looking at her, and she laughed. +But if she did itself, she was a little scared. If she’d a cap now she’d +be ready for the road. Yes, she knew where there was an old cap of +Cuimin’s. She got it, and put it on her head. Farewell for ever now to +the old life, and a hundred welcomes to the new! + +When she was at the door she turned back and she crept over to the +cradle. The child was sound asleep. She bent down and she gave a kiss to +the baby, a little, little, light kiss in on his forehead. She stole on +the tips of her toes to the door, opened it gently, went out on the +street, and shut the door quietly after her. Across the street with her, +and down the bohereen. It was short till she took the road to herself. +She pressed on then towards Turlagh Beg. + +It was short till she saw the schoolhouse by the side of the road. There +was a fine light burning through the windows. She heard a noise, as if +they’d be laughing and clapping hands within. Over across the fence with +her, and up the school path. She went round to the back of the house. +The windows were high enough, but she raised herself up till she’d a +view of what was going on inside. Father Ronan was speaking. He stopped, +and O, Lord!--the people began getting up. It was plain that the fun was +over, and that they were about to separate to go home. What would she +do, if she’d be seen? + +She threw a leap from the window. Her foot slipped from her, coming down +on the ground, and she got a drop. She very nearly screamed out, but she +minded herself in time. Her knee was a little hurt, she thought. The +people were out on the school yard by that. She must stay in hiding till +they were all gone. She moved into the wall as close as she could. She +heard the people talking and laughing, and she knew that they were +scattering after one another. + +What was that? The voices of people coming towards her; the sound of a +footstep on the path beside her! It’s then she minded that there was a +short-cut across the back of the house, and that there might be some +people going the short-cut. Likely, her own people would be going that +way, for it was a little shorter than round by the high road. A little +knot came towards her; she recognized by their voices that they were +Peatin Johnny’s people. They passed. Another little knot; the Boatman’s +family. They drew that close to her that Eamonn trod on her poor, bare, +little foot. She almost let a cry out of her the second time, but she +didn’t--she only squeezed herself tighter to the wall. Another crowd was +coming: O, Great God, her own people! Cuimin was saying, “Wasn’t it +wonderful, Marcuseen’s dancing!” Her mother’s dress brushed Nora’s cheek +going by: she didn’t draw her breath all that time. A company or two +more went past. She listened for a spell. Nobody else was coming. It’s +how they were all gone, said she to herself. Out with her from her +hiding-place, and she tore across the path. Plimp! She ran against +somebody. Two big hands were about her. She heard a man’s voice. She +recognized the voice. The priest that was in it. + +“Who have I?” says Father Ronan. + +She told a lie. What else had she to say? + +“Cuimin Col Labhras, Father,” says she. + +He laid a hand on each shoulder of her, and looked down on her. She had +her head bent. + +“I thought you went home with your father and mother,” says he. + +“I did, Father, but I lost my cap and I came back looking for it.” + +“Isn’t your cap on your head?” + +“I found it on the path.” + +“Aren’t your father and mother gone the short-cut?” + +“They are, Father, but I am going the road so that I’ll be with the +other boys.” + +“Off with you, then, or the ghosts’ll catch you!” With that Father Ronan +let her go from him. + +“May God give you good-night, Father,” says she. She didn’t mind to take +off her cap, but it’s how she curtseyed to the priest after the manner +of girls! If the priest took notice of that much he hadn’t time to say a +word, for she was gone in the turning of your hand. + +Her two cheeks were red-hot with shame, and she giving face on the road. +She was after telling four big lies to the priest! She was afraid that +those lies were a terrible sin on her soul. She was afraid going that +lonesome road in the darkness of the night, and that burthen on her +heart. The night was very black. There was a little brightening on her +right hand. The lake of Turlagh Beg that was in it. There rose some +bird, a curlew or a snipe, from the brink of the lake, letting mournful +cries out of it. Nora started when she heard the bird’s voice, that +suddenly, and the drumming of its wings. She hurried on, and her heart +beating against her breast. She left Turlagh Beg behind her, and faced +the long, straight road that leads to the Crosses of Kilbrickan. It’s +with trouble she recognized the shape of the houses on the hill when she +reached the Crosses. There was a light in the house of Peadar O +Neachtain, and she heard voices from the side of Snamh-Bo. She followed +on, drawing on Turlagh. When she reached the Bog Hill the moon came out, +and she saw from her the scar of the hills. There came a great cloud +across the face of the moon, and it seemed to her that it’s double dark +the night was then. Terror seized her, for she minded that +Cnoc-a’-Leachta (the Hill of the Grave) wasn’t far off, and that the +graveyard would be on her right hand then. It’s often she heard that was +an evil place in the middle of the night. She sharpened her pace; she +began running. She thought that she was being followed; that there was a +bare-footed woman treading almost on her heels; that there was a thin, +black man travelling alongside her; that there was a child, and a white +shirt on him, going the road before her. She opened her mouth to let a +screech out of her, but there didn’t come a sound from her. She was in a +cold sweat. Her legs were bending under her. She nearly fell in a heap +on the road. She was at Cnoc-a’-Leachta about that time. It seemed to +her that Cill Eoin was full of ghosts. She minded the word the priest +said “Have a care, or the ghosts’ll catch you.” They were on her! She +heard, she thought, the “plub-plab” of naked feet on the road. She +turned to her left hand and she gave a leap over the ditch. She went +near to being drowned in a deal-hole that was between her and the wood, +unbeknown to her. She twisted her foot trying to save herself, and she +felt pain. On with her, reeling. She was in the fields of Ellery then. +She saw the lamp of the lake through the branches. A tree-root took a +stumble out of her, and she fell. She lost her senses. + + * * * * * + +After a very long time she imagined that the place was filled with a +sort of half-light, a light that was between the light of the sun and +the light of the moon. She saw, very clearly, the feet of the trees, and +them dark against a yellowish-green sky. She never saw a sky of that +colour before, and it was beautiful to her. She heard a footstep, and +she understood that there was someone coming towards her up from the +lake. She knew in some manner that a prodigious miracle was about to be +shown her, and that someone was to suffer there some awful passion. She +hadn’t long to wait till she saw a young man struggling wearily through +the tangle of the wood. He had his head bent, and the appearance of +great sorrow on him. Nora recognised him. The Son of Mary that was in +it, and she knew that He was journeying all alone to His death. + +The Man threw himself on His knees, and He began praying. Nora didn’t +hear one word from Him, but she understood in her heart what He was +saying. He was asking His Eternal Father to send someone to Him who +would side with Him against His enemies, and who would bear half of His +burthen. Nora wished to rise and to go to Him, but she couldn’t stir out +of the place she was in. + +She heard a noise, and the place was filled with armed men. She saw +dark, devilish faces and grey swords and edged weapons. The gentle Man +was seized outrageously, and His share of clothes torn from Him, and He +was scourged with scourges there till His body was in a bloody mass and +in an everlasting wound from His head to the soles of His feet. A thorny +crown was put then on His gentle head, and a cross was laid on His +shoulders, and He went before Him, heavy-footed, pitifully, the +sorrowful way of His journey to Calvary. The chain that was tying Nora’s +tongue and limbs till that broke, and she cried aloud: + +“Let me go with You, Jesus, and carry Your cross for You!” + + * * * * * + +She felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up. She saw her father’s +face. + +“What’s on my little girl, or why did she go from us?” says her father’s +voice. + +He lifted her in his arms and he brought her home. She lay on her bed +till the end of a month after that. She was out of her mind for half of +that time, and she thought at times that she was going the road, like a +lone, wild-goose, and asking knowledge of the way of people; and she +thought at other times that she was lying in under a tree in Ellery, and +that she was watching again the passion of that gentle Man, and she +trying to help Him, but without power to help him. That wandering went +out of her mind at long last, and she understood she was at home again. +And when she recognised her mother’s face her heart was filled with +consolation, and she asked her to put the child into the bed with her, +and when he was put into the bed she kissed him lovingly. + +“Oh, mameen,” says she, “I thought I wouldn’t see you or my father or +Cuimin or the child ever again. Were ye here all that time?” + +“We were, white lamb,” says her mother. + +“I’ll stay in the place where ye are,” says she. “Oh, mameen, heart, the +roads were very dark.... And I’ll never strike the child again,”--and +she gave him another little kiss. + +The child put his arm about her neck, and he curled himself up in the +bed at his full ease. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + BRIGID OF THE SONGS + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + BRIGID OF THE SONGS + + +Brigid of the Songs was the most famous singer in Rossnageeragh, not +only in my time but in my father’s time. It’s said that she could wile +the song-thrush from the branch with the sweetness of the music that God +gave her; and I would believe it, for it’s often she wiled me and other +lads besides from our dinner or our supper. I’d be a rich man to-day if +I had a shilling for every time I stopped outside her door, on my way +home from school, listening to her share of songs; and my father told me +that it’s often and often he did the same thing when he was a lad going +to school. It was a tradition among the people that it was from Raftery +himself that Brigid learned “_Conntae Mhuigheó_” (The County of Mayo), +and isn’t it with the “_Conntae Mhuigheó_” that she drew the big tears +out of the eyes of John MacHale one time he was on a visit here, along +with our own Bishop, a year exactly before I was born? + +A thing that’s no wonder, when we heard that there was to be a Feis in +Moykeeran, we all settled in our minds that it’s Brigid would have the +prize for the singing, if she’d enter for it. There was no other person, +neither men-singers nor women-singers, half as good as she was in the +seven parishes. She couldn’t be beaten, if right was to be done. She +would put wonderment on the people of Moykeeran and on the grand folk +would be in it out of Galway and out of Tuam. She would earn name and +fame for Rossnageeragh. She would win the prize easy, and she would be +sent to Dublin to sing a song at the Oireachtas. There was a sort of +hesitation on Brigid at first. She was too old, she said. Her voice +wasn’t as good as it used be. She hadn’t her wind. A share of her songs +were going out of her memory. She didn’t want a prize. Didn’t the men of +Ireland know that she was the best singer in Iar-Connacht? Didn’t +Raftery praise her, didn’t Colm Wallace make a song in her honour, +didn’t she draw tears out of the eyes of John MacHale? Brigid said that +much and seven times more; but it was plain, at the same time, that +there was a wish on her to go to the Feis, and we all knew that she +would go. To make a short story of it, we were at her until we took a +promise out of her that she would go. + +She went. It’s well I remember the day of the Feis. The world of Ireland +was there, you’d think. The house was overflowing with poor people and +with rich people, with noble folk and with lowly folk, with strong, +active youths, and with withered, done old people. There were priests +and friars there from every art. There were doctors and lawyers there +from Tuam and from Galway and from Uachtar Ard. There were newspaper +people there from Dublin. There was a lord’s son there from England. The +full of people went up, singing songs. Brigid went up. We were at the +back of the house, listening to her. She began. There was a little +bashfulness on her at the start, and her voice was too low. But she came +to herself in time, according as she was stirring out into the song, and +she took tears out of the eyes of the gathering with the last verse. +There was great cheering when she had finished, and she coming down. +_We_ put a shout out of us you’d think would crack the roof of the +house. A young girl went up. Her voice was a long way better than +Brigid’s, but, we thought, there was not the same sadness nor sweetness +in the song as there was in Brigid’s. She came down. The people cheered +again, but I didn’t notice that anybody was crying. One of the judges +got up. He praised Brigid greatly. He praised the young girl greatly, +too. He was very tedious. + +“Who won the prize?” says one of us at last, when our share of patience +was exhausted. + +“Oh, the prize!” says he. “Well, in regard to the prize, we are giving +it to Nora Cassidy (the young girl), but we are considering the award of +a special prize to Brígid ní Mhainín (our Brigid). Nora Cassidy will be +sent to Dublin to sing a song at the Oireachtas.” + +The Moykeeran people applauded, for it was out of Moykeeran that Nora +Cassidy was. We didn’t say anything. We looked over at Brigid. Her face +was grey-white, and she trembling in every limb. + +“What did you say, sir, please?” says she in a strange voice. “Is it I +that have the prize?” + +“We are considering the award of a special prize to you, my good woman, +as you shaped so excellently--you did that,--but it’s to Nora Cassidy +that the Feis prize is given.” + +Brigid didn’t speak a word; but it’s how she rose up, and without +looking either to the right hand or to the left, she went out the door. +She took the road to Rossnageeragh, and she was before us when we +reached the village late in the night. + + * * * * * + +The Oireachtas was to be in Dublin the week after. We were a sad crowd, +remembering that Brigid of the Songs wouldn’t be there. We were full +sure that fair play wasn’t done her in Moykeeran, and we thought that if +she’d go to Dublin she’d get satisfaction. But alas! we had no money to +send her there, and if we had itself we knew that she wouldn’t take it +from us. We were arguing the question one evening at the gable of the +Boatman’s house, when who should come up but little Martin Connolly, at +a full run, and he said to us that Brigid of the Songs was gone, the +lock on the door, and no tale or tidings to be got of her. + +We didn’t know what happened her until a fortnight’s time after that. +Here’s how it fell out. When she heard that the Oireachtas was to be in +Dublin on such a day, she said to herself that she would be there if she +lived. She didn’t let on to anyone, but went off with herself in the +night-time, walking. She had only a florin piece in her pocket. She +didn’t know where Dublin was, nor how far it was away. She followed her +nose, it’s like, asking the road of the people she met, tramping always, +until she’d left behind her Cashlagh, and Spiddal, and Galway, and +Oranmore, and Athenry, and Kilconnell, and Ballinasloe, and Athlone, and +Mullingar, and Maynooth, until at last she saw from her the houses of +Dublin. It’s like that her share of money was spent long before that, +and nobody will ever know how the creature lived on that long, lonesome +journey. But one evening when the Oireachtas was in full swing in the +big hall in Dublin, a countrywoman was seen coming in the door, her feet +cut and bleeding with the hard stones of the road, her share of clothes +speckled with dust and dirt, and she weary, worn-out and exhausted. + +She sat down. People were singing in the old style. Brígid ní Mhainín +from Rossnageeragh was called on (for we had entered her name in hopes +that we’d be able to send her). The old woman rose, went up, and started +“_Conntae Mhuigheó_.” + +When she finished the house was in one ree-raw with shouts, it was that +fine. She was told to sing another song. She began on the “_Sail Og +Ruadh_” (The Red Willow). She had only the first line of the second +verse said when there came some wandering in her head. She stopped and +she began again. The wandering came on her a second time, then a +trembling, and she fell in a faint on the stage. She was carried out of +the hall. A doctor came to examine her. + +“She is dying from the hunger and the hardship,” says he. + +While that was going on, great shouts were heard inside the hall. One of +the judges came out in a hurry. + +“You have won the first prize!” says he. “You did”--. He stopped +suddenly. + +A priest was on his knees bending over Brigid. He raised his hand and he +gave the absolution. + +“She has won a greater reward than the first prize,” says he. