TWENTY
YEARS
A-GROWING
Translated
from the original Irish
by
Moya Llewelyn Davies
and George Thomson
TWENTY YEARS
A-GROWING
By
MAURICE O’SULLIVAN
CONTENTS
XX. My Last Journey to the Inish
With an Introductory Note by
E. M. Forster
The best introduction to this autobiography is its own
first chapter. If the reader laughs at the schoolmistress
and the matrons, and is moved by the dream of the
butterfly inside the horse’s skull—then he is assured of
amusement and emotion to come. He is ready to go on
to Ventry Races, and to make the great journey from
Dingle east, where O’Connor and the girl were so unre-
liable. He is ready, furthermore, to make another jour-
ney: to steal ont on Hallowe'en and catch thrushes above
waves of the living and the dead, and see the Land of
the Young in the west, and hear the mother-seal saying
to the hunter, “If you are in luck you will leave this cove
in haste, for be it known to you that you will not easily
kill my young son.” All this—both the gaiety and the
magic—can be sampled in the opening chapter, and the
reader can decide for himself quickly, so that there is no
need to say to him “This book is good.”
But it is worth saying “This book is unique,” Lest he
forget what a very odd document he has got hold of.
He is about to read an account of neolithic civilization
from the inside. Synge and others have described it
from the outside, and very sympathetically, but I know
of no other instance where it has itself become vocal, and
addressed modernity. Nor is a wiseacre speaking for it;
we are entertained by a lively young man, who likes
dancing and the movies, and was smart at his lessons.
But he is able to keep our world in its place, and to
view it only from his own place, and his spirit never
abandons the stronghold to which, in the final chapter,
his feet will return. “When I returned home, the lamps
were being lit in the houses. I went in. My father and
grandfather were sitting on either side of the fire, my
grandfather smoking his old pipe.” With these words
the story closes, and it is as if a shutter descends, behind
which all three generations disappear, and their Island
with them.
‘The book is written in Irish, and the original is being
published in Dublin. As regards the translators, one of
them is in close and delicate touch with the instincts
of her country-side, the other, a scholar, teaches Greek
through the medium of Irish in the University of Gal-
way. I know the author, too. He is now in the Civic
Guard in Connemara, and though he is pleased that his
book should be translated, his main care is for the Irish
original, because it will be read on the Blasket. They
will appreciate it there more than we can, for whom the
wit and poetry must be veiled. On the other hand, we
are their superiors in astonishment. They cannot pos-
sibly be as much surprised as we are, for here is the egg
of a sea-bird—lovely, perfect, and laid this very morning.
E. M. Forster
The Blasket Islands lie off the Kerry Coast, in the ex-
treme south-west corner of Ireland. The largest of them,
the only one now inhabited, is about five miles long, and
for the most part less than half a mile broad, rising to
not quite a thousand feet at its highest point—a treeless
ridge of bog and mountain pasture descending in the
west to a wind-swept headland of bare rock. The village
is huddled under the shelter of the hill at the eastern
end, nearest the mainland, where there is enough soil
to yield a scanty crop of potatoes and oats. There is no
harbour, and the only kind of boat in use is the curragh,
a canoe of wicker framework and canvas covering, light
enough for two men to carry on their backs. The distance
from the mainland, quay to quay, is three and a half
miles—an easy journey in good weather, but impossible
in bad. ‘The present population of the Island is about a
hundred and fifty. Before the European War it was two
hundred. The decrease is mainly due to emigration to
America. It is recorded that the population doubled
during the Great Famine (1840-50) when the starving
and evicted peasantry of the interior flocked to the coasts
in search of food.
The other islands, similarly featured but smaller and
even more exposed, lie to the west and north of the main
island. The most fertile of them, Inish-vick-ilaun, was
inhabited till the end of the last century, and one house
still stands, being used in the summer for the lobster-
fishing. Inish-na-Bró is a rugged hog’s-back with a re-
markable headland perforated by the sea, like the arches
of a Gothic cathedral. Tearacht, the most westerly, is a
pyramid of naked rock, about six hundred feet high, with
a lighthouse on the seaward side. Inish Túiscirt, to the
north, has the remains of an oratory of Saint Brendan,
the patron saint of the district.
Some of the Islanders own cows and sheep, and the
pasture yields delicious mutton. Turf is plentiful at the
western end. The main industry is fishing—lobster in the
summer and mackerel in the winter—a dangerous and
precarious livelihood. The nearest market is the town of
Dingle, twelve miles east of Dunquin, the mainland
village opposite the Island.