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE THIEF + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE THIEF + + +One day when the boys of Gortmore were let out from school, after the +Glencaha boys and the Derrybanniv boys had gone east, the Turlagh boys +and the Inver boys stayed to have a while’s chat before separating at +the Rossnageeragh road. The master’s house is exactly at the head of the +road, its back to the hill and its face to Loch Ellery. + +“I heard that the master’s bees were swarming,” says Michileen Bartly +Enda. + +“In with you into the garden till we look at them,” says Daragh Barbara +of the Bridge. + +“I’m afraid,” says Michileen. + +“What are you afraid of?” says Daragh. + +“By my word, the master and the mistress will be out presently.” + +“Who’ll stay to give us word when the master will be coming?” says +Daragh. + +“I will,” says little Anthony Manning. + +“That’ll do,” says Daragh. “Let a whistle when you see him leaving the +school.” + +In over the fence with him. In over the fence with the other boys after +him. + +“Have a care that none of you will get a sting,” says Anthony. + +“Little fear,” says Daragh. And off forever with them. + +Anthony sat on the fence, and his back to the road. He could see the +master over his right shoulder if he’d leave the schoolhouse. What a +nice garden the master had, thought Anthony. He had rose-trees and +gooseberry-trees and apple-trees. He had little white stones round the +path. He had big white stones in a pretty rockery, and moss and +maiden-hair fern and common fern growing between them. He had.... + +Anthony saw a wonder greater than any wonder the master had in the +garden. He saw a little, beautiful wee house under the shade of one of +the rose-trees; it made of wood; two storys in it; white colour on the +lower story and red colour on the upper story; a little green door on +it; three windows of glass on it, one downstairs and two upstairs; house +furniture in it, between tables and chairs and beds and delf, and the +rest; and, says Anthony to himself, look at the lady of the house +sitting in the door! + +Anthony never saw a doll’s house before, and it was a wonder to him, its +neatness and order, for a toy. He knew that it belonged to the master’s +little girl, little Nance. A pity that his own little sister hadn’t one +like it--Eibhlin, the creature, that was stretched on her bed for a long +three months, and she weak and sick! A pity she hadn’t the doll itself! +Anthony put the covetousness of his heart in that doll for Eibhlin. He +looked over his right shoulder--neither master nor mistress was to be +seen. He looked over his left shoulder--the other boys were out of +sight. He didn’t think the second thought. He gave his best leap from +the fence; he seized the doll; he stuck it under his jacket; he +clambered out over the ditch again, and away with him home. + +“I have a present for you,” says he to Eibhlin, when he reached the +house. “Look!” and with that he showed her the doll. + +There came a blush on the wasted cheeks of the little sick girl, and a +light into her eyes. + +“_Ora_, Anthony, love, where did you get it?” says she. + +“The master’s little Nance, that sent it to you for a present,” says +Anthony. + +Their mother came in. + +“Oh, mameen, treasure,” says Eibhlin, “look at the present that the +master’s little Nance sent me!” + +“In earnest?” says the mother. + +“Surely,” says Eibhlin. “Anthony, it was, that brought it in to me now.” + +Anthony looked down at his feet, and began counting the toes that were +on them. + +“My own pet,” says the mother, “isn’t it she that was good to you! +_Muise_, Nance! I’ll go bail that that present will put great +improvement on my little girl.” + +And there came tears in the mother’s eyes out of gratitude to little +Nance because she remembered the sick child. Though he wasn’t able to +look his mother between the eyes, or at Eibhlin, with the dint of fear, +Anthony was glad that he committed the theft. + +He was afraid to say his prayers that night, and he lay down on his bed +without as much as an “Our Father.” He couldn’t say the Act of +Contrition, for it wasn’t truthfully he’d be able to say to God that he +was sorry for that sin. It’s often he started in the night, imagining +that little Nance was coming seeking the doll from Eibhlin, that the +master was taxing him with the robbery before the school, that there was +a miraculous swarm of bees rising against him, and Daragh Barbara of the +Bridge and the other boys exciting them with shouts and with the music +of drums. But the next morning he said to himself: “I don’t care. The +doll will make Eibhlin better.” + +When he went to school the boys asked him why he went off unawares the +evening before that, and he after promising them he’d keep watch. + +“My mother sent for me,” says Anthony. “She’d a task for me.” + +When little Nance came into the school, Anthony looked at her under his +brows. He fancied that she was after being crying; he thought that he +saw the track of the tears on her cheeks. The first time the master +called him by his name he jumped, because he thought that he was going +to tax him with the fault or to cross-question him about the doll. He +never put in as miserable a day as that day at school. But when he went +home and saw the great improvement on Eibhlin, and she sitting up in the +bed for the first time for a month, and the doll clasped in her arms, +says he to himself: “I don’t care. The doll is making Eibhlin better.” + +In his bed in the night-time he had bad dreams again. He thought that +the master was after telling the police that he stole the doll, and that +they were on his track; he imagined one time that there was a policeman +hiding under the bed and that there was another hunkering behind the +window-curtain. He screamed out in his sleep. + +“What’s on you?” says his father to him. + +“The peeler that’s going to take me,” says Anthony. + +“You’re only rambling, boy,” says his father to him. “There’s no peeler +in it. Go to sleep.” + +There was the misery of the world on the poor fellow from that out. He +used think they would be pointing fingers at him, and he going the road. +He used think they would be shaking their heads and saying to each +other, “There’s a thief,” or, “Did you hear what Anthony Pharaig Manning +did? Her doll he stole from the master’s little Nance. Now what do you +say?” But he didn’t suffer rightly till he went to Mass on Sunday and +till Father Ronan started preaching a sermon on the Seventh Commandment: +“Thou shalt not steal; and if you commit a theft it will not be forgiven +you until you make restitution.” Anthony was full sure that it was a +mortal sin. He knew that he ought to go to confession and tell the sin +to the priest. But he couldn’t go to confession, for he knew that the +priest would say to him that he must give the doll back. And he wouldn’t +give the doll back. He hardened his heart and he said that he’d never +give the doll back, for that the doll was making Eibhlin better every +day. + +One evening he was sitting by the bed-foot in serious talk with Eibhlin +when his mother ran in in a hurry, and says she-- + +“Here’s the mistress and little Nance coming up the bohereen!” + +Anthony wished the earth would open and swallow him. His face was red up +to his two ears. He was in a sweat. He wasn’t able to say a word or to +think a thought. But these words were running through his head: “They’ll +take the doll from Eibhlin.” It was all the same to him what they’d say +or what they’d do to himself. The only answer he’d have would be, “The +doll’s making Eibhlin better.” + +The mistress and little Nance came into the room. Anthony got up. He +couldn’t look them in the face. He began at his old clatter, counting +the toes of his feet. Five on each foot; four toes and a big toe; or +three toes, a big toe, and a little toe; that’s five; twice five are +ten; ten in all. He couldn’t add to their number or take from them. His +mother was talking, the mistress was talking, but Anthony paid no heed +to them. He was waiting till something would be said about the doll. +There was nothing for him to do till that but count his toes. One, two, +three.... + +What was that? Eibhlin was referring to the doll. Anthony listened now. + +“Wasn’t it good of you to send me the doll?” she was saying to Nance. +“From the day Anthony brought it in to me a change began coming on me.” + +“It did that,” says her mother. “We’ll be forever grateful to you for +that same doll you sent to her. May God increase your store, and may He +requite you for it a thousand times.” + +Neither Nance nor the mistress spoke. Anthony looked at Nance shyly. His +two eyes were stuck in the doll, for the doll was lying cosy in the bed +beside Eibhlin. It had its mouth half open, and the wonder of the world +on it at the sayings of Eibhlin and her mother. + +“It’s with trouble I believed Anthony when he brought it into me,” says +Eibhlin, “and when he told me you sent it to me as a present.” + +Nance looked over at Anthony. Anthony lifted his head slowly, and their +eyes met. It will never be known what Nance read in Anthony’s eyes. What +Anthony read in Nance’s eyes was mercy, love and sweetness. Nance spoke +to Eibhlin. + +“Do you like it?” says she. + +“Over anything,” says Eibhlin. “I’d rather it than anything I have in +the world.” + +“I have the little house it lives in,” says. Nance. “I must send it to +you. Anthony will bring it to you to-morrow.” + +“_Ora!_” says Eibhlin, and she clapping her two little thin palms +together. + +“You’ll miss it, love,” says Eibhlin’s mother to Nance. + +“No,” said Nance. “It will put more improvement on Eibhlin. I have lots +of things.” + +“Let her do it, Cait,” said the mistress to the mother. + +“Ye are too good,” says the poor woman. + +Anthony thought that it’s dreaming he was. Or he thought that it’s not a +person of this world little Nance was at all, but an angel come down out +of heaven. He wanted to go on his knees to her. + +When the mistress and little Nance went off, Anthony ran out the back +door and tore across the garden, so that he’d be before them at the +bohereen-foot, and they going out on the road. + +“Nance,” says he, “I s-stole it,--the d-doll.” + +“Never mind, Anthony,” says Nance, “you did good to Eibhlin.” + +Anthony stood like a stake in the road, and he couldn’t speak another +word. + +Isn’t it he was proud bringing the doll’s house home to Eibhlin after +school the next day! And isn’t it they had the fun that evening settling +the house and polishing the furniture and putting the doll to sleep on +its little bed! + +The Saturday following Anthony went to confession, and told his sin to +the priest. The penance the priest put on him was to clean the doll’s +house once in the week for Eibhlin, till she would be strong enough to +clean it herself. Eibhlin was strong enough for it by the end of a +month. By the end of another month she was at school again. + +There wasn’t a Saturday evening from that out that they wouldn’t hear a +little, light tapping at the master’s door. On the mistress going out +Anthony would be standing at the door. + +“Here’s a little present for Nance,” he’d say, stretching towards her +half-a-dozen duck’s eggs, or a bunch of heather, or, at the least, the +full of his fist of _duileasg_, and then he’d brush off with him without +giving the mistress time to say “thank you.” + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE KEENING WOMAN + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE KEENING WOMAN + + + I + +“Coilin,” says my father to me one morning after the breakfast, and I +putting my books together to be stirring to school--“Coilin,” says he, +“I have a task for you to-day. Sean will tell the master it was myself +kept you at home to-day, or it’s the way he’ll be thinking you’re +miching, like you were last week. Let you not forget now, Sean.” + +“I will not, father,” says Sean, and a lip on him. He wasn’t too +thankful it to be said that it’s not for him my father had the task. +This son was well satisfied, for my lessons were always a trouble to me, +and the master promised me a beating the day before unless I’d have them +at the tip of my mouth the next day. + +“What you’ll do, Coilin,” says my father when Sean was gone off, “is to +bring the ass and the little car with you to Screeb, and draw home a +load of sedge. Michileen Maire is cutting it for me. We’ll be starting, +with God’s help, to put the new roof on the house after to-morrow, if +the weather stands.” + +“Michileen took the ass and car with him this morning,” says I. + +“You’ll have to leg it, then, _a mhic O_,” says my father. “As soon as +Michileen has an ass-load cut, fetch it home with you on the car, and +let Michileen tear till he’s black. We might draw the other share +to-morrow.” + +It wasn’t long till I was knocking steps out of the road. I gave my back +to Kilbrickan and my face to Turlagh. I left Turlagh behind me, and I +made for Gortmore. I stood a spell looking at an oared boat that was on +Loch Ellery, and another spell playing with some Inver boys that were +late going to Gortmore school. I left them at the school gate, and I +reached Glencaha. I stood, for the third time, watching a big eagle that +was sunning himself on Carrigacapple. East with me, then, till I was in +Derrybanniv, and the hour and a half wasn’t spent when I cleared +Glashaduff bridge. + +There was a house that time a couple of hundred yards east from the +bridge, near the road, on your right-hand side and you drawing towards +Screeb. It was often before that that I saw an old woman standing in the +door of that house, but I had no acquaintance on her, nor did she ever +put talk or topic on me. A tall, thin woman she was, her head as white +as the snow, and two dark eyes, as they would be two burning sods, +flaming in her head. She was a woman that would scare me if I met her in +a lonely place in the night. Times she would be knitting or carding, and +she crooning low to herself; but the thing she would be mostly doing +when I travelled, would be standing in the door, and looking from her up +and down the road, exactly as she’d be waiting for someone that would be +away from her, and she expecting him home. + +She was standing there that morning as usual, her hand to her eyes, and +she staring up the road. When she saw me going past, she nodded her head +to me. I went over to her. + +“Do you see a person at all coming up the road?” says she. + +“I don’t,” says I. + +“I thought I saw someone. It can’t be that I’m astray. See, isn’t that a +young man making up on us?” says she. + +“Devil a one do I see,” says I. “There’s not a person at all between the +spot we’re on and the turning of the road.” + +“I was astray, then,” says she. “My sight isn’t as good as it was. I +thought I saw him coming. I don’t know what’s keeping him.” + +“Who’s away from you?” says myself. + +“My son that’s away from me,” says she. + +“Is he long away?” + +“This morning he went to Uachtar Ard.” + +“But, sure, he couldn’t be here for a while,” says I. “You’d think he’d +barely be in Uachtar Ard by now, and he doing his best, unless it was by +the morning train he went from the Burnt House.” + +“What’s this I’m saying?” says she. “It’s not to-day he went, but +yesterday,--or the day ere yesterday, maybe.... I’m losing my wits.” + +“If it’s on the train he’s coming,” says I, “he’ll not be here for a +couple of hours yet.” + +“On the train?” says she. “What train?” + +“The train that does be at the Burnt House at noon.” + +“He didn’t say a word about a train,” says she. “There was no train +coming as far as the Burnt House yesterday.” + +“Isn’t there a train coming to the Burnt House these years?” says I, +wondering greatly. She didn’t give me any answer, however. She was +staring up the road again. There came a sort of dread on me of her, and +I was about gathering off. + +“If you see him on the road,” says she, “tell him to make hurry.” + +“I’ve no acquaintance on him,” says I. + +“You’d know him easy. He’s the play-boy of the people. A young, active +lad, and he well set-up. He has a white head on him, like is on +yourself, and grey eyes ... like his father had. Bawneens he’s wearing.” + +“If I see him,” says I, “I’ll tell him you’re waiting for him.” + +“Do, son,” says she. + +With that I stirred on with me east, and left her standing in the door. + + * * * * * + +She was there still, and I coming home a couple of hours after that, and +the load of sedge on the car. + +“He didn’t come yet?” says I to her. + +“No, _a mhuirnín_. You didn’t see him?” + +“No.” + +“No? What can have happened him?” + +There were signs of rain on the day. + +“Come in till the shower’s over,” says she. “It’s seldom I do have +company.” + +I left the ass and the little car on the road, and I went into the +house. + +“Sit and drink a cup of milk,” says she. + +I sat on the bench in the corner, and she gave me a drink of milk and a +morsel of bread. I was looking all round the house, and I eating and +drinking. There was a chair beside the fire, and a white shirt and a +suit of clothes laid on it. + +“I have these ready against he will come,” says she. “I washed the +bawneens yesterday after his departing,--no, the day ere yesterday--I +don’t know right which day I washed them; but, anyhow, they’ll be clean +and dry before him when he does come.... What’s your own name?” says +she, suddenly, after a spell of silence. + +I told her. + +“_Muise_, my love you are!” says she. “The very name that was--that +is--on my own son. Whose are you?” + +I told her. + +“And do you say you’re a son of Sean Feichin’s?” says she. “Your father +was in the public-house in Uachtar Ard that night....” She stopped +suddenly with that, and there came some change on her. She put her hand +to her head. You’d think that it’s madness was struck on her. She sat +before the fire then, and she stayed for a while dreaming into the heart +of the fire. It was short till she began moving herself to and fro over +the fire, and crooning or keening in a low voice. I didn’t understand +the words right, or it would be better for me to say that it’s not on +the words I was thinking but on the music. It seemed to me that there +was the loneliness of the hills in the dead time of night, or the +loneliness of the grave when nothing stirs in it but worms, in that +music. Here are the words as I heard them from my father after that:-- + + Sorrow on death, it is it that blackened my heart, + That carried off my love and that left me ruined, + Without friend, without companion under the roof of my house + But this sorrow in my middle, and I lamenting. + + Going the mountain one evening, + The birds spoke to me sorrowfully, + The melodious snipe and the voiceful curlew, + Telling me that my treasure was dead. + + I called on you, and your voice I did not hear, + I called again, and an answer I did not get. + I kissed your mouth, and O God, wasn’t it cold! + Och, it’s cold your bed is in the lonely graveyard. + + And O sod-green grave, where my child is, + O narrow, little grave, since you are his bed, + My blessing on you, and the thousand blessings + On the green sods that are over my pet. + + Sorrow on death, its blessing is not possible-- + It lays fresh and withered together; + And, O pleasant little son, it is it is my affliction, + Your sweet body to be making clay! + +When she had that finished, she kept on moving herself to and fro, and +lamenting in a low voice. It was a lonesome place to be, in that +backward house, and you to have no company but yon solitary old woman, +mourning to herself by the fireside. There came a dread and a creeping +on me, and I rose to my feet. + +“It’s time for me to be going home,” says I. “The evening’s clearing.” + +“Come here,” says she to me. + +I went hither to her. She laid her two hands softly on my head, and she +kissed my forehead. + +“The protection of God to you, little son,” says she. “May He let the +harm of the year over you, and may He increase the good fortune and +happiness of the year to you and to your family.” + +With that she freed me from her. I left the house, and pushed on home +with me. + + * * * * * + +“Where were you, Coilin, when the shower caught you?” says my mother to +me that night. “It didn’t do you any hurt.” + +“I waited in the house of yon old woman on the east side of Glashaduff +bridge,” says I. “She was talking to me about her son. He’s in Uachtar +Ard these two days, and she doesn’t know why he hasn’t come home ere +this.” + +My father looked over at my mother. + +“The Keening Woman,” says he. + +“Who is she?” says I. + +“The Keening Woman,” says my father. “Muirne of the Keens.” + +“Why was that name given to her?” says I. + +“For the keens she does be making,” answered my father. “She’s the most +famous keening-woman in Connemara or in the Joyce Country. She’s always +sent for when anyone dies. She keened my father, and there’s a chance +but she’ll keen myself. But, may God comfort her, it’s her own dead she +does be keening always, it’s all the same what corpse is in the house.” + +“And what’s her son doing in Uachtar Ard?” says I. + +“Her son died twenty years since, Coilin,” says my mother. + +“He didn’t die at all,” says my father, and a very black look on him. +“_He was murdered._” + +“Who murdered him?” + +It’s seldom I saw my father angry, but it’s awful his anger was when it +would rise up in him. He took a start out of me when he spoke again, he +was that angry. + +“Who murdered your own grandfather? Who drew the red blood out of my +grandmother’s shoulders with a lash? Who would do it but the English? My +curse on--” + +My mother rose, and she put her hand on his mouth. + +“Don’t give your curse to anyone, Sean,” says she. My mother was that +kind-hearted, she wouldn’t like to throw the bad word at the devil +himself. I believe she’d have pity in her heart for Cain and for Judas, +and for Diarmaid of the Galls. “It’s time for us to be saying the +Rosary,” says she. “Your father will tell you about Coilin Muirne some +other night.” + +“Father,” says I, and we going on our knees, “we should say a prayer for +Coilin’s soul this night.” + +“We’ll do that, son,” says my father kindly. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + II + +Sitting up one night, in the winter that was on us, my father told us +the story of Muirne from start to finish. It’s well I mind him in the +firelight, a broad-shouldered man, a little stooped, his share of hair +going grey, lines in his forehead, a sad look in his eyes. He was +mending an old sail that night, and I was on my knees beside him in the +name of helping him. My mother and my sisters were spinning frieze. +Seaneen was stretched on his face on the floor, and he in grips of a +book. ’Twas small the heed he gave to the same book, for it’s the +pastime he had, to be tickling the soles of my feet and taking an odd +pinch out of my calves; but as my father stirred out in the story Sean +gave over his trickery, and it is short till he was listening as +interested as anyone. It would be hard not to listen to my father when +he’d tell a story like that by the hearthside. He was a sweet +storyteller. It’s often I’d think there was music in his voice; a low, +deep music like that in the bass of the organ in Tuam Cathedral. + +Twenty years are gone, Coilin (says my father), since the night myself +and Coilin Muirne (may God give him grace) and three or four others of +the neighbours were in Neachtan’s public-house in Uachtar Ard. There was +a fair in the town the same day, and we were drinking a glass before +taking the road home on ourselves. There were four or five men in it +from Carrowroe and from the Joyce Country, and six or seven of the +people of the town. There came a stranger in, a thin, black man that +nobody knew. He called for a glass. + +“Did ye hear, people,” says he to us, and he drinking with us, “that the +lord is to come home to-night?” + +“What business has the devil here?” says someone. + +“Bad work he’s up to, as usual,” says the black man. “He has settled to +put seven families out of their holdings.” + +“Who’s to be put out?” says one of us. + +“Old Thomas O’Drinan from the Glen,--I’m told the poor fellow’s dying, +but it’s on the roadside he’ll die, if God hasn’t him already; a man of +the O’Conaire’s that lives in a cabin on this side of Loch Shindilla; +Manning from Snamh Bo; two in Annaghmaan; a woman at the head of the +Island; and Anthony O’Greelis from Lower Camus.” + +“Anthony’s wife is heavy in child,” says Cuimin O’Niadh. + +“That won’t save her, the creature,” says the black man. “She’s not the +first woman out of this country that bore her child in a ditch-side of +the road.” + +There wasn’t a word out of anyone of us. + +“What sort of men are ye?” says the black man,--“ye are not men, at all. +I was born and raised in a countryside, and, my word to you, the men of +that place wouldn’t let the whole English army together throw out seven +families on the road without them knowing the reason why. Are ye afraid +of the man that’s coming here to-night?” + +“It’s easy to talk,” said Cuimin, “but what way can we stop the bodach?” + +“Murder him this night,” says a voice behind me. Everybody started. I +myself turned round. It was Coilin Muirne that spoke. His two eyes were +blazing in his head, a flame in his cheeks, and his head thrown high. + +“A man that spoke that, whatever his name and surname,” says the +stranger. He went hither and gripped Coilin’s hand. “Drink a glass with +me,” says he. + +Coilin drank the glass. The others wouldn’t speak. + +“It’s time for us to be shortening the road,” says Cuimin, after a +little spell. + +We got a move on us. We took the road home. The night was dark. There +was no wish for talk on any of us, at all. When we came to the head of +the street Cuimin stood in the middle of the road. + +“Where’s Coilin Muirne?” says he. + +We didn’t feel him from us till Cuimin spoke. He wasn’t in the company. + +Myself went back to the public-house. Coilin wasn’t in it. I questioned +the pot-boy. He said that Coilin and the black man left the shop +together five minutes after our going. I searched the town. There wasn’t +tale or tidings of Coilin anywhere. I left the town and I followed the +other men. I hoped it might be that he’d be to find before me. He +wasn’t, nor the track of him. + +It was very far in the night when we reached Glashaduff bridge. There +was a light in Muirne’s house. Muirne herself was standing in the door. + +“God save you, men,” says she, coming over to us. “Is Coilin with you?” + +“He isn’t, _muise_,” says I. “He stayed behind us in Uachtar Ard.” + +“Did he sell?” says she. + +“He did, and well,” says I. “There’s every chance that he’ll stay in the +town till morning. The night’s black and cold in itself. Wouldn’t it be +as well for you to go in and lie down?” + +“It’s not worth my while,” says she. “I’ll wait up till he comes. May +God hasten you.” + +We departed. There was, as it would be, a load on my heart. I was afraid +that there was something after happening to Coilin. I had ill notions of +that black man.... I lay down on my bed after coming home, but I didn’t +sleep. + +The next morning myself and your mother were eating breakfast, when the +latch was lifted from the door, and in comes Cuimin O’Niadh. He could +hardly draw his breath. + +“What’s the news with you, man?” says I. + +“Bad news,” says he. “The lord was murdered last night. He was got on +the road a mile to the east of Uachtar Ard, and a bullet through his +heart. The soldiers were in Muirne’s house this morning on the track of +Coilin, but he wasn’t there. He hasn’t come home yet. It’s said it was +he murdered the lord. You mind the words he said last night?” + +I leaped up, and out the door with me. Down the road, and east to +Muirne’s house. There was no one before me but herself. The furniture of +the house was this way and that way, where the soldiers were searching. +Muirne got up when she saw me in the door. + +“Sean O’Conaire,” says she, “for God’s pitiful sake, tell me where’s my +son? You were along with him. Why isn’t he coming home to me?” + +“Let you have patience, Muirne,” says I. “I’m going to Uachtar Ard after +him.” + +I struck the road. Going in the street of Uachtar Ard, I saw a great +ruck of people. The bridge and the street before the chapel were black +with people. People were making on the spot from every art. But, a thing +that put terror on my heart, there wasn’t a sound out of that terrible +gathering,--only the eyes of every man stuck in a little knot that was +in the right-middle of the crowd. Soldiers that were in that little +knot, black coats and red coats on them, and guns and swords in their +hands; and among the black coats and red coats I saw a country boy, and +bawneens on him. Coilin Muirne that was in it, and he in holds of the +soldiers. The poor boy’s face was as white as my shirt, but he had the +beautiful head of him lifted proudly, and it wasn’t the head of a +coward, that head. + +He was brought to the barracks, and that crowd following him. He was +taken to Galway that night. He was put on his trial the next month. It +was sworn that he was in the public-house that night. It was sworn that +the black man was discoursing on the landlords. It was sworn that he +said the lord would be coming that night to throw the people out of +their holdings the next day. It was sworn that Coilin Muirne was +listening attentively to him. It was sworn that Coilin said those words, +“Murder him this night,” when Cuimin O’Niadh said, “What way can we stop +the bodach?” It was sworn that the black man praised him for saying +those words, that he shook hands with him, that they drank a glass +together. It was sworn that Coilin remained in the shop after the going +of the Rossnageeragh people, and that himself and the black man left the +shop together five minutes after that. There came a peeler then, and he +swore he saw Coilin and the black man leaving the town, and that it +wasn’t the Rossnageeragh road they took on themselves, but the Galway +road. At eight o’clock they left the town. At half after eight a shot +was fired at the lord on the Galway road. Another peeler swore he heard +the report of the shot. He swore he ran to the place, and, closing up to +the place, he saw two men running away. A thin man one of them was, and +he dressed like a gentleman would be. A country boy the other man was. + +“What kind of clothes was the country boy wearing?” says the lawyer. + +“A suit of bawneens,” says the peeler. + +“Is that the man you saw?” says the lawyer, stretching his finger +towards Coilin. + +“I would say it was.” + +“Do you swear it?” + +The peeler didn’t speak for a spell. + +“Do you swear it?” says the lawyer again. + +“I do,” says the peeler. The peeler’s face at that moment was whiter +than the face of Coilin himself. + +A share of us swore then that Coilin never fired a shot out of a gun; +that he was a decent, kindly boy that wouldn’t hurt a fly, if he had the +power for it. The parish priest swore that he knew Coilin from the day +he baptized him; that it was his opinion that he never committed a sin, +and that he wouldn’t believe from anyone at all that he would slay a +man. It was no use for us. What good was our testimony against the +testimony of the police? Judgment of death was given on Coilin. + +His mother was present all that time. She didn’t speak a word from start +to finish, but her two eyes stuck in the two eyes of her son, and her +two hands knitted under her shawl. + +“He won’t be hanged,” says Muirne that night. “God promised me that he +won’t be hanged.” + +A couple of days after that we heard that Coilin wouldn’t be hanged, +that it’s how his soul would be spared him on account of him being so +young as he was, but that he’d be kept in gaol for the term of his life. + +“He won’t be kept,” says Muirne. “O Jesus,” she would say, “don’t let +them keep my son from me.” + +It’s marvellous the patience that woman had, and the trust she had in +the Son of God. It’s marvellous the faith and the hope and the patience +of women. + +She went to the parish priest. She said to him that if he’d write to the +people of Dublin, asking them to let Coilin out to her, it’s certain he +would be let out. + +“They won’t refuse you, Father,” says she. + +The priest said that there would be no use at all in writing, that no +heed would be paid to his letter, but that he himself would go to Dublin +and that he would speak with the great people, and that, maybe, some +good might come out of it. He went. Muirne was full-sure her son would +be home to her by the end of a week or two. She readied the house before +him. She put lime on it herself, inside and outside. She set two +neighbours to put a new thatch on it. She spun the makings of a new suit +of clothes for him; she dyed the wool with her own hands; she brought it +to the weaver, and she made the suit when the frieze came home. + +We thought it long while the priest was away. He wrote a couple of times +to the master, but there was nothing new in the letters. He was doing +his best, he said, but he wasn’t succeeding too well. He was going from +person to person, but it’s not much satisfaction anybody was giving him. +It was plain from the priest’s letters that he hadn’t much hope he’d be +able to do anything. None of us had much hope, either. But Muirne didn’t +lose the wonderful trust she had in God. + +“The priest will bring my son home with him,” she used say. + +There was nothing making her anxious but fear that she wouldn’t have the +new suit ready before Coilin’s coming. But it was finished at last; she +had everything ready, repair on the house, the new suit laid on a chair +before the fire,--and still no word of the priest. + +“Isn’t it Coilin will be glad when he sees the comfort I have in the +house,” she would say. “Isn’t it he will look spruce going the road to +Mass of a Sunday, and that suit on him!” + +It’s well I mind the evening the priest came home. Muirne was waiting +for him since morning, the house cleaned up, and the table laid. + +“Welcome home,” she said, when the priest came in. She was watching the +door, as she would be expecting someone else to come in. But the priest +closed the door after him. + +“I thought that it’s with yourself he’d come, Father,” says Muirne. +“But, sure, it’s the way he wouldn’t like to come on the priest’s car. +He was shy like that always, the creature.” + +“Oh, poor Muirne,” says the priest, holding her by the two hands, “I +can’t conceal the truth from you. He’s not coming, at all. I didn’t +succeed in doing anything. They wouldn’t listen to me.” + +Muirne didn’t say a word. She went over and she sat down before the +fire. The priest followed her and laid his hand on her shoulder. + +“Muirne,” says he, like that. + +“Let me be, Father, for a little while,” says she. “May God and His +Mother reward you for what you’ve done for me. But leave me to myself +for a while. I thought you’d bring him home to me, and it’s a great blow +on me that he hasn’t come.” + +The priest left her to herself. He thought he’d be no help to her till +the pain of that blow would be blunted. + +The next day Muirne wasn’t to be found. Tale or tidings no one had of +her. Word nor wisdom we never heard of her till the end of a quarter. A +share of us thought that it’s maybe out of her mind the creature went, +and a lonely death to come on her in the hollow of some mountain, or +drowning in a boghole. The neighbours searched the hills round about, +but her track wasn’t to be seen. + +One evening myself was digging potatoes in the garden, when I saw a +solitary woman making on me up the road. A tall, thin woman. Her head +well-set. A great walk under her. “If Muirne ni Fhiannachta is living,” +says I to myself, “it’s she that’s in it.” ’Twas she, and none else. +Down with me to the road. + +“Welcome home, Muirne,” says I to her. “Have you any news?” + +“I have, then,” says she, “and good news. I went to Galway. I saw the +Governor of the gaol. He said to me that he wouldn’t be able to do a +taste, that it’s the Dublin people would be able to let him out of gaol, +if his letting-out was to be got. I went off to Dublin. O, Lord, isn’t +it many a hard, stony road I walked, isn’t it many a fine town I saw +before I came to Dublin? ‘Isn’t it a great country, Ireland is?’ I used +say to myself every evening when I’d be told I’d have so many miles to +walk before I’d see Dublin. But, great thanks to God and to the Glorious +Virgin, I walked in on the street of Dublin at last, one cold, wet +evening. I found a lodging. The morning of the next day I enquired for +the Castle. I was put on the way. I went there. They wouldn’t let me in +at first, but I was at them till I got leave of talk with some man. He +put me on to another man, a man that was higher than himself. He sent me +to another man. I said to them all I wanted was to see the Lord +Lieutenant of the Queen. I saw him at last. I told him my story. He said +to me that he couldn’t do anything. I gave my curse to the Castle of +Dublin, and out the door with me. I had a pound in my pocket. I went +aboard a ship, and the morning after I was in Liverpool of the English. +I walked the long roads of England from Liverpool to London. When I came +to London I asked knowledge of the Queen’s Castle. I was told. I went +there. They wouldn’t let me in. I went there every day, hoping that I’d +see the Queen coming out. After a week I saw her coming out. There were +soldiers and great people about her. I went over to the Queen before she +went in to her coach. There was a paper, a man in Dublin wrote for me, +in my hand. An officer seized me. The Queen spoke to him, and he freed +me from him. I spoke to the Queen. She didn’t understand me. I stretched +the paper to her. She gave the paper to the officer, and he read it. He +wrote certain words on the paper, and he gave it back to me. The Queen +spoke to another woman that was along with her. The woman drew out a +crown piece and gave it to me. I gave her back the crown piece, and I +said that it’s not silver I wanted, but my son. They laughed. It’s my +opinion they didn’t understand me. I showed them the paper again. The +officer laid his finger on the words he was after writing. I curtseyed +to the Queen and went off with me. A man read for me the words the +officer wrote. It’s what was in it, that they would write to me about +Coilin without delay. I struck the road home then, hoping that, maybe, +there would be a letter before me. Do you think, Sean,” says Muirne, +finishing her story, “has the priest any letter? There wasn’t a letter +at all in the house before me coming out the road; but I’m thinking it’s +to the priest they’d send the letter, for it’s a chance the great people +might know him.” + +“I don’t know did any letter come,” says I. “I would say there didn’t, +for if there did the priest would be telling us.” + +“It will be here some day yet,” says Muirne. “I’ll go in to the priest, +anyhow, and I’ll tell him my story.” + +In the road with her, and up the hill to the priest’s house. I saw her +going home again that night, and the darkness falling. It’s wonderful +how she was giving it to her footsoles, considering what she suffered of +distress and hardship for a quarter. + +A week went by. There didn’t come any letter. Another week passed. No +letter came. The third week, and still no letter. It would take tears +out of the grey stones to be looking at Muirne, and the anxiety that was +on her. It would break your heart to see her going in the road to the +priest every morning. We were afraid to speak to her about Coilin. We +had evil notions. The priest had evil notions. He said to us one day +that he heard from another priest in Galway that it’s not more than well +Coilin was, that it’s greatly the prison was preying on his health, that +he was going back daily. That story wasn’t told to Muirne. + +One day myself had business with the priest, and I went in to him. We +were conversing in the parlour when we heard a person’s footstep on the +street outside. Never a knock on the house-door, or on the parlour-door, +but in into the room with Muirne ni Fhiannachta, and a letter in her +hand. It’s with trouble she could talk. + +“A letter from the Queen, a letter from the Queen!” says she. + +The priest took the letter. He opened it. I noticed that his hand was +shaking, and he opening it. There came the colour of death in his face +after reading it. Muirne was standing out opposite him, her two eyes +blazing in her head, her mouth half open. + +“What does she say, Father?” says she. “Is she sending him home to me?” + +“It’s not from the Queen this letter came, Muirne,” says the priest, +speaking slowly, like as there would be some impediment on him, “but +from the Governor of the gaol in Dublin.” + +“And what does he say? Is he sending him home to me?” + +The priest didn’t speak for a minute. It seemed to me that he was trying +to mind certain words, and the words, as you would say, going from him. + +“Muirne,” says he at last, “he says that poor Coilin died yesterday.” + +At the hearing of those words, Muirne burst a-laughing. The like of such +laughter I never heard. That laughter was ringing in my ears for a month +after that. She made a couple of terrible screeches of laughter, and +then she fell in a faint on the floor. + +She was fetched home, and she was on her bed for a half year. She was +out of her mind all that time. She came to herself at long last, and no +person at all would think there was a thing the matter with her,--only +the delusion that her son isn’t returned home yet from the fair of +Uachtar Ard. She does be expecting him always, standing or sitting in +the door half the day, and everything ready for his home-coming. She +doesn’t understand that there’s any change on the world since that +night. “That’s the reason, Coilin,” says my father to me, “that she +didn’t know the railway was coming as far as Burnt House. Times she +remembers herself, and she starts keening like you saw her. ’Twas +herself that made yon keen you heard from her. May God comfort her,” +says my father, putting an end to his story. + +“And daddy,” says I, “did any letter come from the Queen after that?” + +“There didn’t, nor the colour of one.” + +“Do you think, daddy, was it Coilin that killed the lord?” + +“I know it wasn’t,” says my father. “If it was he’d acknowledge it. I’m +as certain as I’m living this night that it’s the black man killed the +lord. I don’t say that poor Coilin wasn’t present.” + +“Was the black man ever caught?” says my sister. + +“He wasn’t, _muise_,” says my father. “Little danger on him.” + +“Where did he belong, the black man, do you think, daddy?” says I. + +“I believe, before God,” says my father, “that it’s a peeler from Dublin +Castle was in it. Cuimin O’Niadh saw a man very like him giving evidence +against another boy in Tuam a year after that.” + +“Daddy,” says Seaneen suddenly, “when I’m a man I’ll kill that black +man.” + +“God save us,” says my mother. + +My father laid his hand on Seaneen’s head. + +“Maybe, little son,” says he, “we’ll all be taking tally-ho out of the +black soldiers before the clay will come on us.” + +“It’s time for the Rosary,” says my mother. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + IOSAGAN + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + IOSAGAN + + +Old Matthias was sitting beside his door. Anyone going the road would +think that it was an image of stone or of marble was in it--that, or a +dead person--for he couldn’t believe that a living man could stay so +calm, so quiet as that. He had his head high and an ear on him +listening. It’s many a musical sound there was to listen to, for the +person who’d have heed on them. Old Matthias heard the roar of the waves +on the rocks, and the murmur of the stream flowing down and over the +stones. He heard the screech of the heron-crane from the high, rocky +shore, and the lowing of the cows from the pasture, and the bright +laughter of the children from the green. But it wasn’t to any of these +he was listening that attentively--though all of them were sweet to +him--but to the clear sound of the bell for Mass that was coming to him +on the wind in the morning stillness. + +All the people were gathered into Mass. Old Matthias saw them going +past, in ones and twos, or in little groups. The boys were running and +leaping. The girls were chattering merrily. The women were conversing in +low tones. The men were silent. Like this, they’d travel the road every +Sunday. Like this, Old Matthias would sit on his chair watching them +till they’d go out of sight. They went past him this morning as usual. +The old man remained looking at them till there was an end to the noise +and the commotion, till the last group cleared the top of the church +hill, till there was nothing to be seen but a long, straight road +stretching out, and it white, till there were none to be found in the +village but an odd old person in his bed, or children tricking on the +green, and himself sitting beside his door. + +Old Matthias would not go to the chapel. He hadn’t heard “the sweet +Mass” for over three score years. He was a strong, active youth the last +time he blessed himself before the people, and now he was a withered, +done old man, his share of hair grey-white, furrows in his brow, his +shoulders bent. He hadn’t bent his knee before God for the length of +those three score years; he hadn’t put a prayer to his Creator; he +hadn’t given thanks to his Saviour. A man apart, Old Matthias was. + +Nobody knew why he wouldn’t go to Mass. People said that he didn’t +believe there was a God in it. Other people said that he committed some +terrible sin at the start of his life, and when the priest wouldn’t give +him absolution in confession, that a rage of anger came on him, and he +swore an oath that he wouldn’t touch priest or chapel while he was +living again. Other people said--but this was said only in a whisper by +the fireside when the old people would be yarning by themselves after +the children had gone asleep--these said that he sold his soul to a +certain Great Man that he met once on the top of Cnoc-a’-daimh, and that +this person wouldn’t allow him to frequent the Mass. I don’t know is it +true or lying these stories are, but I do know that old Matthias wasn’t +seen at God’s Mass in the memory of the oldest person in the village. +Cuimin O’Niadh--an old man that got death a couple of years before this +in his ninetieth year--said that he himself saw him there when he was a +lump of a lad. + +It wasn’t thought that Old Matthias was a bad character. He was a man as +honest, as simple, as natural as you would meet in a day’s walking. +There wasn’t ever heard out of his mouth but the good word. He had no +delight in drink or in company, no wish for gold or for property. He was +poor, but it’s often he shared with people that were poorer than he. He +had pity for the infirm. He had mercy for the wretched. Other men had +honour and esteem for him. The women, the children, and the animals +loved him; and he had love for them and for everything that was generous +and of clean heart. + +Old Matthias liked women’s talk better than men’s talk. But he liked the +talk of boys and girls still better than the talk of men or women. He +used say that the women were more discerning than the men, and that the +children were more discerning than either of them. It’s along with the +young folk he would spend the best part of his idle time. He would sit +with them in a corner of the house, telling them stories, or getting +stories out of them. They were wonderful, his share of stories. He had +the “Adventures of the Grey Horse” in grandest way in the world. He was +the one old body in the village who had the story of the “Hen-Harrier +and the Wren,” properly. Isn’t it he would put fright on the children, +and he reciting “_Fú Fá Féasóg_” (The Two-Headed Giant), and isn’t it he +would take the laughs out of them discoursing on the doings of the piper +in the Snail’s Castle! And the songs he had! He could coax an ailing +child asleep with his: + + “Shoheen, sho, and sleep, my pet; + The fairies are out walking the glen!” + +or he could put the full of a house of children in fits of laughter with +his: + + “Hi diddle dum, the cat and his mother, + That went to Galway riding a drake!” + +And isn’t it he had the funny old ranns; and the hard, difficult +questions; and the fine riddles! As for games, where was the person, +man, woman, or child could keep “_Lúrabóg, Lárabóg_,” or “_An Bhuidhean +Bhalbh_” (The Dumb Band) going with him! + +In the fine time it’s on the side of the hill, or walking the bog, you’d +see Old Matthias and his little playmates, he explaining to them the way +of life of the ants and of the woodlice, or inventing stories about the +hedgehog and the red squirrel. Another time to them boating, the old man +with an oar, some little wee boy with another one, and maybe a young +girl steering. It’s often the people who’d be working near the strand +would hear the shouts of joy of the children coming to them from the +harbour-mouth, or, it might be, Old Matthias’s voice, and he saying: + + “Oró! my curragheen O! + And óró! my little boat!” + +or something like it. + +There used come fear on a share of the mothers at times, and they’d say +to each other that they oughtn’t let their children spend that much time +with Old Matthias,--“a man that frequents neither clergy nor Mass.” Once +a woman of them laid bare these thoughts to Father Sean. It’s what the +priest said: + +“Don’t meddle with the poor children,” says he. “They couldn’t be in +better company.” + +“But they tell me he doesn’t believe in God, Father.” + +“There’s many a saint in heaven to-day that didn’t believe in God some +time of his life. And, whisper here. If Old Matthias hasn’t love for +God--a thing that neither you nor I know--it’s wonderful the love he has +for the cleanest and most beautiful thing that God created,--the shining +soul of the child. Our Saviour Himself and the most glorious saints in +heaven had the same love for them. How do we know that it isn’t the +children that will draw Old Matthias to the knee of our Saviour yet?” + +And the story was left like that. + +On this Sunday morning the old man remained listening till the bell for +Mass stopped ringing. When there was an end to it he gave a sigh, as the +person would that would be weary and sorrowful, and he turned to the +group of boys that were sporting themselves on the plot of grass--the +“green” Old Matthias would call it--at the cross-roads. Old Matthias +knew every curly-headed, bare-footed child of them. He liked no pastime +at all better than to be sitting there watching them and listening to +them. He was counting them, seeing which of his friends were in it and +which of them were gone to Mass with the grown people, when he noticed +among them a child he never saw before. A little, brown boy, with a +white coat on him, like was on every other boy, and he without shoes or +cap, as is the custom with the children of the West. The face of this +boy was as bright as the sun, and it seemed to Old Matthias that there +were, as it would be, rays of light coming from his head. The sun +shining on his share of hair, maybe. + +There was wonder on the old man at seeing this child, for he hadn’t +heard that there were any strangers after coming to the village. He was +on the point of going over and questioning one of the little lads about +him, when he heard the stir and chatter of the people coming home from +Mass. He didn’t feel the time slipping by him while his mind was on the +tricks of the boys. Some of the people saluted him going past, and he +saluted them. When he gave an eye on the group of boys again, the +strange boy wasn’t among them. + +The Sunday after that, Old Matthias was sitting beside his door, as +usual. The people were gathered west to Mass. The young folk were +running and throwing jumps on the green. Running and throwing jumps +along with them was the strange child. Matthias looked at him for a long +time, for he gave the love of his heart to him on account of the beauty +of his person and the brightness of his countenance. At last he called +over one of the little boys: + +“Who’s yon boy I see among you for a fortnight back, Coilin?” says +he--“he there with the brown head on him,--but have a care that it’s not +reddish-fair he is: I don’t know is it dark or fair he is, and the way +the sun is burning on him. Do you see him now--that one that’s running +towards us?” + +“That’s Iosagan,” says the little lad. + +“Iosagan?” + +“That’s the name he gives himself.” + +“Who are his people?” + +“I don’t know, but he says his father’s a king.” + +“Where does he live?” + +“He never told us that, but he says that it’s not far from us his house +is.” + +“Does he be along with you often?” + +“Aye, when we do be spending time to ourselves like this. But he goes +from us when a grown person is present. Look! he’s gone already!” + +The old man looked, and there was no one in it but the boys he knew. The +child, the little boy called Iosagan, was missing. The same moment, the +noise and bustle of the people were heard returning from Mass. + +The next Sunday everything fell out exactly as it fell on the two +Sundays before that. The people gathered west as usual, and the old man +and the children were left by themselves in the village. The heart of +Old Matthias gave a leap in his middle when he saw the Holy Child among +them again. + +He rose. He went over and he stood near Him. After a time, standing +without a move, he stretched his two hands towards Him, and he spoke in +a low voice: + +“Iosagan!” + +The Child heard him, and He came towards him, running. + +“Come here and sit on my knee for a little while, Iosagan.” + +The Child put His hand in the thin, knuckly hand of the old man, and +they travelled side by side across the road. Old Matthias sat on his +chair, and drew Iosagan to his breast. + +“Where do You live, Iosagan?” says he, speaking low always. + +“Not far from this My House is. Why don’t you come on a visit to Me?” + +“I’d be afraid in a royal house. It’s told me that Your Father’s a +King.” + +“He is High-King of the World. But there is no need for you to be afraid +of Him. He is full of mercy and love.” + +“I fear I haven’t kept His law.” + +“Ask forgiveness of Him. I and My Mother will make intercession for +you.” + +“It’s a pity I didn’t see You before this, Iosagan. Where were You from +me?” + +“I was here always. I do be travelling the roads, and walking the hills, +and ploughing the waves. I do be among the people when they gather into +My House. I do be among the children they do leave behind them playing +on the street.” + +“I was too timid--or too proud--to go into Your House, Iosagan; but I +found You among the children.” + +“There isn’t any time or place that children do be amusing themselves +that I am not along with them. Times they see Me; other times they do +not see Me.” + +“I never saw You till lately.” + +“The grown people do be blind.” + +“And it has been granted me to see You, Iosagan?” + +“My Father gave Me leave to show Myself to you, because you loved His +little children.” + +The voices were heard of the people returning from Mass. + +“I must go now from you.” + +“Let me kiss the border of Your coat, Iosagan.” + +“Kiss it.” + +“Shall I see You again?” + +“You will.” + +“When?” + +“This night.” + +With that word He was gone. + +“I will see Him this night!” says Old Matthias, and he going into the +house. + + * * * * * + +The night came wet and stormy. The great waves were heard breaking with +a booming roar against the strand. The trees round the chapel were +swaying and bending with the strength of the wind. (The chapel is on a +little hill that falls down with a slope to the sea.) Father Sean was on +the point of closing his book and saying his Rosary when he heard a +noise, as it would be somebody knocking at the door. He listened for a +spell. He heard the noise again. He rose from the fire, went to the +door, and opened it. A little boy was standing on the door-flag--a boy +the priest didn’t mind ever to have seen before. He had a white coat on +him, and he without shoes or cap. The priest thought that there were +rays of light shining from his countenance, and about his head. The moon +that was shining on his brown, comely head, it’s like. + +“Who have I here?” says Father Sean. + +“Put on you as quickly as you’re able, Father, and strike east to the +house of Old Matthias. He is in the mouths of death.” + +The priest didn’t want the second word. + +“Sit here till I’m ready,” says he. But when he came back, the little +messenger was gone. + +Father Sean struck the road, and he didn’t take long to finish the +journey, though the wind was against him, and it raining heavily. There +was a light in Old Matthias’s house before him. He took the latch from +the door, and went in. + +“Who is this coming to me?” says a voice from the old man’s bed. + +“The priest.” + +“I’d like to speak to you, Father. Sit here beside me.” The voice was +feeble, and the words came slowly from him. + +The priest sat down, and heard Old Matthias’s story from beginning to +end. Whatever secret was in the old body’s heart it was laid bare to the +servant of God there in the middle of the night. When the confession was +over, Old Matthias received communion, and he was anointed. + +“Who told you that I was wanting you, Father?” says he in a weak, low +voice, when everything was done. “I was praying God that you’d come, but +I hadn’t any messenger to send for you.” + +“But, sure, you did send a messenger to me?” says the priest, and great +wonder on him. + +“I didn’t.” + +“You didn’t? But a little boy came, and he knocked at my door, and he +said to me that you were wanting my help!” + +The old man sat up straight in the bed. There was a flashing in his +eyes. + +“What sort was the little boy was in it, Father?” + +“A gentle little boy, with a white coat on him.” + +“Did you take notice was there a haze of light about his head?” + +“I did, and it put great wonder on me.” + +Old Matthias looked up, there came a smile on his mouth, and he +stretched out his two arms: + +“Iosagan!” says he. + +With that word, he fell back on the bed. The priest went hither to him +softly, and closed his eyes. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE PRIEST + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE PRIEST + + +It’s in yon little house you see in the glen below you, and you going +down the road from Gortmore to Inver, that my Priest lives. Himself and +his mother, and his little sister, and his little, small, wee +brother,--those are the family in it. The father died before Taimeen, +the youngest child of them, was born. There’s no time I do be in +Rossnageeragh but I spend an evening or two along with them, for the +Priest and Maireen (the little sister) and Taimeen are the dearest +friends I have. A soft, youngish-looking woman the Priest’s mother is; +she’s a bit headstrong, maybe, but if she is itself she’s as +kind-hearted a woman as is living, after that. ’Twas she told me this +story one evening that I was on a visit to her. She was washing the +Priest, meanwhile, before the fire: a big tub of water laid on the floor +beside her, the Priest and his share of clothes stripped from him, and +she rubbing and scrubbing every inch of his body. I have my doubts that +this work agreed too well with the Priest, for now and again he’d let a +screech out of him. With every screech his mother would give him a +little slap, and after that she’d kiss him. It’s hard for a mother to +keep her hand off a child when she has him bare; and ’twould be harder +than that for a mother, as loving as this mother, to keep her mouth from +a wee, red moutheen as sweet as Paraig’s (Paraig’s my Priest’s name, you +know). I ought to say that the Priest was only eight years old yet. He +was a lovely picture, standing there, and the firelight shining on his +well-knit body and on his curly head, and dancing in his grey, laughing +eyes. When I think on Paraig, it’s that way I see him before me, +standing on the floor in the brightening of the fire. + +But in regard to the story. About a year before this it is it fell out. +Nora (the mother) was working about the house. Maireen and Taimeen were +amusing themselves on the floor. “_Fromsó Framsó_” they had going on. +Maireen was trying to teach the words to Taimeen, a thing that was +failing on her, for Taimeen hadn’t any talk yet. You know the words, I +suppose?--they’re worth learning, for there’s true poetry in them: + + “_Fromsó Framsó_,-- + A woman dancing, + That would make sport, + That would drink ale, + That would be in time + Here in the morning!” + +Nora wanted a can of water to make tea. It was supper-time. + +“Where’s Paraig, Maireen?” says she. “He’s lost this half-hour.” + +“He went into the room, mameen.” + +“Paraig!” says the mother, calling loudly. + +Not a word from within. + +“Do you hear, Paraig?” + +Never a word. + +“What’s wrong with the boy? Paraig, I say!” says she, as loud as it was +in her head. + +“I’ll be out presently, mama,” says a voice from the room. + +“Hurry with you, son. It’s tea-time, and devil a tear of water have I in +the house.” + +Paraig came out of the room. + +“You’re found at last. Push on down with you,--but what’s this? Where +did you get that shirt, or why is it on you? What were you doing?” + +Paraig was standing in the door, like a stake. A shirt was fastened on +him over his little coat. He looked down on himself. His face was +red-burning to the ears. + +“I forgot to take it off me, mama,” says he. + +“Why is it on you at all?” + +“Sport I was having.” + +“Take it off you this minute! The rod you want, yourself and your +sport!” + +Paraig took off the shirt without a word and left it back in the room. + +“Brush down to the well now and get a can of water for me, like a pet.” +Nora already regretted that she spoke as harshly as that. It’s a woman’s +anger that isn’t lasting. + +Paraig took the can and whipped off with it. Michileen Enda, a +neighbour’s boy, came in while he was out. + +“It beats me, Michileen,” says Nora, after a spell, “to make out what +Paraig does be doing in that room the length of the evening. No sooner +has he his dinner eaten every day than he clears off in there, and he’s +lost till supper-time.” + +“Some sport he does have on foot,” says Michileen. + +“That’s what he says himself. But it’s not in the house a lad like him +ought to be stuck on a fine evening, but outside in the air, tearing +away.” + +“‘A body’s will is his delight,’” says Michileen, reddening his pipe. + +“One apart is Paraig, anyhow,” says Nora. “He’s the most contrary son +you ever saw. Times, three people wouldn’t watch him, and other times +you wouldn’t feel him in the house.” + +Paraig came in at this, and no more was said on the question. He didn’t +steal away this time, but instead of that he sat down on the floor, +playing “_Fromsó Framsó_” with Maireen and Taimeen. + + * * * * * + +The dinner was on the table when Paraig came home from school the next +evening. He ate his share of stirabout and he drank his noggin of milk, +thankfully and with blessing. As soon as he had eaten and drunk, he took +his satchel of books and west with him into the room, as was his habit. + +The mother didn’t let on that she was giving any heed to him. But, after +a couple of minutes, she opened the door of the room quietly, and stuck +the tip of her nose inside. Paraig didn’t notice her, but she had a view +of everything that was going on in the room. + +It was a queer sight. Paraig was standing beside the table and he +dressed in the shirt again. Outside of this, and back over his +shoulders, he was fixing a red bodice of his mother’s, that she had +hanging on the wall. When he had this arranged properly, he took out the +biggest book he had in his satchel--the “Second Book” it was, I +believe--he opened it, and laid it before him on the table, propped +against the looking-glass. + +It’s then began the antics in earnest. Paraig stood out opposite the +table, bent his knee, blessed himself, and began praying loudly. It’s +not well Nora was able to understand him, but, as she thought, he had +Latin and Gaelic mixed through other, and an odd word that wasn’t like +Latin or Gaelic. Once, it seemed to her, she heard the words “_Fromsó +Framsó_,” but she wasn’t sure. Whatever wonder was on Nora at this, it +was seven times greater the wonder was on her when she saw Paraig +genuflecting, beating his breast, kissing the table, letting on he was +reading Latin prayers out of the “Second Book,” and playing one trick +odder than another. She didn’t know rightly what he was up to, till he +turned round and said: + +“_Dominus vobiscum!