The houses are of the usual west-of-Ireland type—long,
low, and narrow. Many of them are dug into the steep
slope of the hill, for shelter from the wind. They con-
tain a living-room, with a floor of boards or beaten mud,
and an open hearth at the west end. The sleeping-room
is usually at the east end, but in some houses there is
another small room behind the hearth. There is a loft,
but no upper story, and when an Islander speaks of go-
ing up or down in the house, he means that he is going
towards or away from the hearth. The roof is of tarred
canvas, the same material which is used for covering the
curraghs. There are a number of spinning-wheels on
which the women spin their wool, but the old local dyes
are going out of use. There are no shops of any kind. The
nearest chapel is at Dunquin, where the men of the
Island go to hear Mass every Sunday when the sea is calm.
Only Irish is spoken and little English is known. Read-
ing is a habit only recently acquired and seldom
practised. The pastimes are singing, dancing, story-telling
and conversation. The literature, which has been pre-
served entirely by oral tradition, includes ancient legends,
some of them older than Beowulf, poems and songs dat-
ing from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and
a wealth of folklore, still only partly collected. The peo-
ple are fond of poetry and music. The art of impromptu
verse composition in intricate metrical forms survived
within living memory, and in recent years they have
shown considerable skill in making and playing violins.
The dances are the hornpipe, jig, four-hand reel, various
country figures, and most popular of all, the “sets,” a
descendant of the old quadrille.
The language, like the life, is largely medieval—
vigorous, direct, rich in oaths and asseverations, and
delighting in neat and witty turns of phrase which are
largely lost in translation. In these respects it resembles
the speech of other peasantries, but it also possesses an
elegance and grace which is due to its peculiar history;
for, when the clan system on which Irish culture was
based finally broke down in the seventeenth century, the
poets and scholars were scattered among the common
people.
This book is the story of one of the Islanders, written
by himself for his own pleasure and for the entertain-
ment of his friends, without any thought of a wider
public. In the first part of the book he gives an account
of his childhood in the Island; in the second he goes on
to describe how he left his native place and went to
Dublin in order to join the Civic Guard, the new Irish
police force. It is the first translation into English of a
genuine account of the life of the Irish peasants written
by one of themselves, as distinct from what has been
written about them by the poets and dramatists of the
Anglo-Irish school.
A few words may be added about the translation. ‘The
English language, as commonly spoken in Ireland, differs
considerably from standard English, and these differences
are mainly due to memories, conscious or unconscious,
of Irish speech. The new language has been twisted to
fit the moulds of thought and idiom peculiar to the old.
Hence we have freely used the Irish dialect of English
as being the nearest to our original, and in this respect
we are following the example of Synge, who of all writers
in English had the deepest understanding of the Irish-
speaking peasantry. But rich and highly coloured as this
English is, its range is less than that of Irish, and since
its literature is mainly in prose and entirely modern, it
lacks the stamp of an ancient poetical tradition which
is a marked feature of Irish. The range of vocabulary in
the translation is less than that of the original, and there
is not a word or phrase in the original which is not
current in ordinary conversation.
With regard to the spelling of proper names, we have
sought rather to facilitate the English reader than to be
consistent. Some Irish names have an English form,
others have not; and we have used one or the other,
whichever seemed the more convenient.
We have omitted some passages of the original.
Moya Llewelyn Davies
George Thomson
Note.—á is pronounced like aw in shawl,
é like ay in bay,
í like ee in bee,
ú like oo in cool.
The Irish peasant is usually known among his own
people by his Christian name followed by that
of his father or mother, whichever is the more
notable character, sometimes by that of his
grandfather (like Tomás Owen Vaun). NickNames are very common.
TWENTY YEARS A-GROWING
There is no doubt but youth is a fine thing though my
own is not over yet and wisdom comes with age.
I am a boy who was born and bred in the Great Blasket,
a small truly Gaelic island which lies north-west of the
coast of Kerry, where the storms of the sky and the wild
sea beat without ceasing from end to end of the year and
from generation to generation against the wrinkled rocks
which stand above the waves that wash in and out of the
coves where the seals make their homes.
I remember well, when I was four years old, I was in the
town of Dingle in the care of a stranger woman, because
I was only half a year old when my mother died, dear God
bless her soul and the souls of the dead. So there was no
one to take care of me. I had two brothers and two sisters,
but at that time they had little more sense than myself. So,
as I have said, my father sent me to Dingle to be cared for
by a woman there.
Very great indeed was the control that was over us, for
there were many others like me, and as everyone knows,
whenever there is a crowd of young children together they
do be troublesome and very noisy at times. We had a great
dislike for school, but that is not one man’s disease in my
opinion. There was teaching us as school mistress, a woman
who was as grey as a badger with two tusks of teeth hang-
ing down over her lip, and, if she wasn’t cross, it isn’t day
yet. She was the devil itself, or so I thought. It was many
a day I would be in terror when that look she had would
come over her face, a look that would go through you.
I remember the first day I went to school. Peg de Réiste
brought me, holding my hand, and it was with great
plámás* she coaxed me to go. “Oh,” she would say, “it is
to a nice place I will take you today.” “Are there any
sweets there?” ““There are and plenty and nice books full
of pictures.” She was for ever coaxing me that way until
I went in with her.
Shyly I sat on the bench alongside of Peg. There were
many, many children there making a power of noise.
“Where are the sweets, Peg?” said I, and I had hardly
said it when the mistress noticed me and beckoned me
to go up to her. “Go up, now,” says Peg, “she’s for giving
you the sweets.”
Well, I had a drowning man’s grip of Peg for fear
of the mistress. ‘‘Leave go of me,” said she. “Come up
with me,” said I. ‘Come on, then,” said she, getting up
and taking me by the hand.
Shamefaced I stood before the mistress. “Who are you
and what is your name?” “They call me Maurice.”
“Maurice what?” said she sourly. “Maurice,” said I again,
my voice trembling. “All right,” said she.
She went to a cupboard and took out a big tin and
put it down before me. Then I saw a sight which put
gladness into my heart—sweets in the shape of a man, a
pig, a boat, a horse, and many another. I was in many
minds, not knowing which I would choose. When I had
taken my choice she gave me a book and put me sitting
on the bench again. “Be a good boy, now,” said she, “and
come to school every day.” “I will.” “You will surely,”
said she, leaving me and going up again to the table. So
there I sat contentedly looking at the book while I was
not forgetting to fill my mouth.
Soon, hearing a very pleasant sound, I lifted my head,
*Soft, coaxing talk.
and what would I see but a bell in the mistress’s hand
and she shaking it: “Playtime,” said she (in English).
And so out with us all together.
“What are we to do now, Peg? Is it home we are going?”
“Not at all, but half an hour’s ree-raa out here.”
(But one thing I must say before I go on with my story.
There was not a word of Irish in my mouth at that time,
only English entirely.)
When we were out in the field, the boys began kicking
a football and myself tried to be as good as another. But
faith, if so, I did not do well for long, for a big, long
gawk of a lad gave a kick to the ball and hit me neatly
in the face the way I fell on the flat of my back without a
spark of sight in my eyes or sense in my head. As I fell
I heard Peg crying that I was dead, and I remember no
more till I awoke inside the school to see the boys and
girls all round me and the tears falling from Peg.
“Good boy!” said she, “sure nothing ails you. How are
you now?”
“I am finely.”
“Maybe you could eat an orange?” said the mistress.
She brought me a big one and soon my headache went
away, it is so easy to coax the young.
I was going to school every day from that out. But it
was not long before the sweets and the gentleness began
to grow cold. So I became disgusted with school—the
seven tasks of the mountain on me as I thought, when
I was carrying my bag of books, and obliged to learn this
and that. Before long it seemed to me there was nobody
in the world had a worse life than myself.
Near the school was the poorhouse, full of people, each
with his own affliction. There was one set of them we
were always pursuing—the blind men. Many a fine eve-
ning we went up to play games on them—games for our
own advantage. They used to be given supplies of sugar
done up neatly in bags and we would wait for the chance
to snatch them, which came easy since they were unable
to see us.
But the thief does not always prosper. One evening
we went up—five or six of us—and got a good haul, filling
our pockets, upon which we darted away, thinking to be
down in a ditch and swell ourselves out with the sugar.
But we had not gone far when we saw the matron coming
after us, a strap in her hand, the gate closed behind her,
and a poisonous haste on her.
“Och, God be with us, boys,” said I, “we are done for
now or never, what will we do at all?”
“Faith,” said Mickil Dick, “better a good run than a
bad standing.”
“But where shall we turn our faces?” said I.
“To the Hill of the Cairn,” said Mickil.
Off we went, one to the east, another to the west, the
matron pursuing us. It is then there was a roaring among
the boys who had no substance in them, getting it heavy
from the strap whenever she got hold of them.
I was lithe of limb myself at that time and I was not
long making the top of the hill. As soon as I was safe
I stopped to look back, and who should I see coming up
the hill but Mickil, panting for breath. When I got my
own breath back again I asked him where were the
others. I got no answer. He sat down on a tuft of grass,
stretched himself out his full length, and tightly closed
his eyes. My heart leapt. I jumped towards him. There
was not a puff in him. I screamed and caught him by
the waist, but I couldn’t get a stir or a move out of him.
I was too weak. At last I seized him by the two feet and
dragged him after me down the slope of the hill to a
boghole about five yards below. There I baptized him
well but that was all I got for my pains. Ne’er a breath
was coming into him. Then I thought of thrusting his
head into the water, and when I had given him a good
dipping he began to come round. I pulled him out again,
white foam on his mouth, and went on beating him till
he opened his two eyes.