_” + +“God save us!” says she to herself when she saw this. “He’s pretending +that he’s a priest and he reading Mass! That’s the Mass vestment he’s +wearing, and the little Gaelic book is the book of the Mass!” + +It’s no exaggeration to say that Nora was scared. She came back to the +kitchen and sat before the fire. She didn’t know what she ought to do. +She was between two advices, which of them would be seemliest for +her--to put Paraig across her knee and give him a good whipping, or to +go on her two knees before him and beg his blessing! + +“How do I know,” says she to herself, “that it’s not a terrible sin for +me to let him make a mimic of the priest like that? But how do I know, +after that, that it’s not a saint out of heaven I have in the house? +And, sure, it would be a dreadful sin to lay hand on a saint! May God +forgive it to me, it’s often I laid the track of my fingers on him +already! I don’t know either way. I’m in a strait, surely!” Nora didn’t +sleep a wink that night with putting this question through other. + +The next morning, as soon as Paraig was cleared off to school, Nora put +the lock on the door, left the two young children under the care of +Michileen’s mother, and struck the road to Rossnageeragh. She didn’t +stop till she came to the parish priest’s house and told her story to +Father Ronan from start to finish. The priest only smiled, but Nora was +with him till she drew a promise from him that he’d take the road out to +her that evening. She whipped home then, satisfied. + +The priest didn’t fail her. He struck in to her in the evening. Timely +enough, Paraig was in the room “reading Mass.” + +“On your life, don’t speak, Father!” says Nora. “He’s within.” + +The two stole over on their tiptoes to the room door. They looked +inside. Paraig was dressed in the shirt and bodice, exactly as he was +the day before that, and he praying piously. The priest stood a spell +looking at him. + +At last my lad turned round, and setting his face towards the people, as +it would be: + +“_Orate, fratres_,” says he, out loud. + +While this was saying, he saw his mother and the priest in the door. He +reddened, and stood without a stir. + +“Come here to me,” says Father Ronan. + +Paraig came over timidly. + +“What’s this you have going on?” says the priest. + +“I was reading Mass, Father,” says Paraig. He said this much shyly, but +it was plain he didn’t think that he had done anything out of the +way--and, sure, it’s not much he had. But poor Nora was on a tremble +with fear. + +“Don’t be too hard on him, Father,” says she. “He’s only young.” + +The priest laid his hand lightly on the white head of the little lad, +and he spoke gently and kindly to him. + +“You’re too young yet, Paraigeen,” says he, “to be a priest, and it’s +not granted to anyone but to God’s priest to say the Mass. But whisper +here to me. Would you like to be serving Mass on Sunday?” + +Paraig’s eyes lit up and his cheek reddened again, not with shyness this +time but with sheer delight. + +“_Ora_, I would, Father,” says he; “I’d like nothing at all better.” + +“That will do,” says the priest. “I see you have some of the prayers +already.” + +“But, Father, _a mhuirnín_”--says Nora, and stopped like that, suddenly. + +“What’s on you now?” says the priest. + +“Breeches nor brogues he hasn’t worn yet!” says she. “I think it early +to put breeches on him till--” + +The priest burst out laughing. + +“I never heard,” says he, “that there was call for breeches. We’ll put a +little cassock out over his coat, and I warrant it’ll fit him nicely. As +for shoes, we’ve a pair that Martin the Fisherman left behind him when +he went to Clifden. We’ll dress you right, Paraig, no fear,” says he. +And like that it was settled. + + * * * * * + +When the priest was gone, the mother stooped down and kissed her little +son. + +“My love you are!” says she. + +Going to sleep that night, the last words she said to herself were: “My +little son will be a priest! And how do I know,” says she, closing her +eyes, “how do I know that it’s not a bishop he might be by-and-by?” + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + BARBARA + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + BARBARA + + +Barbara wasn’t too well-favoured, the best day she was. Anybody would +admit that much. The first cause of it,--she was purblind. You’d say, to +look at her, she was one-eyed. Brideen never gave in that she was, +however. Once when another little girl said, out of sheer spite on them +both, that Barbara had only “one blind little eye, like the tailor’s +cat,” Brideen said angrily that Barbara had her two eyes as good as +anybody, but it’s how she’d have one eye shut, for the one was enough +for her (let it be blind), to do her share of work. However it was, it +couldn’t be hidden that she was bald; and I declare a bald head isn’t a +nice thing in a young woman. Another thing, she was a dummy; or it would +be more correct for me to say, that she didn’t ever speak with anybody, +but with Brideen only. If Brideen told truth, she had a tasty tongue of +Irish, and her share of thoughts were the loveliest in the world. It’s +not well she could walk, for she was one-legged, and that one leg itself +broken. She had two legs on a time, but the dog ate one of them, and the +other was broken where she fell from the top of the dresser. + +But who’s Barbara, say you, or who’s Brideen? Brideen is the little +girl, or, as she’d say herself, the little slip of a woman, that lives +in the house next the master’s,--on the left-hand side, I think, going +up the road. It’s likely you know her now? If you don’t, I can’t help +you. I never heard who her people were, and she herself said to me that +her father has ne’er a name but “Daddy.” As for Barbara,--well, it’s as +good for me to tell you her adventures and travels from start to finish. + + + THE ADVENTURES OF BARBARA HERE. + +One day when Brideen’s mother got up, she gave their breakfasts to +Brideen and to her father, to the dog, to the little cat, to the calves, +to the hens, to the geese, to the ducks, and to the little robin +redbreast that would come to the door at breakfast-time every morning. +When she had that much done, she ate her own breakfast. Then she began +readying herself for the road. + +Brideen was sitting on her own little stool without a word out of her, +but she putting the eyes through her mother. At long last she spoke: + +“Is mama going from Brideen?” + +“She’s not, _a stóir_. Mama will come again in the evening. She’s going +to Galway.” + +“Is Brideen going there, too?” + +“She’s not, _a chuid_. The road’s too long, and my little girl would be +tired. She’ll stay at home making sport for herself, like a good little +girl would. Won’t she stay?” + +“She will.” + +“She won’t run out on the street?” + +“She won’t.” + +“Daddy’ll come in at dinner-time, and ye’ll have a meal together. Give +mama a kiss, now.” + +The kiss was given, and the mother was going. Brideen started up. + +“Mama!” + +“What is it _a rúin_?” + +“Won’t you bring home a fairing to Brideen?” + +“I will, _a chuid_. A pretty fairing.” + +The mother went off, and Brideen remained contented at home. She sat +down on her little stool. The dog was curled before the fire, and he +snoring. Brideen woke him up, and put a whisper in his ear: + +“Mama will bring home a fairing to Brideen!” + +“Wuff!” says the dog, and went asleep to himself again. Brideen knew +that “Wuff!” was the same as “Good news!” + +The little cat was sitting on the hearth. Brideen lifted it in her two +arms, rubbed its face to her cheeks, and put a whisper in its ear: + +“Mama will bring home a fairing to Brideen!” + +“Mee-ow!” says the little cat. Brideen knew that “Mee-ow!” was the same +as “Good news!” + +She laid the little cat from her, and went about the house singing to +herself. She made a little song as follows: + + “O little dog, and O little dog! + Sleep a while till my mama comes! + O little cat, and O little cat! + Be purring till she comes home! + O little dog, and O little cat! + At the fair O! my mama is, + But she’ll come again in the little evening O! + And she’ll bring home a fairing with her!” + +She tried to teach this song to the dog, but it’s greater the wish the +dog had for sleep than for music. She tried to teach it to the little +cat, but the little cat thought its own purring sweeter. When her father +came in at midday, nothing would do her but to say this song to him, and +make him to learn it by heart. + +The mother returned home before evening. The first word Brideen said +was: + +“Did you bring the fairing with you, mama?” + +“I did, _a chuisle_.” + +“What did you bring with you?” + +“Guess!” The mother was standing in the middle of the floor. She had her +bag laid on the floor, and her hands behind her. + +“Sweets?” + +“No!” + +“A sugar cake?” + +“No, _muise_! I have a sugar cake in my bag, but that’s not the +fairing.” + +“A pair of stockings?” Brideen never wore shoes or stockings, and she +had been long coveting them. + +“No, indeed! You’re too young for stockings a little while yet.” + +“A prayer book?” There’s no need for me to say that Brideen wasn’t able +to read (for she hadn’t put in a day at school in her life), but she +thought she was. “A prayer book?” says she. + +“Not at all!” + +“What is it, then?” + +“Look!” + +The mother spread out her two hands, and what did she lay bare but a +little doll! A little wooden doll that was bald, and it purblind; but +its two cheeks were as red as a berry, and there was a smile on its +mouth. Anybody who’d have an affection for dolls, he would give +affection and love to it. Brideen’s eyes lit up with joy. + +“_Ora_, isn’t it pretty! _Ara_, mama, heart, where did you get it? _Ora +ó_! I’ll have a child of my very own now,--a child of my very owneen +own! Brideen will have a child!” + +She snatched the little doll, and she squeezed it to her heart. She +kissed its little bald head, and its two red cheeks. She kissed its +little mouth, and its little snub nose. Then she remembered herself, +raised her head, and says she to her mother: + +“Kith!” (like that Brideen would say “Kiss.”) + +The mother stooped down till the little girl kissed her. Then she must +kiss the little doll. The father came in at that moment, and he was made +do the same. + +There wasn’t a thing making Brideen anxious that evening but what name +she’d christen the doll. Her mother praised “Molly” for it, and her +father thought the name “Peggy” would be apt. But none of these were +grand enough, it seemed to Brideen. + +“Why was I called Brideen, daddy?” says she after supper. + +“The old women said that you were like your uncle Padraic, and since we +couldn’t christen you ‘Padraic,’ you were christened ‘Brigid,’ as that, +we thought, was the thing nearest it.” + +“Do you think is she here” (the doll), “like my uncle Padraic, daddy?” + +“O, not like a bit. Your uncle Padraic is fair-haired,--and, I believe, +he has a beard on him now.” + +“Who’s she like, then?” + +“_Muise_, ’twould be hard to say, girl!--’twould be hard, that.” + +Brideen meditated for a while. Her father was stripping her clothes from +her in front of the fire during this time, for it was time for her to be +going to sleep. When she was stripped, she went on her knees, put her +two little hands together, and she began like this: + +“O Jesus Christ, bless us and save us! O Jesus Christ, bless daddy and +mama and Brideen, and keep us safe and well from accident, and from the +harm of the year, if it is the will of my Saviour. O God, bless my uncle +Padraic that’s now in America, and my Aunt Barbara--.” She stopped, +suddenly, and put a shout of joy out of her. + +“I have it! I have it, daddy!” says she. + +“What have you, love? Wait till you finish your share of prayers.” + +“My Aunt Barbara! She’s like my Aunt Barbara!” + +“Who’s like your Aunt Barbara?” + +“The little doll! That’s the name I’ll give her! Barbara!” + +The father let a great shout of laughter before he remembered that the +prayers weren’t finished. Brideen didn’t laugh, at all, but followed on +like this: + +“O God, bless my Uncle Padaric that’s now in America, and my Aunt +Barbara, and (this is an addition she put to it herself), and bless my +own little Barbara, and keep her from mortal sin! Amen, O Lord!” + +The father burst laughing again. Brideen looked at him, and wonder on +her. + +“Brush off, now, and in into your bed with you!” says he, as soon as he +could speak for the laughing. “And don’t forget Barbara!” says he. + +“Little fear!” West with her into the room, and into the bed with her +with a leap. Be sure she didn’t forget Barbara. + +From that night out Brideen wouldn’t go to sleep, for gold nor for +silver, without Barbara being in the bed with her. She wouldn’t sit to +take food without Barbara sitting beside her. She wouldn’t go out making +fun to herself without Barbara being along with her. One Sunday that her +mother brought her with her to Mass, Brideen wasn’t satisfied till +Barbara was brought, too. A neighbour woman wouldn’t come in visiting, +but Barbara would be introduced to her. One day that the priest struck +in to them, Brideen asked him to give Barbara his blessing. He gave his +blessing to Brideen herself. She thought it was to the doll he gave it, +and she was full-satisfied. + +Brideen settled a nice little parlour for Barbara on top of the dresser. +She heard that her Aunt Barbara had a parlour (in Uachtar Ard she was +living), and she thought that it wasn’t too much for Barbara to have a +parlour as good as anybody. My poor Barbara fell from the top of the +dresser one day, as I have told already, and one of her legs was broken. +It’s many a disaster over that happened her. Another day the dog grabbed +her, and was tearing her joint from joint till Brideen’s mother came to +help her. The one leg remained safe with the dog. She fell into the +river another time, and she had like to be drowned. It’s Brideen’s +father that came to her help this journey. Brideen herself was almost +drowned, and she trying to save her from the riverbank. + +If Barbara wasn’t too well-favoured the first day she came, it stands to +nature it’s not better the appearance was on her after putting a year by +her. But ’twas all the same to Brideen whether she was well-favoured or +ill-favoured. She gave the love of her heart to her from the first +minute she laid an eye on her, and it’s increasing that love was from +day to day. Isn’t it the two of them used to have the fun when the +mother would leave the house to their care, times she’d be visiting in a +neighbour’s house! They would have the floor swept and the plates washed +before her, when she’d return. And isn’t it on the mother would be the +wonder, _mor ’eadh_! + +“Is it Brideen cleaned the floor for her mama?” she’d say. + +“Brideen and Barbara,” the little girl would say. + +“_Muise_, I don’t know what I’d do, if it weren’t for the pair of you!” +the mother would say. And isn’t it on Brideen would be the delight and +the pride! + +And the long days of summer they would put from them on the hillside, +among the fern and flowers!--Brideen gathering daisies and +fairy-thimbles and buttercups, and Barbara reckoning them for her (so +she’d say); Brideen forever talking and telling tales that a human being +(not to say a little doll) never heard the likes of before or since, and +Barbara listening to her; it must be she’d be listening attentively, for +there wouldn’t come a word out of her mouth. + +It’s my opinion that there wasn’t a little girl in Connacht, or if I +might say it, in the Continent of Europe, that was more contented and +happy-like, than Brideen was those days; and, I declare, there wasn’t a +little doll under the hollow of the sun that was more contented and +happy-like than Barbara. + +That’s how it stood till Niamh Goldy-Head came. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + II + +Niamh Goldy-Head was a native of Dublin. A lady that came to Gortmore +learning Irish promised before leaving that she’d send some valuable to +Brideen. And, sure, she did. One day, about a week after her departure, +Bartly the Postman walked in into the middle of the kitchen and laid a +big box on the floor. + +“For you, young woman,” says he to Brideen. + +“_Ara_, what’s in it, Bartly?” + +“How do I know? A fairy, maybe.” + +“_O bhó!