“Come safe, Mickil,” said I. “Where am I?” said he.
“You are in a good place, my boy.” But even then for
half an hour he was as dumb as a baker.
We remained on the top of the hill till darkness came,
for we were afraid to start for home in the daylight in
case the matron would see us. But what good was that?
There was a thrashing waiting for us whenever we would
go home, because it was the rule of the place to be in
bed by six o'clock.
“Mickil,” said I, “it is going from bad to worse for
us to stay here. Let us be going.”
Off we went, slowly and reluctantly, till we strolled
in through the door. I was seized at once by the hair and
Mickil the same. The clothes were stripped off us. Blow
after blow fell till they had us half dead, and then not
a bite nor a sup, but threw us into the bed. There was
no sleep for us that night for the aches and pains dart-
ing through us.
Next morning we set out slow and heavy-hearted for
school.
“I wonder what would you say for us to go mitching?”
said Mickil.
I leaned my back against the wall, thinking. While I
was thinking, what did I see up through the passage but
a man and two women looking at me and smiling. I
wondered why they were not looking at Mickil. They
came straight towards me, but I was afraid of them and
began to run. As I ran I could hear one of the women
calling me by name. I ran on till I lay down in a hole
behind a gate where I found a way of peeping at them
through a chink.
I could see Mickil there, and they talking to him, and
I was not long peeping when I saw them giving him
an apple and orange. With that I didn’t give a second
glance, but back I ran as hard as I could till I was within
a yard of them.
One of the women came over to me. “Why did you
run away just now?”
“Nothing,” said I bashfully.
“Do you know who I am”
“I do not.”
“I am your aunt,” says she, taking me up in her arms
and kissing me. The other woman did the same. “That
is another aunt, too,” said the first woman, “and this is
your uncle,” says she, pointing to the man who was
standing behind us.
With that the man spoke out in Irish for he had no
knowledge of English, or, if he had, he did not let on.
“What sort of talk has that man?” said I to the woman
who had me in her arms.
“That's Irish.”
“What's Irish?”
“Oh, wait now,” says she, “till you go home, that is
the time you will have the Irish.”
“Where is my home? We have no Irish at all in this
home here.”
“This is not your home, Maurice, but the Blasket.”
But I was as blind to what she said about the Blasket
as the herring leaping in the Bay of Dingle.
“Your father is for coming out the next day to take
you home. Would you like that, Maurice?”
“Who is my father?”
“Isn’t it often your father was talking to you? You
should have known him long ago.”
“I don’t know which of the men he is,” said I, “for
many come.”
At that she gave a great laugh. “Ah, musha* youth
*Indeed
is a queer thing,” said she to the other woman.
I began putting questions to her about the Blasket
now that my courage was coming back to me, and feel-
ing well contented with my fill of the bag of sweets, the
apples and the oranges, and she answered every question
readily.
“And has my father sweets at home?” said I, after
devouring a fine apple.
“Oh, he has indeed, and everything else.”
After a while she let me down. Then they all kissed
me, gave a farewell and a blessing to the two of us, and
went away.
My uncle turned back and came up to me. He began
talking, though neither of us could understand him.
Then he let out a great rush of talk, and another rush
after it. I looked at Mickil, Mickil looked at me, we
making great wonder of him. When he was going, he put
his hand in his pocket and gave me half a crown, and a
shilling to Mickil.
“I never saw a penny as bright as that,” said Mickil;
“where is yours?”
“Look,” said I, “mine is bigger.”
“I don’t know what we had better buy with them.”
“Apples and sweets, and it is the fine life we will have
with them. But oh, Mickil, we are forgetting. What about
school! The devil take it, let us make haste!”
Off we ran as hard as we could until we reached the
school. In we hurried, panting. We were an hour late.
We thought, my son, we had our feet clear and we were
about to sit down on the bench at our ease when the
mistress called us. Heavily and unwillingly we went up
and stood before her. She was in a posture, staring at us
from under her brows. At last she spoke. “Where were
you? What kept you so late?” said she sourly.
I looked at Mickil. His lips were pouting, getting ready
to cry.
“Have done with your snivelling,” said she angrily,
“and answer my question.”
“We weren’t in any place,” said I, “but when we were
coming to school we met some kinsfolk of mine and they
kept us talking.”
“Isn’t it a fine excuse you make up! Go out now and
cut a good fat rod and bring it in to me, my good boy,
the way I won’t hear any more of your blather.”
I went out and cut the worst rod I could find and
brought it in to her.
“Stretch out your hand.” I did; and I got it hard. “Now
the other hand.” I got the same again. Three blows on
each hand she gave me before she was done, and Mickil
the same. I winked at him not to cry so as to give her
no satisfaction. Then she took us to the far end of the
school. ‘There were two posts there, coming down from
the roof to the floor, on which we were accustomed to
drill. She tied one of us to each post. But, if so, we were
well content, as no lessons were being put on us and
that is what we wanted.
We were there about half an hour when there was a
knock on the door. The mistress jumped from her chair
and began walking to and fro without any sense. We
were tied too fast for her to release us in a hurry. The
knock was made again sharply. She could wait no longer
to open the door. Who was there but the parish priest!
“It is with us now, my boy,” I whispered to Mickil.
“You will soon see sport.”
The priest walked in, a tin of sweets in his hand as
was the way with him, and he began talking to the chil-
dren. The mistress was as white as death. “The devil
take you,” said Mickil, “do you see the look on the
mistress?” It is then we had the bright smiles.
It wasn’t long before the priest was asking where were
Mickil and Maurice.
“Here we are, father,” said we with one voice.
He came over to us looking knives. “Oh, what is the
meaning of this?” said he. “Who tied you here?”
“The mistress, father,” said I.
“Why?”
“I will tell you, father. When Mickil and I were com-
ing to school we met some kinsfolk of mine and they kept
us talking, the way we were an hour late.”
He beckoned to the mistress to come down. “What is
this you are after doing to the poor little children?”
“Oh, father, I beg your pardon, I was for putting a
little fear into them.”
“Look, father,” said I, showing him my hands, which
were blistered with the blows.
“Oh, my shame,” said the priest. Then turning to the
mistress: “I will make short delay,” said he, “of putting
you out of the school if you go on with this work. Untie
them at once, and if I find that you set hands on them
again you will have news to tell.”
That was the first time I ever saw anger on a priest and
I said to myself that it comes on them as on any other
man. The end of it was that we had the evening under
the hedge, for we got the rest of the day off.
I remember another fine day long afterward when I
was on my way to school. There was a bell over the hall
door, a bell to let the people know what would be going
on—Mass, Mary’s Crown,* (*rosary) or maybe dinner or supper for
the poor people. It was not to be sounded except when
there was need and there was a chain hanging down
to pull it.
It happened that I had not much knowledge of it at
that time, and so I took hold of the chain and began to
play with it. I gave it a gentle pull which sent music all
over the place. I liked it well, so I gave it another and a
better pull which sent out the music louder still. I had
five good pulls at the chain.
In a minute there wasn’t an old person, not a cripple
nor a sick person, but they were falling over each other's
heels to the hall, a crowd from below, another crowd
from above, a man from the east, another from the west.
Young though I was, I realized my mistake.
I went among them. I could hear the old people dis-
cussing excitedly together. “It is no dinner, anyway,” one
would say to another. Some of them made for the chapel,
the rest following. I let on nothing. If I were found out,
said I to myself, it is likely I would be tied to the post
again.
By this time the hall was full of chatter, gibberish, and
confusion. Looking back, whom should I see but the
mistress, her brood in her wake, making for the chapel.
I let on to be as surprised as anyone. She beckoned me to
her. “What is it, Maurice?”
“I don’t know in the world, mistress,” said I.
She went in, we behind her. We went down on our
knees. The chapel was full from end to end. But there
was no priest coming, and well I knew that no priest
would come.
After a while a nun came in and spoke to the congregation. “What brought ye here,” said she, “and who
set the bell going?”
With that the mistress got up and said it was a strange
business for any man to do such a thing, especially to
take old people who could not walk from their corners
and to put the day astray on herself. When she had
finished speaking, the nun ordered the people to depart.
A cold sweat was coming out on me by this time, and
my heart leaping. Whenever anyone looked at me, it
seemed to me he could tell I was guilty.
In the end we got the rest of the day off on account
of it.
One winter’s night, very wild, with the patter of snow
on the window-panes, the wind blowing with a lonely
whistle among the trees, an ass braying far away with the
coldness of the night, and myself stretched out on the
flat of my back in the fine cosy bed, I was thinking and
ever thinking of the Blasket. When would the day come
when I would be a man, free from the control of the
matrons, no school to sicken me and the mistress beating
me no more? Then the driving snow against the window-
pane would put the Island out of my head, and I would
hear with pity the poor ass braying in the distance. Oh,
if I were where you are now, my assaleen, said I to my-
self, isn’t it I would be terrified of the pooka!*
*Hobgoblin.
At that moment, I heard a knock at the door.
“Who's there?” said the matron.
“Let me in,” said a voice plaintively.
As soon as the door was opened a strapping, middle-
aged woman stumbled into the room, two children at
her feet, all of them in rags, looking as if they had walked
far, water dripping from them from head to heel.