_ Where did you get it?” + +“From a little green maneen, with a long blue beard on him, a red cap on +his nob, and he riding a hare.” + +“_Ora_, daddy! And what did he say to you, Bartly?” + +“Devil a thing did he say only, ‘Give this to Brideen, and my blessing,’ +and off with him while you’d be winking.” + +I am doubtful if this story of Bartly’s was all true, but Brideen +believed every word of it. She called to her mother, where she was +inside in the room tidying the place after the breakfast. + +“Mama, mama, a big box for Brideen! A little green maneen, with a long +blue beard on him, that gave it to Bartly the Postman!” + +The mother came out and Bartly gathered off. + +“Mameen, mameen, open the box quick! Bartly thinks it’s maybe a fairy is +in it! Hurry, mameen, or how do we know he won’t be smothered inside in +the box?” + +The mother cut the string. She tore the paper from the box. She lifted +the lid. What should be in it, lying nice and comfortably in the box, +like a child would be in a cradle, but the grandest and the +beautifullest doll that eye ever saw! There was yellow-golden hair on +it, and it falling in ringleted tresses over its breast and over its +shoulders. There was the blush of the rose on its cheek. It’s the +likeness I’d compare its little mouth to--two rowanberries; and ’twas +like pearls its teeth were. Its eyes were closed. There was a bright +suit of silk covering its body, and a red mantle of satin over that +outside. There was a glittering necklace of noble stones about its +throat, and, as a top on all the wonders, there was a royal crown on its +head. + +“A Queen!” says Brideen in a whisper, for there was a kind of dread on +her before this glorious fairy. “A Queen from Tir-na-nOg! Look, mama, +she’s asleep. Do you think will she waken?” + +“Take her in your hand,” says the mother. + +The little girl stretched out her two hands timidly, laid them +reverently on the wonderful doll, and at last lifted it out of the box. +No sooner did she take it than the doll opened its eyes, and said in a +sweet, weeny voice: + +“Mam--a!” + +“God bless us!” says the mother, making the sign of the cross on +herself, “she can talk!” + +There was a queer edge in Brideen’s eyes, and there was a queer light in +her features. But I don’t think she was half as scared as the mother +was. Children do be expecting wonders always, and when a wonderful thing +happens it doesn’t put as much astonishment on them as it does on grown +people. + +“Why wouldn’t she talk?” says Brideen. “Can’t Barbara talk? But it’s +sweeter entirely this voice than Barbara’s voice.” + +My grief, you are, Barbara! Where were you all this time? Lying on the +floor where you fell from Brideen’s hand when Bartly came in. I don’t +know did you hear these words from your friend’s mouth. If you did, it’s +surely they’d go like a stitch through your heart. + +Brideen continued speaking. She spoke quickly, her two eyes dancing in +her head: + +“A Queen this is,” says she. “A fairy Queen! Look at the fine suit she’s +wearing! Look at the mantle of satin is on her! Look at the beautiful +crown she has! She’s like yon Queen that Stephen of the Stories was +discoursing about the other night,--the Queen that came over sea from +Tir-na-nOg riding on the white steed. What’s the name that was on that +Queen, mama?” + +“Niamh of the Golden Head.” + +“This is Niamh Goldy-Head!” says the little girl. “I’ll show her to +Stephen the first other time he comes! Isn’t it he will be glad to see +her, mama? He was angry the other night when my daddy said there are no +fairies at all in it. I knew my daddy was only joking.” + +I wouldn’t like to say that Niamh Goldy-Head was a fairy, as Brideen +thought, but I’m sure there was some magic to do with her; and I’m +full-sure that Brideen herself was under a spell from the moment she +came into the house. If she weren’t, she wouldn’t leave Barbara lying by +herself on the floor through the evening, without saying a word to her, +or even remembering her, till sleep-time; nor would she go to sleep +without bringing Barbara into the bed with her, as was her habit. It’s +with trouble you’d believe it, but it’s the young Queen that slept along +with Brideen that night, instead of the faithful little companion that +used sleep with her every night for a year. + +Barbara remained lying on the floor, till Brideen’s mother found her, +and lifted and put her on top of the dresser where her own little +parlour was. Barbara spent that night on the top of the dresser. I +didn’t hear that Brideen or her mother or her father noticed any +lamenting from the kitchen in the middle of the night, and, to say +truth, I don’t think that Barbara shed a tear. But it’s certain she was +sad enough, lying up yonder by herself, without her friend’s arm about +her, without the heat of her friend’s body warming her, without man or +mortal near her, without hearing a sound but the faint, truly-lonesome +sounds that do be heard in a house in the dead time of the night. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + III + +It’s sitting or lying on the top of the dresser that Barbara spent the +greater part of the next quarter. ’Twas seldom Brideen used speak to +her; and when she would speak, she’d only say, “Be a good girl, Barbara. +You see I’m busy. I must give attention to Niamh Goldy-Head. She’s a +Queen, you know, and she must be attended well.” Brideen was getting +older now (I believe she was five years past, or, maybe, five and +a-half), and she was rising out of a share of the habits she learned at +the start of her babyhood. It’s not “Brideen” she’d call herself now, +for she knew the meaning that was in the little word “I,” and in those +little tails “am” and “am not” when they’re put after “I.” She knew, +too, that it’s great the respect and the honour due to a Queen, over +what is due to a poor, little creatureen like Barbara. + +I’m afraid Barbara didn’t understand this story at all. She was only a +little wooden doll, and, sure, ’twould be hard for its likes to +understand the heart of a girl. It was plain to her that she was cast to +one side. It’s Niamh Goldy-Head would sleep along with Brideen now; it’s +Niamh Goldy-Head would sit beside her at meal-time; it’s Niamh +Goldy-Head would go out on the hill, foot to foot with her, that would +lie with her among the fern, and would go with her gathering daisies and +fairy-thimbles. It’s Niamh Goldy-Head she’d press to her breast. It’s +Niamh Goldy-Head she’d kiss. Some other body to be in the place you’d +be, some other body to be walking with the person you’d walk with, some +other body to be kissing the mouth you’d long to kiss,--that’s the +greatest pain is to be suffered in this world; and that’s the pain was +in Barbara’s heart now, torturing her from morning till night, and +tormenting her from night till morning. + +I suppose it’ll be said to me that it’s not possible for these thoughts, +or any other thoughts, to be in Barbara’s heart, for wasn’t she only a +wooden toy, without feeling, without mind, without understanding, +without strength? My answer to anybody who’d speak like this to me would +be:--_How do we know?_ How do you or I know that dolls, and wooden toys, +and the tree, and the hill, and the river, and the waterfall, and the +little blossoms of the field, and the little stones of the strand +haven’t their own feeling, and mind, and understanding, and +guidance?--aye, and the hundred other things we see about us? I don’t +say they have; but ’twould be daring for me or for anybody else to say +that they haven’t. The children think they have; and it’s my opinion +that the children are more discerning in things of this sort than you or +I. + +One day that Barbara was sitting up lonesomely by herself in her +parlour, Brideen and Niamh Goldy-Head were in earnest conversation by +the fireside; or, I ought to say, Brideen was in earnest conversation +with herself, and Niamh listening to her; for nobody ever heard a word +out of the Queen’s mouth but only “Mam-a.” Brideen’s mother was outside +the door washing. The father was setting potatoes in the garden. There +only remained in the house Brideen and the two dolls. + +It’s like the little girl was tired, for she’d spent the morning washing +(she’d wash the Queen’s sheet and blanket every week). It was short till +sleep came on her. It was short, after that, till she dropped her head +on her breast and she was in deep slumber. I don’t rightly understand +what happened after that, but, by all accounts, Brideen was falling down +and down, till she was stretched on the hearth-flag within the nearness +of an inch to the fire. She didn’t waken, for she was sound asleep. It’s +like that Niamh Goldy-Head was asleep, too, but, however, or whatever, +the story is, she didn’t stir. There wasn’t a soul in the house to +protect the darling little child from the death that was faring on her. +Nobody knew her to be in peril, but only God and--Barbara. + +The mother was working without, and she not thinking that death was that +near the child of her heart. She was turning a tune to herself, and +lifting it finely, when she heard a “plop”--a sound as if something was +falling on the floor. + +“What’s that, now?” says she to herself. “Something that fell from the +wall, it’s a chance. It can’t be that Brideen meddled with it?” + +In with her in a hurry. It’s barely the life didn’t drop out of her, +with the dint of fright. And what wonder? Her darling child was +stretched on the hearth, and her little coateen blazing in the fire! + +The mother rushed to her across the kitchen, lifted her in her arms, and +pulled the coat from her. She only just saved her. If she’d waited +another little half-moment, she was too late. + +Brideen was awake now, and her two arms about the neck of her mother. +She was trembling with the dint of fear, and, sure enough, crying, +though it isn’t too well she understood the story yet. Her mother was +“smothering her with kisses and drowning her with tears.” + +“What happened me, mama? I was dreaming. I felt hot, and I thought I was +going up, up in the sky, and that the sun was burning me? What happened +me?” + +“It’s the will of God that my _stóirín_ wasn’t burnt,--not with the sun, +but with the fire. O, Brideen, your mother’s little pet, what would I do +if they’d kill you on me? What would your father do? ’Twas God spoke to +me coming in that minute!--I don’t know what sort of noise I heard? If +it weren’t for that, I mightn’t have come in at all.” + +She looked round her. Everything was in its own place on the table, and +on the walls, and on the dresser,--but stay! In front of the dresser she +took notice of a thing on the floor. What was it? A little body without +a head--a doll’s body. + +“Barbara fallen from the dresser again,” says the mother. “My +conscience, it’s she saved your life to you, Brideen.” + +“Not falling she did it at all!” says the little girl, “but it’s how she +saw I was in danger, and she threw a leap from the top of the dresser to +save me. O, poor Barbara, you gave your life for my sake!” + +She went on her knees, lifted the little corpse of the doll, and kissed +it softly and fondly. + +“Mama,” says she, sadly, “since Niamh Goldy-Head came, I’m afraid I +forgot poor Barbara, and it’s greater the liking I put in Niamh +Goldy-Head than in her; and see, it’s she was most true to me in the +end. And she’s dead now on me, and I won’t be able to speak with her +ever again, nor to say to her that I’d rather her a thousand +times,--aye, a hundred thousand times--than Niamh.” + +“It’s not dead she is at all,” says the mother, “but hurted. Your father +will put the head on her again when he comes in.” + +“If I’d fall from the top of the dresser, mama, and lose my head, would +he be able to put it on me again?” + +“He wouldn’t. But you’re not the same as Barbara.” + +“I am the same. She’s dead. Don’t you see she’s not moving or speaking?” + +The mother had to admit this much. + +Nothing would convince Brideen that Barbara wasn’t killed, and that it +wasn’t to save her she gave her life. I myself wouldn’t say she was +right, but I wouldn’t say she wasn’t. I can only say what I said before: +How do I know? How do you know? + +Barbara was buried that evening on the side of the hill in the place +where she and Brideen spent those long days of summer among the fern and +the flowers. There are fairy-thimbles growing at the head of the grave, +and daisies and buttercups plentifully about it. + +Before going to sleep that night, Brideen called over to her mother. + +“Do you think, mama,” says she, “will I see Barbara in heaven?” + +“Maybe, by the King of Glory, you might,” says the mother. + +“Do you think will I, daddy?” says she to her father. + +“I know well you will,” says the father. + + * * * * * + +Those were the Adventures and Tragic Fate of Barbara up to that time. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS + + +A conversation that took place between Eoineen of the Birds and his +mother, one evening of spring, before the going under of the sun. The +song-thrush and the yellow-bunting that heard it, and (as I think) told +it to my friends the swallows. The swallows that told the story to me. + +“Come on in, pet. It’s rising cold.” + +“I can’t stir a while yet, little mother. I’m waiting for the swallows.” + +“For what, little son?” + +“The swallows. I’m thinking they’ll be here this night.” + +Eoineen was high on the big rock that was close to the gable of the +house, he settled nicely on top of it, and the white back of his head +against the foot of the ash-tree that was sheltering him. He had his +head raised, and he looking from him southward. His mother looked up at +him. It seemed to her that his share of hair was yellow gold where the +sun was burning on his head. + +“And where are they coming from, child?” + +“From the Southern World--the place it does be summer always. I’m +expecting them for a week.” + +“And how do you know that it’s this night they’ll come?” + +“I don’t know, only thinking it. ’Twould be time for them to be here +some day now. I mind that it was this day surely they came last year. I +was coming up from the well when I heard their twittering--a sweet, +joyful twittering as they’d be saying: ‘We’ve come to you again, +Eoineen! News to you from the Southern World!’--and then one of them +flew past me, rubbing his wing to my cheek.” + +There’s no need to say that this talk put great wonder on the mother. +Eoineen never spoke to her like that before. She knew that he put a +great wish in the birds, and that it’s many an hour he used spend in the +wood or by the strand-side, “talking to them,” as he’d say. But she +didn’t understand why there should be that great a wish on him to see +the swallows coming again. She knew by his face, as well as by the words +of his mouth, that he was forever thinking on some thing that was making +him anxious. And there came unrest on the woman over it, a thing that’s +no wonder. “Sure, it’s queer talk from a child,” says she in her own +mind. She didn’t speak a breath aloud, however, but she listening to +each word that came out of his mouth. + +“I’m very lonely since they left me in the harvest,” says the little boy +again, like one that would be talking to himself. “They had that much to +say to me. They’re not the same as the song-thrush or the yellow-bunting +that do spend the best part of their lives by the ditch-side in the +garden. They do have wonderful stories to tell about the lands where it +does be summer always, and about the wild seas where the ships are +drowned, and about the lime-bright cities where the kings do be always +living. It’s long, long the road from the Southern World to this +country. They see everything coming over, and they don’t forget +anything. I think long, wanting them.” + +“Come in, white love, and go to sleep. You’ll be perished with the cold +if you stay out any longer.” + +“I’ll go in presently, little mother. I wouldn’t like them to come, and +I not to be here to give them welcome. They would be wondering.” + +The mother saw that it was no good to be at him. She went in, troubled. +She cleaned the table and the chairs. She washed the vessels and the +dishes. She took the brush, and she brushed the floor. She scoured the +kettle and the big pot. She trimmed the lamp, and hung it on the wall. +She put more turf on the fire. She did a hundred other things that she +needn’t have done. Then she sat before the fire, thinking to herself. + +The “piper of the ashes” (the cricket) came out, and started on his +heartsome tune. The mother stayed by the hearthside, pondering. The +little boy stayed on his airy seat, watching. The cows came home from +the pasture. The hen called to her her chickens. The blackbird and the +wren, and the other little people of the wood went to sleep. The buzzing +of the flies was stopped, and the bleating of the lambs. The sun sank +slowly till it was close to the bottom of the sky, till it was exactly +on the bottom of the sky, till it was under the bottom of the sky. A +cold wind blew from the east. The darkness spread on the earth. At last +Eoineen came in. + +“I fear they won’t come this night,” says he. “Maybe, with God’s help, +they might come to-morrow.” + + * * * * * + +The morning of the next day came. Eoineen was up early, and he watching +out from the top of the rock. The middle of day came. The end of day +came. The night came. But, my grief! the swallows did not come. + +“Maybe we might see them here to-morrow,” says Eoineen, and he coming in +sadly that night. + +But they didn’t see them. Nor did they see them the day after that, nor +the day after that again. And it’s what Eoineen would say every night +and he coming in: + +“Maybe they might be with us to-morrow.” + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + II + +There came a delightful evening in the end of April. The air was clear +and cool after a shower of rain. There was a wonderful light in the +western heavens. The birds sang a strain of music in the wood. The waves +were chanting a poem on the strand. But loneliness was on the heart of +the boy and he waiting for the swallows. + +There was heard, suddenly, a sound that hadn’t been heard in that place +for more than a half-year. A little, tiny sound. A faint, +truly-melodious sound. A pert, joyous twittering, and it unlike any +other twittering that comes from the mouth of a bird. With fiery +swiftness a small black body drove from the south. It flying high in the +air. Two broad, strong wings on it. The shaping of a fork on its tail. +It cutting the way before it, like an arrow shot from a bow. It swooped +suddenly, it turned, rose again, swooped and turned again. Then it made +straight for Eoineen, it speaking at the top of its voice, till it lay +and nestled in the breast of the little boy after its long journey from +the Southern World. + +“O, my love, my love you are!” says Eoineen, taking it in his two hands +and kissing it on the little black head. “Welcome to me from the strange +countries! Are you tired after your lonely journey over lands and over +seas? _Ora_, my thousand, thousand loves you are, beautiful little +messenger from the country where it does be summer always! Where are +your companions from you? Or what happened you on the road, or why +didn’t ye come before this?” + +While he was speaking like this with the swallow, kissing it again and +yet again, and rubbing his hand lovingly over its blue-black wings, its +little red throat and its bright, feathered breast, another little bird +sailed from the south and alighted beside them. The two birds rose in +the air then, and it is the first other place they lay, in their own +little nest that was hidden in the ivy that was growing thickly on the +walls of the house. + +“They are found at last, little mother!” says Eoineen, and he running in +joyfully. “The swallows are found at last! A pair came this night--the +pair who have their nest over my window. The others will be with us +to-morrow.” + +The mother stooped and drew him to her. Then she put a prayer to God in +a whisper, giving thanks to Him for sending the swallows to them. The +flame that was in the eyes of the boy, it would put delight on the heart +of any mother at all. + +It was sound the sleep of Eoineen that night. + + * * * * * + +The swallows came one after another now--singly at first, in pairs then, +and at last in little flocks. Isn’t it they were glad when they saw the +old place again! The little wood and the brook running through it; the +white, sandy beach; the ash-trees that were close to the house; the +house itself and the old nests exactly as they left them half a year +before that. There was no change on anything but only on the little boy. +He was quieter and gentler than he used to be. He was oftener sitting +than running with himself about the fields, as was his habit before +that. He wasn’t heard laughing or singing as often as he used be heard. +If the swallows took notice of this much--and I wouldn’t say they +didn’t--it’s certain that they were sorry for him. + +The summer went by. It was seldom Eoineen would stir out on the street, +but he sitting contentedly on the top of the rock, looking at the +swallows and listening to their twittering. He’d spend the hours like +this. ’Twas often he was there from early morning till there came +“_tráthnóna gréine buidhe_,”--the evening of the yellow sun; and going +within every night he’d have a great lot of stories, beautiful, +wonderful stories, to tell to his mother. When she’d question him about +these stories, he’d always say to her that it’s from the swallows he’d +get them. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + III. + +The priest came in the evening. + +“How is Eoineen of the Birds this weather, Eibhlin?” says he. (The other +boys had nicknamed him “Eoineen of the Birds” on account of the love he +had for the birds.) + +“_Muise_, Father, he wasn’t as well for many a long day as he is since +the summer came. There’s a blush in his cheek I never saw in it before.” + +The priest looked sharply at her. He had noticed that blush for a time, +and if he did, it didn’t deceive him. Other people had noticed it, too, +and if they did, it didn’t deceive them. But it was plain it deceived +the mother. There were tears in the priest’s eyes, but Eibhlin was +blowing the fire, and she didn’t see them. There was a stoppage in his +voice when he spoke again, but the mother didn’t notice it. + +“Where’s Eoineen now, Eibhlin?” + +“He’s sitting on the rock outside, ‘talking to the swallows,’ as himself +says. It’s wonderful the affection he has for those little birds. Do you +know, Father, what he said to me the other day?” + +“I don’t know, Eibhlin.” + +“He was saying that it’s short now till the swallows would be departing +from us again, and says he to me, suddenly, ‘What would you do, little +mother,’ says he, ‘if I’d steal away from you with the swallows?’” + +“And what did you say, Eibhlin?” + +“I said to him to brush out with him, and not be bothering me. But I’m +thinking ever since on the thing he said, and it’s troubling me. Wasn’t +it a queer thought for him, Father,--he going with the swallows?” + +“It’s many a queer thought comes into the heart of a child,” says the +priest. And he went out the door, without saying another word. + + * * * * * + +“Dreaming, as usual, Eoineen?” + +“No, Father. I’m talking to the swallows.” + +“Talking to them?” + +“Aye, Father. We do be talking together always.” + +“And whisper. What do ye be saying to one another?” + +“We do be talking about the countries far away, where it does be summer +always, and about the wild seas where the ships do be drowned, and about +the lime-bright cities where the kings do be always living.” + +The wonder of his heart came on the priest, as it came on the mother +before that. + +“It’s you do be discoursing on these things, and they listening to you, +it’s like?” + +“No, Father. They, mostly, that do be talking, and I listening to them.” + +“And do you understand their share of talk, Eoineen?” + +“Aye, Father. Don’t you understand it?” + +“Not too well I understand it. Make room for me on the rock there, and +I’ll sit a while till you explain to me what they do be saying.” + +Up with the priest on the rock, and he sat beside the little boy. He put +an arm about his neck, and began taking talk out of him. + +“Tell me what the swallows do be saying to you, Eoineen.” + +“It’s many a thing they do be saying to me. It’s many a fine story they +do tell to me. Did you see that little bird that went past just now, +Father?” + +“I did.” + +“That’s the cleverest storyteller of them all. That one’s nest is under +the ivy that’s growing over the window of my room. And she has another +nest in the Southern World--herself and her mate.” + +“Has she, Eoineen?” + +“Aye--another beautiful little nest thousands and thousands of miles +from this. Isn’t it a queer story, Father?--to say that the little +swallow has two houses, and we having one only?” + +“It’s queer, indeed. And what sort is the country she has this other +house in?” + +“When I shut my eyes I see a lonely, awful country. I see it now, +Father! A lonely, terrible country. There’s neither mountain, nor hill, +nor valley in it, but it a great, level, sandy plain. There’s neither +wood, nor grass, nor growth in it, but the earth as bare as the heart of +your palm. Sand entirely. Sand under your feet. Sand on every side of +you. The sun scorching over your head. Without a cloud at all to be seen +in the sky. It very hot. Here and there there’s a little grassy spot, as +it would be a little island in the middle of the sea. A couple of high +trees growing on each spot of them. They sheltered from wind and sun. I +see on one of these islands a high cliff. A terrible big cliff. There’s +a cleft in the cliff, and in the cleft there’s a little swallow’s nest. +That’s the nest of my little swallow.” + +“Who told you this, Eoineen?” + +“The swallow. She spends half of her life in that country, herself and +her mate. Isn’t it the grand life they have on that lonely little island +in the middle of the desert! There does be neither cold nor wet in it, +frost nor snow, but it summer always.... And after that, Father, they +don’t forget their other little nest here in Ireland, nor the wood, nor +the brook, nor the ash-trees, nor me, nor my mother. Every year in the +spring they hear, as it would be, a whispering in their ears telling +them that the woods are in leaf in Ireland, and that the sun is shining +on the bawn-fields, and that the lambs are bleating, and I waiting for +them. And they bid farewell to their dwelling in the strange country, +and they go before them, and they make neither stop nor stay till they +see the tops of the ash-trees from them, and till they hear the voice of +the river and the bleating of the lambs.” + +The priest was listening attentively. + +“O!--and isn’t it wonderful the journey they do have from the Southern +World! They leave the big sandy plain behind them, and the high, bald +mountains that are on its border, and they go before them till they come +to the great sea. Out with them over the sea, flying always, always, +without weariness, without growing weak. They see below them the +mighty-swelling waves, and the ships ploughing the ocean, and the white +sails, and seagulls, and the ‘black hags of the sea’ (cormorants), and +other wonders that I couldn’t remember. And times, there rise wind and +storm, and they see the ships drowning and the waves rising on top of +each other; and themselves, the creatures, do be beaten with the wind, +and blinded with the rain and with the salt water, till they make out +the land at last. A while to them then going before them, and they +looking on grassy parks, and on green-topped woods, and on high-headed +reeks, and on broad lakes, and on beautiful rivers, and on fine cities, +as they were wonderful pictures, and they looking on them down from +them. They see people at work. They hear cattle lowing, and children +laughing, and bells ringing. But they don’t stop, but forever going till +they come to the brink of the sea again, and no rest to them then till +they strike the country of Ireland.” + +Eoineen continued speaking like this for a long time, the priest +listening to every word he said. They were chatting till the darkness +fell, and till the mother called Eoineen in. The priest went home +pondering to himself. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + IV + +August and September went. October was half out. As the days were +getting shorter, Eoineen was rising sadder. ’Twas seldom he’d speak to +his mother now, but every night before going to sleep he’d kiss her +fondly and tenderly, and he’d say: + +“Call me early in the morning, little mother. It’s little time I have +now. They’ll be departing without much delay.” + +A beautiful day brightened in the middle of the month. Early in the +morning, Eoineen took notice that the swallows were crowding together on +the top of the house. He didn’t stir from his seat the length of that +day. Coming in in the evening, says he to his mother: + +“They’ll be departing to-morrow.” + +“How do you know, white love?” + +“They told me to-day.... Little mother,” says he again, after a spell of +silence. + +“What is it, little child?” + +“I can’t stay here when they’re gone. I must go along with them ... to +the country where it does be summer always. You wouldn’t be lonely if +I’d go?” + +“O! treasure, my thousand treasures, don’t speak to me like that!” says +the mother, taking him and squeezing him to her heart. “You’re not to be +stolen from me! Sure, you wouldn’t leave your little mother, and go +after the swallows?” + +Eoineen didn’t say a word, but to kiss her again and again. + + * * * * * + +Another day brightened. The little, wee boy was up early. From the start +of day hundreds of swallows were gathered together on the ridge of the +house. From time to time one or two of them would go off and they’d +return again, as if they’d be considering the weather. At last a pair +went off and they didn’t return. Another pair went off. The third pair +went. They were going one after another then, till there didn’t remain +but one little flock only on the horn of the house. The pair that came +first on yon evening of spring six months before that were in this +little flock. It’s like they were loath to leave the place. + +Eoineen was watching them from the rock. His mother was standing beside +him. + +The little flock of birds rose in the air, and they faced the Southern +World. Going over the top of the wood a pair turned back,--the pair +whose nest was over the window. Down with them from the sky, making on +Eoineen. Over with them then, they flying close to the ground. Their +wings rubbed a cheek of the little boy, and they sweeping past him. Up +with them in the air again, they speaking sorrowfully, and off for ever +with them after the other crowd. + +“Mother,” says Eoineen, “they’re calling me. ‘Come to the country where +the sun does be shining always,--come, Eoineen, over the wild seas to +the Country of Light,--come, Eoineen of the Birds!’ I can’t deny them. A +blessing with you, little mother,--my thousand, thousand blessings to +you, little mother of my heart. I’m going from you ... over the wild +seas ... to the country where it does be summer always.” + +He let his head back on his mother’s shoulder and he put a sigh out of +him. There was heard the crying of a woman in that lonely place--the +crying of a mother keening her child. Eoineen was departed along with +the swallows. + + * * * * * + +Autumn and winter went by and the spring was at hand again. The woods +were in leaf, and the lambs bleating, and the sun shining on the +bawn-fields. One glorious evening in April the swallows came. There was +a wonderful light at the bottom of the sky in the west, as it was a year +from that time. The birds sang a strain of music in the wood. The waves +chanted a poem on the strand. But there was no little white-haired boy, +sitting on the top of the rock under the shadow of the ash-trees. Inside +in the house there was a solitary woman, weeping by the fire. + +“... And, darling little son,” says she, “I see the swallows here again, +but I’ll never, never see you here.” + +The swallows heard her, and they going past the door. I don’t know did +Eoineen hear her, as he was thousands of miles away ... in the country +where it does be summer always. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + POEMS + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + LULLABY OF A WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN + + + Little gold head, my house’s candle, + You will guide all wayfarers that walk this mountain. + + Little soft mouth that my breast has known, + Mary will kiss you as she passes. + + Little round cheek, O smoother than satin, + Jesus will lay His hand on you. + + Mary’s kiss on my baby’s mouth, + Christ’s little hand on my darling’s cheek! + + House, be still, and ye little grey mice, + Lie close to-night in your hidden lairs. + + Moths on the window, fold your wings, + Little black chafers, silence your humming. + + Plover and curlew, fly not over my house, + Do not speak, wild barnacle, passing over this mountain. + + Things of the mountain that wake in the night-time, + Do not stir to-night till the daylight whitens! + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + A WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN KEENS HER SON + + + Grief on the death, it has blackened my heart: + It has snatched my love and left me desolate, + Without friend or companion under the roof of my house + But this sorrow in the midst of me, and I keening. + + As I walked the mountain in the evening + The birds spoke to me sorrowfully, + The sweet snipe spoke and the voiceful curlew + Relating to me that my darling was dead. + + I called to you and your voice I heard not, + I called again and I got no answer, + I kissed your mouth, and O God how cold it was! + Ah, cold is your bed in the lonely churchyard. + + O green-sodded grave in which my child is, + Little narrow grave, since you are his bed, + My blessing on you, and thousands of blessings + On the green sods that are over my treasure. + + Grief on the death, it cannot be denied, + It lays low, green and withered together,-- + And O gentle little son, what tortures me is + That your fair body should be making clay! + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + O LITTLE BIRD + + + (A sparrow which I found dead on my doorstep on a day of winter.) + + + O little bird! + Cold to me thy lying on the flag: + Bird, that never had an evil thought, + Pitiful the coming of death to thee! + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + WHY DO YE TORTURE ME? + + + Why are ye torturing me, O desires of my heart? + Torturing me and paining me by day and by night? + Hunting me as a poor deer would be hunted on a hill, + A poor long-wearied deer with the hound-pack after him? + + There’s no ease to my paining in the loneliness of the hills, + But the cry of the hunters terrifically to be heard, + The cry of my desires haunting me without respite,-- + O ravening hounds, long is your run! + + No satisfying can come to my desires while I live, + For the satisfaction I desired yesterday is no satisfaction, + And the hound-pack is the greedier of the satisfaction it has got,-- + And forever I shall not sleep till I sleep in the grave. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + LITTLE LAD OF THE TRICKS + + + Little lad of the tricks + Full well I know + That you have been in mischief: + Confess your fault truly. + + I forgive you, child + Of the soft red mouth: + I will not condemn anyone + For a sin not understood. + + Raise your comely head + Till I kiss your mouth: + If either of us is the better of that + I am the better of it. + + There is a fragrance in your kiss + That I have not found yet + In the kisses of women + Or in the honey of their bodies. + + Lad of the grey eyes, + That flush in thy cheek + Would be white with dread of me + Could you read my secrets. + + He who has my secrets + Is not fit to touch you: + Is not that a pitiful thing, + Little lad of the tricks? + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + O LOVELY HEAD + + + O lovely head of the woman that I loved, + In the middle of the night I remember thee: + But reality returns with the sun’s whitening, + Alas, that the slender worm gnaws thee to-night. + + Beloved voice, that wast low and beautiful, + Is it true that I heard thee in my slumbers! + Or is the knowledge true that tortures me? + My grief, the tomb hath no sound or voice? + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + LONG TO ME THY COMING + + + Long to me thy coming, + Old henchman of God, + O friend of all friends, + To free me from my pain. + + O syllable on the wind, + O footfall not heavy, + O hand in the dark, + Your coming is long to me. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + A RANN I MADE + + + A rann I made within my heart + To the rider, to the high king, + A rann I made to my love, + To the king of kings, ancient death. + + Brighter to me than light of day + The dark of thy house, tho’ black clay; + Sweeter to me than the music of trumpets + The quiet of thy house and its eternal silence. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TO A BELOVED CHILD + + + Laughing mouth, what tortures me is + That thou shalt be weeping; + Lovely face, it is my pity + That thy brightness shall grow grey. + + Noble head, thou art proud, + But thou shalt bow with sorrow; + And it is a pitiful thing I forbode for thee + Whenever I kiss thee. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + I HAVE NOT GARNERED GOLD + + + I have not garnered gold; + The fame I found hath perished; + In love I got but grief + That withered my life. + + Of riches or of store + I shall not leave behind me + (Yet I deem it, O God, sufficient) + But my name in the heart of a child. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + I AM IRELAND + + + I am Ireland: + I am older than the Old Woman of Beare. + + Great my glory: + I that bore Cuchulainn the valiant. + + Great my shame: + My own children that sold their mother. + + I am Ireland: + I am lonelier than the Old Woman of Beare. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + RENUNCIATION + + + Naked I saw thee, + O beauty of beauty, + And I blinded my eyes + For fear I should fail. + + I heard thy music, + O melody of melody, + And I closed my ears + For fear I should falter. + + I tasted thy mouth, + O sweetness of sweetness, + And I hardened my heart + For fear of my slaying. + + I blinded my eyes, + And I closed my ears, + I hardened my heart + And I smothered my desire. + + I turned my back + On the vision I had shaped, + And to this road before me + I turned my face. + + I have turned my face + To this road before me, + To the deed that I see + And the death I shall die. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE RANN OF THE LITTLE PLAYMATE + + + Young Iosa plays with me every day, + _(With an óró and an iaró)_ + Tig and Pookeen and Hide-in-the-Hay, + _(With an óró and an iaró)_ + We race in the rivers with otters grey, + We climb the tall trees where red squirrels play, + We watch the wee lady-bird fly far away. + _(With an óró and an iaró and an úmbó éró!)_ + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + A SONG FOR MARY MAGDALENE + + + O woman of the gleaming hair, + (Wild hair that won men’s gaze to thee) + Weary thou turnest from the common stare, + For the _shuiler_ Christ is calling thee. + + O woman of the snowy side, + Many a lover hath lain with thee, + Yet left thee sad at the morning tide, + But thy lover Christ shall comfort thee. + + O woman with the wild thing’s heart, + Old sin hath set a snare for thee: + In the forest ways forspent thou art + But the hunter Christ shall pity thee. + + O woman spendthrift of thyself, + Spendthrift of all the love in thee, + Sold unto sin for little pelf, + The captain Christ shall ransom thee. + + O woman that no lover’s kiss + (Tho’ many a kiss was given thee) + Could slake thy love, is it not for this + The hero Christ shall die for thee? + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + CHRIST’S COMING + + + I have made my heart clean to-night + As a woman might clean her house + Ere her lover come to visit her: + O Lover, pass not by! + + I have opened the door of my heart + Like a man that would make a feast + For his son’s coming home from afar: + Lovely Thy coming, O Son! + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + ON THE STRAND OF HOWTH + + + On the strand of Howth + Breaks a sounding wave; + A lone sea-gull screams + Above the bay. + + In the middle of the meadow + Beside Glasnevin + The corncrake speaks + All night long. + + There is minstrelsy of birds + In Glenasmole, + The blackbird and thrush + Chanting music. + + There is shining of sun + On the side of Slieverua, + And the wind blowing + Down over its brow. + + On the harbour of Dunleary + Are boat and ship + With sails set + Ploughing the waves. + + Here in Ireland, + Am I, my brother, + And you far from me + In gallant Paris, + + I beholding + Hill and harbour, + The strand of Howth + And Slieverua’s side, + + And you victorious + In mighty Paris + Of the limewhite palaces + And the surging hosts; + + And what I ask + Of you, beloved, + Far away + Is to think at times + + Of the corncrake’s tune + Beside Glasnevin + In the middle of the meadow, + Speaking in the night; + + Of the voice of the birds + In Glenasmole + Happily, with melody, + Chanting music; + + Of the strand of Howth + Where a wave breaks, + And the harbour of Dunleary, + Where a ship rocks; + + On the sun that shines + On the side of Slieverua, + And the wind that blows + Down over its brow. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE DORD FEINNE + + + _’Se do bheatha_, O woman that wast sorrowful, + What grieved us was thy being in chains, + Thy beautiful country in the possession of rogues, + And thou sold to the Galls, + _Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_, + _Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_, + _Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_, + Now at summer’s coming! + + Thanks to the God of miracles that we see, + Altho’ we live not a week thereafter, + Gráinne Mhaol and a thousand heroes + Proclaiming the scattering of the Galls! + _Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_, + _Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_, + _Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_, + Now at summer’s coming! + + Gráinne Mhaol is coming from over the sea, + The Fenians of Fál as a guard about her, + Gaels they, and neither French nor Spaniard, + And a rout upon the Galls! + _Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_, + _Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_, + _Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile_, + Now at summer’s coming! + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE MOTHER + + + I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge + My two strong sons that I have seen go out + To break their strength and die, they and a few, + In bloody protest for a glorious thing, + They shall be spoken of among their people, + The generations shall remember them, + And call them blessed; + But I will speak their names to my own heart + In the long nights; + The little names that were familiar once + Round my dead hearth. + Lord, thou art hard on mothers: + We suffer in their coming and their going; + And tho’ I grudge them not, I weary, weary + Of the long sorrow--And yet I have my joy: + My sons were faithful, and they fought. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE FOOL + + + Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool; + A fool that hath loved his folly, + Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses, or + their quiet homes, + Or their fame in men’s mouths; + A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing, + Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped + The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed; + A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all + Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the + reaping-hooks + And the poor are filled that were empty, + Tho’ he go hungry. + + I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my + youth + In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil. + Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God. + + I have squandered the splendid years: + Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again, + Aye, fling them from me! + For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not + hoard, + Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen, + Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’s + And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word? + + The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces, + And said, “This man is a fool,” and others have said, “He + blasphemeth;” + And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life + In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things, + To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart + could hold. + + O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true? + What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell + In the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought? + Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kin + On the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures, + But remember this my faith. + + And so I speak. + Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say: + Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save; + Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all; + Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word. + And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter, + O people that I have loved shall we not answer together? + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE REBEL + + + I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow, + That have no treasure but hope, + No riches laid up but a memory + Of an Ancient glory. + My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born, + I am of the blood of serfs; + The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I + have eaten, + Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters, + And, though gentle, have served churls; + The hands that have touched mine, the dear hands whose touch is + familiar to me, + Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by + manacles, + Have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers, + I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone, + I that have never submitted; + I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people’s masters, + I that have vision and prophecy and the gift of fiery speech, + I that have spoken with God on the top of His holy hill. + + And because I am of the people, I understand the people, + I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire: + My heart has been heavy with the grief of mothers, + My eyes have been wet with the tears of children, + I have yearned with old wistful men, + And laughed or cursed with young men; + Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it, + Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free, + Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full, + Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and of their + jailors + With their writs of summons and their handcuffs, + Men mean and cruel! + I could have borne stripes on my body rather than this shame of my + people. + + And now I speak, being full of vision; + I speak to my people, and I speak in my people’s name to the masters + of my people. + I say to my people that they are holy, that they are august, despite + their chains, + That they are greater than those that hold them, and stronger and + purer, + That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their + God, + God the unforgetting, the dear God that loves the peoples + For whom He died naked, suffering shame. + And I say to my people’s masters: Beware, + Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people, + Who shall take what ye would not give. Did ye think to conquer the + people, + Or that Law is stronger than life and than men’s desire to be free? + We will try it out with you, ye that have harried and held, + Ye that have bullied and bribed, tyrants, hypocrites, liars! + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + CHRISTMAS + + + 1915 + + + O King that was born + To set bondsmen free, + In the coming battle, + Help the Gael! + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE WAYFARER + + + The beauty of the world hath made me sad, + This beauty that will pass; + Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy + To see a leaping squirrel in a tree, + Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk, + Or little rabbits in a field at evening, + Lit by a slanting sun, + Or some green hill where shadows drifted by + Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath sown + And soon would reap; near to the gate of Heaven; + Or children with bare feet upon the sands + Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets + Of little towns in Connacht, + Things young and happy. + And then my heart hath told me: + These will pass, + Will pass and change, will die and be no more, + Things bright and green, things young and happy; + And I have gone upon my way + Sorrowful. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + APPENDIX + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + APPENDIX + + + THE SINGER + +The following is the version of a passage in this play, which was with +the Author’s manuscript: + + + COLM. Is it to die like rats you’d have us because the word is not + given? + + CUIMIN. Our plans are not finished. Our orders are not here. + + COLM. Our plans will never be finished. Our orders may never be here. + + CUIMIN. We’ve no one to lead us. + + COLM. Didn’t you elect me your captain? + + CUIMIN. We did, but not to bid us rise out when the whole country is + quiet. We were to get the word from the men that are over the people. + They’ll speak when the time comes. (_The door opens again and Feichin + comes in with two or three others._) Am I speaking lie or truth, men? + Colm here wants us to rise out before the word comes. I say we must + wait for the word. What do you say, Feichin, you that’s got a wiser + head than these young fellows? + + FEICHIN. God forgive me if I’m wrong, but I say we should wait for our + orders. + + CUIMIN. What do you say, Diarmaid? + + DIARMAID. I like you, Colm, for the way you spoke so well and bravely; + but I’m slow to give my voice to send out the boys of this + mountain--our poor little handful--to stand with their poor little + pikes against the big guns of the Gall. If we had news that they were + rising in the other countrysides; but we’ve got no news. + + COLM. Master, you haven’t spoken yet. I’m afraid to ask you to speak. + + MAOILSHEACHLAINN. Cuimin is right when he says that we must not rise + out until we get the word; but what do you say, neighbours, if the man + that’ll give the word is under the roof of this house? + + DIARMAID. What do you mean? + + MAOILSHEACHLAINN (_going to the door of the room and throwing it + open_). Let you rise out, MacDara, and reveal yourself to the men that + are waiting your word! + + FEICHIN. Has MacDara come home? + + _MacDara comes out of the room, Maire ni Fhiannachta and Sighle + stand behind him in the doorway._ + + DIARMAID (_starting up_). That is the man that stood among the people + in the fair of Uachtar Ard! (_He goes up to MacDara and kisses his + hand._) I could not get near you yesterday, MacDara, the crowds were + so great. What was on me that I didn’t know you? Sure I ought to have + known that sad, proud head. Maire, men and women yet unborn will bless + the pains of your first childing. + + MAIRE (_comes forward and takes her son’s hand and kisses it_). Soft + hand that played at my breast, strong hand that will fall heavy on the + Gall, brave hand that will break the yoke! Men of the mountain, my + son, MacDara, is the Singer that has quickened the dead years and the + young blood. Let the horsemen that sleep in Aileach rise up to-day and + follow him into the war! + + _They come forward, one by one, and kiss his hand, Colm and Sighle + last._ + + COLM. The Gall have marched from Clifden, MacDara. I wanted to rise + out to-day, but these old men think it is not yet time. + + CUIMIN. We were waiting for the word. + + MACDARA. And must I speak the word? Old men, you have left me no + choice. I had hoped that more would not be asked of me than to sow the + secret word of hope, and that the toil of the reaping would be for + others. But I see that one does not serve + + + IOSAGAN + +Author’s Foreword to _Iosagán agus Sgealta eile_, which is here +translated by Mr. Joseph Campbell: + + + Putting these stories in order, it is no wonder that my thoughts are + on the friends that told them to me, and on the lonely place on the + edge of Ireland where they live. I see before my eyes a countryside, + hilly, crossed with glens, full of rivers, brimming with lakes; great + horns threatening their tops on the verge of the sky in the + north-west; a narrow, moaning bay stretching in from the sea on each + side of a “ross;” the “ross” rising up from the round of the bay, but + with no height compared with the nigh-hand hills or the horns far off; + a little cluster of houses in each little glen and mountain gap, and a + solitary cabin here and there on the shoulder of the hills. I think I + hear the ground-bass of the waterfalls and rivers, the sweet cry of + the golden plover and curlew, and the low voice of the people in talk + by the fireside.... My blessing with you little book, to Rossnageeragh + and to them in it, my friends! + + It is from the “_patairidhe beaga_,” the “little soft young things” + that Old Matthias used see making sport to themselves on the green + that I heard the greater part of the first story. They do be there + always, every sunny evening and every fine Sunday morning, running and + throwing leaps exactly as they would be when Old Matthias would sit + looking on them. I never saw Iosagan among them, but it’s like He does + be there, for all that. Isn’t His wish to be rejoicing on the earth, + and isn’t His delight to be along with His Father’s children?... I + have told in the story itself the place and the time I heard THE + PRIEST. It’s well I remember Nora’s little house, and the kindly + little woman herself, and the three children. Paraig is serving Mass + now, and I hear Taimeen has “_Fromsó Framsó_,” by heart.... It was + from Brideen herself that I heard the adventures of Barbara. One + evening that we went in on Oilean ni Raithnighe (the Ferny Island), I + and she, it was she told it to me, and we sitting on the brink of the + lake looking over on the Big Rock. She showed me Barbara’s grave the + same evening after our coming home, and she took a promise from me + that I’d say a prayer for her friend’s soul every night of my life. + Brideen will be going to school next year, and she will be able to + read the story of Barbara out of this, I hope she will like it.... As + for EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS, I don’t know who it was I heard it from, + unless it was from the swallows themselves. Yes, I think it was they + told it to me one evening that I was stretched in the heather looking + at them flying here and there over Loch Eireamhlach. From what mouth + the swallows heard the start of the story, I don’t know. From the + song-thrush and from that yellow-bunting that have their nests in a + ditch of the garden, it’s like. + + To you, sweet friends, people of the telling of my stories, both + little and big, I give and dedicate this little book. + + + CHRONOLOGICAL NOTE + +THE SINGER was written in the late Autumn of 1915. Joseph Plunkett was +profoundly impressed when he read it. “If Pearse were dead,” he said, +“this would cause a sensation.” Mr. Pearse rather deprecated his view +that the play was entirely a personal revelation. No Irish MS. is +extant. The two poems THE REBEL and THE FOOL also belong to the same +period, and are in no sense translations. The same may be said of ON THE +STRAND OF HOWTH and THE MOTHER. With the exceptions of SONG FOR MARY +MAGDALENE, RANN OF THE LITTLE PLAYMATE (both taken from THE MASTER), +CHRIST’S COMING, CHRISTMAS 1915, DORD FEINNE, and the WAYFARER (written +in Kilmainham Jail, May, 1916), the remaining Poems are translations of +_Suantraide agus Goltraide_ (1914). These twelve poems, DORD FEINNE, and +CHRIST’S COMING, are the only poems in this volume originally written in +Irish. + +THE KING was first produced as an open air play upon the banks of the +river which runs through the Hermitage, Rathfarnham, by the students of +St. Enda’s College. In reference to its subsequent production at the +Abbey Theatre, Dublin, 17th May, 1913, Mr. Pearse wrote in _An Macaomh_, +Vol. II, No. 2, 1913: “The play we decided to produce along with THE +POST OFFICE, was my morality _An Rí_. We had enacted it during the +previous summer with much pageantry of horses and marchings, at a place +in our grounds where an old castellated bridge, not unlike an entrance +to a monastery, is thrown across a stream. Since that performance I had +added some speeches with the object of slightly deepening the +characterization.” William Pearse played the Abbot’s part. + +THE MASTER was produced Whitsuntide, 1915, at the Irish Theatre, +Hardwicke Street, Dublin, with William Pearse as Ciaran. No Irish MS. is +extant. _Iosagán_, the dramatization of the author’s story of the same +name, was first acted in Cullenswood House, Rathmines, Dublin, in +February, 1910, by St. Enda students. Mr. Pearse writes in _An Macaomh_, +Vol. I., No. 2, 1909: “In _Iosagán_ I have religiously followed the +phraseology of the children and old men in _Iar-Connacht_ from whom I +have learned the Irish I speak. I have put no word, no speech into the +mouths of my little boys which the real little boys of the parish I have +in mind--boys whom I know as well as I know my pupils in _Sgoil +Eanna_--would not use in the same circumstances. I have given their +daily conversation, anglicism, vulgarisms and all; if I gave anything +else my picture would be a false one. _Iosagán_ is not a play for +ordinary theatres or for ordinary players. It requires a certain +atmosphere and a certain attitude of mind on the part of the actors. It +has in fact been written for performance in a particular place and by +particular players. I know that in that place and by those players it +will be treated with the reverence due to a prayer.” + +The first six stories here given are translations of _An Mátair_ (1916). +The last four stories are translations of _Iosagán agus Sgéalta eile_, +some of which were published in _An Claideam Soluis_ in 1905-6, +re-published a few years later in book-form. + + D. R. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + + +This file uses _underscores_ to indicate italic text. + +In some cases, Irish words appear to be printed with grave accents +rather than the acute síneadh fada. In this edition all Irish words use +only the modern standard fada. + +The page images used to create this ebook are inconsistent as to whether +there is a fada over the “a” in “Pádraic”, and it is not always clear +whether the fadas that do appear were printed with the volume or added +in afterwards. As there is no fada the majority of the time, the fadas +appearing in the front matter of the volumes have been omitted. + +On page 102, the words “Íosa” and “Ísuccán” were printed in cló Gaelach, +Irish script. They are presented here in Roman script. + +The end of the Appendix section on _The Singer_, on page v, ends with no +punctuation; this has been left as is. + +New original cover art included with this ebook is granted to the public +domain. + +The following changes and corrections have been made: + + • Table of Contents: Added question mark after title “WHY DO YE TORTURE + ME?” to match title above poem. + • p. xii: Replaced “Paraic” with “Paraig” in phrase “Paraig wearing a + surplice.” + • p. 24: Replaced period with comma in phrase “I meant this to be a + home-coming, but it seems....” + • p. 51: Added period after phrase “It is not, but mine.” + • p. 72: Removed second period before phrase “He is fond of little + Iollann.” + • p. 76: Replaced “ladybird” with “lady-bird” before phrase “We watch + the wee lady-bird fly far away.” + • p. 81: Replaced “Ciarnn” with “Ciaran” before phrase “What do you + call your rann?” + • p. 91: Added comma in phrase “Bid him to come in, Iollann.” + • p. 105: Replaced comma with period before phrase “Yon one gave me + enough.” + • p. 106: Added period before phrase “I’ll make a _lúrabóg_ of you!” + • p. 189: Added opening double quotation mark before phrase “I’d rather + it than anything I have in the world.” + • p. 221: Removed opening quotation mark before phrase “Do you think, + Sean.” + • p. 225: Added opening double quotation mark before phrase “that she + didn’t know the railway.” + • p. 225: Moved closing double quotation mark from after to before + phrase “says my father.” + • p. 266: Changed comma to period after phrase “but that’s not the + fairing.” + • p. 269: Replaced “Padaric” with “Padraic” in phrase “bless my Uncle + Padaric that’s now in America” + • p. 276: Changed single to double closing quotation mark after phrase + “Niamh of the Golden Head.” + • p. 280: Changed “its” to “it’s” and “head” to “Head” in phrase “it’s + Niamh Goldy-Head would go out on the hill.” + • Appendix p. iii: Changed “the the” to “the” in phrase “because the + word is not given.” + • Appendix p. iii: Changed “do do” to “do” in phrase “What do you say, + Feichin.” + • Appendix p. vii: Removed closing double quotation mark after phrase + “my morality _An Rí_.” + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78495 *** |