“God save all here,” said she,
“God and Mary save you,” said the matron.
“For the love of God, can you find room for us within
till morning from the cold of the night?”
“You will have it and welcome.”
Three chairs were set for them. I kept watching the
woman. Tea was made and they sat in to the table. There
was not another word out of her, but she kept giving a
side glance at the door like someone who had committed
a great crime.
‘They had only taken a couple of bites when there came
another loud knock. The matron ran to the door.
“Who's there?”
“Constabulary,” said a voice outside, answering her
at once.
At that the poor woman jumped up from the table.
“Oh, God save my soul,” she cried, ‘they have me.”
Two constables leapt in—fine men, clean above six
feet high and as straight as a candle, a wild look on them.
Anyone could tell they were in pursuit of the poor
woman.
“What brought you in here?” said one of them to her
angrily.
She made no answer. She was trembling hand and foot.
“I charge you with breaking the panes in the chapel
to make your way in,” said he in a loud, rough voice.
Then the constables caught her by the hands and led
her away.
All this time I was watching them and I began think-
ing again, as I listened to her going away from the house
shouting and crying, that it was a queer world—a full-
grown woman like her to be under control the same as
myself. I could still hear an odd cry from her now and
again. As she went farther away, the shouting grew weaker
till I fell into a heavy slumber.
Before long I was dreaming that Mickil Dick and I
were walking through a fine green meadow, gathering
flowers. When we had gathered our fill of them, we sat
down, talking of school and brilla-bralla*! as is the habit
of children.
*Childish nonsense.
After a while it seemed that Mickil fell asleep. I was
looking at him, he snoring fine and easy. While I sat
thinking what a strange thing was that same sleep, what
would I see come out of his mouth but a pretty white
butterfly. It began to walk down over his body. I stopped
and reflected that it was a queer thing to come out of
his mouth. Down went the butterfly through the meadow,
I after it, ever and ever, till it came to an iron gate. It
began to climb the bars of the gate, from bar to bar,
slowly and easily, I watching. When it came to the top
of the gate, down it went on the other side. I stood watch-
ing every turn it was taking. It came down into another
meadow where there was an old skull of a horse which
looked as if it had been there for years. In went the
butterfly through the holes of the eyes, I still watching
intently.
It must have been five minutes before I saw it coming
out again through the mouth of the skull. Back it came
to the gate, up each bar and down the other side, just
as it had done before, then up through the meadow, I
following it ever and ever till it went back into Mickil’s
mouth.
At that moment he awoke.
“Where am I?” said he looking round.
“Don’t you know the place?” said I, not letting on to
him yet about the butterfly.
“Oh, Maurice,” said he, “sit down till I tell you the
fine dream I am after having. Would you believe it, I
dreamt we went astray on each other when we were
gathering the flowers, and that I walked on for a long,
long way till I came to some railway tracks which crossed
each other like the threads of a stocking. I didn’t know
where in the world I was. I kept shouting and calling
to you, but that was all the good I got out of it. When I
came to the end of the railway line, I saw a big bright
house. I went up to it. There was a big round doorway
with no door in it. I stopped and looked. God save my
soul, said I, what place is this? Shall I go inside? Oh, there
is not a lie in what I am saying, Maurice.”
“I believe you well,” said I. “Go on with your story.”
“Well, in I went. But, if so, there was no one alive or
dead to be seen. I was passing from room to room, but
upon my word, Maurice, my fill of fear was coming
over me.”
“It was no wonder for you.”
“Well, faith, I thought I was going astray in the rooms
and that I would never be able to find the way out. I
was groping my way, ever and ever, till at last I reached
the doorway, and, the devil if I didn’t come back again
over the same railway tracks, and just as I found myself
in the meadow again, I awoke.”
“Safe be your storyteller,”* said I. “It seems,” I said,
looking up at the sun, “when a man dreams, a white
butterfly does be after coming out of his mouth and
walking away; and when it comes back again, it is then
he awakes,”
*blessing at the end of a story.
“Why do you say that?” says Mickil.
“Because I saw it coming out of your own mouth
when you were asleep, and it walked down through the
meadow, up through that gate below, and from there
into the old skull of a horse in the field beyond. Out it
came again, up through the same place, and back into
your mouth. It was then you awoke, and as sure as you
are alive that was the big house you were in.”
At that moment I was awakened by a shout of laughter.
There was Mickil beside me, bursting his sides to hear
the way I was talking in my sleep.
We got up, made ready for school, and went away.
And I spent that day without learning anything but telling my dream to Mickil.
I remember a day in July, in the year 1911. I wasn’t long
in school when a lad came in and spoke to the mistress,
saying I was wanted by someone in the hall.
On going out whom did I see but my father, my uncle,
and my two aunts. My aunt ran towards me and without
saying a word she took me in her arms and kissed me. My
other aunt did the same.
“Would you like to go home with me today?” said my
father.
“I would indeed,” said I, my heart snatching at it.
“What sort of place is it?”
“Oh, a fine nice place.”
“Will we be going now?”
“If we were ready, as soon as we have eaten our dinner,
we will be moving in the name of God.”
“I will go in now so,” said I, “and say good-bye to
Mickil.”
An egg would not have broken under my feet with the
lightness and gladness in my heart. I stretched out my
hand. “Good-bye, Mickil,” said I, “I am going home
today, and I hope I shall see you again in health and
happiness.”
“The same to you,” said he, his tears falling.
When I turned to speak to the mistress, I noticed that
her two eyes were in lumps. It is not much good to speak
to yourself, I thought, but I went up and spoke to her
nicely. “I am going home today,” said I.
“What is that you are saying?” said she, jumping up
angrily.
“I am going home today,” I repeated softly.
“Who came for you?”
“My father.”
“Where is he?”
“He is outside.”
She said no more but went out, I following her, till we
reached the place where my father was. She gave him a
thousand welcomes and spoke gently at first; but looking
at her I could see that she had no good intentions. It was
not long before she spoke her mind.
“Arra, musha, you ought to know what you are doing,”
said she, ‘‘taking the child home when he is just learning
his scholarship, and if you left him here he would have
a livelihood for ever.”
“Och, my pity for your head,” replied my father, “I
don’t know what livelihood he would get but only to let
him follow his nose in the end of all.”
“Well, Shaun,” said she, “I always thought you had
some sense until today, and you to do such a thing to the
poor boy. In the first place he will lose his English, and
so he will be a fool when he grows up a stripling, if he
lives so long. Where will he go, and how will he get work
without the English?”
“Isn't it better still for him to have the two languages?”
said my father. “And another thing, you don’t know what
way will Ireland turn out yet. Maybe the foreign tongue
will go under foot,” said he with a laugh.
“Och,” said she, “the way with you is, live horse and
you will get grass.”
“That is the thing I was going to say myself referring
to the child, for that will be the way with him. But it is
no good spending the day so. Come along,” said he to me.
We gave the mistress a farewell and a blessing and de-
parted.
“We must go up to the Institution now,” said my
father, “to dress you up, for I have bought you a nice
suit of clothes.”
When I heard that I was so delighted it seemed as if
there was no one in the world but myself, especially as I
had never worn trousers yet. Wouldn’t it be a great
change for me in another half-hour! I a grown man,
leaving behind the distress of the world and the oppres-
sion of the matrons!
On our way up the sun was shining. It was very hot,
not a cloud in the sky, the birds singing sweetly in the
trees. Indeed, little bird, said I in my own mind, there
was a time when I thought I could never be so happy and
contented as you.
“I think,” said my father, “you are sorry to leave.”
“Sorry!” said I. “Indeed I am not, but in a hurry to put
on the trousers and to see my native village.”
A nun was standing before us in the doorway. She gave
my father a welcome and questioned him about me kindly
and courteously. When she had left us, I saw a parcel on
the table and I thought at once of the new suit. I kept
watching until my father opened it. He took out a pair
of breeches and a jacket, then a shirt, a collar, a cap,
slippers and a pair of black stockings.
“Now,” said he, “cast off from you the child’s clothes.”
When I was ready, my father looked at me laughing.
“Faith, you are a grown man, God bless you. Turn round
till I see the back. They fit you as well as if the tailor had
made them. Wait till I get you the looking-glass. Look
at yourself now,” said he.
When I saw the form in which I was, all thought of
Mickil and of everything else went out of my mind. “Oh,
dad,” said I, “I am a great sport for fineness.”
Out we went and down the road again, and before long
I struck up a whistling tune, every step as long as my
father’s the way people would know I was a man.
In a little while we met my two aunts. They tore me
asunder with kisses, for women are the very devil for
plámás, so that I did not like to meet them at all. Why
wouldn’t they take it fine and soft like a man? Not at all,
they must be fawning on you every time they come across
you.
When my aunts were satisfied, each of them put a half
crown in my pocket, with a good deal more I had got
from others, and now I had my two hands down in my
pockets, making music out of the coins with my fingers.
It was a custom in the district, when a boy was wearing
his first suit, for him to go from house to house through
the village, and it is he would be puffed up with pride
coming home in the evening with all the money he was
after getting during the day.
We were soon in the town, the three in front of me
and I behind, looking at myself and taking a good, long
stride to give myself the look of a man. We went into the
shop of Martin Kane in the big street.
“God bless your lives,” said Martin.
“Long may you live,” said my aunt.
“Who is the lad along with you?”
“It is a son of mine,” said my father.
“I would never have known him. Do you like to be
going to the Blasket?” said he to me.
“I do, indeed.”
“Upon my word,” said Martin, “the day will come
when you will turn your back on the place, my boy.”
“It will never come,” said I.
“By my arm,” said Martin, “if you take after your
grandfather, I am doubting you will never leave it.
Maybe you would make a good fisherman yet. But come
inside; I dare say you are hungry.”
We sat in to the table and they began conversing in
Irish. I sat listening to them shyly, like a dog listening to
music, but I could not make any sense out of it, I slipped
across to my aunt and gave her a nudge in the back.
“What sort of talk is that going on between my father
and the other man?” said I.
“That's Irish, astór*,” said she, putting her arms round
me and kissing me.
* My treasure.
I would rather the frost than that to be done to me.
When I got myself free of her I slunk away to the door,
where I watched the people passing up and down, think-
ing still of the silly ways of women that you can’t speak
to them without their leaping at you.
My father, uncle, and Martin were now pretty merry
with the drink. “Wait here till I get a car,” said my
father. “I won’t be long,”
In half an hour he came back with it. We were ready
waiting, and I longing for the road in order to see the
country, for I had no knowledge of it, and so my father
was giving me the name of every place. Before long I
could see the sea, ever and ever, till we came to Slea Head.
“Now, Maurice, see your native place!” said my father,
stretching out his hand north-west to a small island which
had been torn out from the mainland. I could not speak:
a lump came in my throat when I saw the Island.
“But how can the horse get in there?” said I at last.
“We will go in with a curragh*,” said my father.
*canoe of wicker covered with canvas and tarred.
“What sort of a thing is a curragh?” said I.
I stopped questioning, and went on thinking and
looking out. I saw little white houses huddled together in
the middle of the Island, a great wild hill straight to the
west with no more houses to be seen, only a tower on the
peak of the hill and the hillside white with sheep. I did
not like the look of it. I think, said I to myself, it is not a
good place. While those thoughts were passing through
my mind, the car stopped, the people got out, and my
father lifted me down.
“Where are we going now?” said I.
It was a week-day, and, as soon as we reached the top
of the cliff, the King of the Island came up with his post-
bag on his back. He spoke to my father, but not a word
could I understand. There were many others round the
place and they all with their own talk. I don’t know in
the world, said I in my own mind, will the day ever come
when I will be able to understand them.
The King turned to me. ‘‘Musha, how are you?” said
he, stretching out his hand.
I looked at him—a fine, courteous, mannerly, well-
favoured man.
“Thank you very much,” said I (in English).
“The devil,” said he. “I think you have no understand-
ing of the Irish?”
"I have not,” said I.
But he himself had the two languages, fluent and vig-
orous. “How does it please you to be going into the
Island?” he asked me.
“I don’t know,” said I. “It does not look too nice alto-
gether.”
“Upon my word, Shaun,” said the King, turning to
my father, “it is time for us to be starting in.” And he
began to move down.
I was watching the white crests on the sea below. A
good gale of wind was blowing from the south-west. We
moved down through a great cliff, a rough, narrow little
path before us. When I came in sight of the quay, what
did I see but twenty black beetles twice as big as a cowl
“Oh, dad,” said I, ‘‘are those beetles dangerous?”
The King gave a big, hearty laugh which took an echo
out of the cliff, for he was a fine strong man with a voice
without any hoarseness.
“Indeed, my boy,” said he, “‘it is no bad guess you made,
and you are not the first that gave them that name.”
When we got down to the quay, I looked up at the
height of the cliff above me, yellow vetchling growing
here and there, a terrible noise from the waves breaking
below. I saw a big black bird up in the middle of the
cliff where it had made its nest. Oh Lord, said I to myself,
how do you keep your senses up there at all!
Then I turned my eyes towards the slip and what did
I see but one of the big black beetles walking out towards
me. My heart leapt. I caught hold of my aunt’s shawl,
crying, “Oh, the beetle!”
“Have no fear,” said she, “that is a curragh they are
carrying down on their backs.” And she snatched another
kiss from me. I thought of telling her that it was a nasty
habit of women, but I held my tongue.
‘The curragh was now afloat, like a cork on the water,
as light as an egg-shell. In went my uncle, and the way
he set her rocking I thought every moment she would
overturn. In went the King, and, faith, I was sure she
would go down with the weight that was in the man. I
was the last to be put in. The King was seated at his ease
on the thwart, his pipe lit. My aunts were in the stern,
I at their feet sitting on a tin of sweets.
“Now,” said the King, “let us move her out in the name.
of God.”
Soon the curragh was mounting the waves, then down
again on the other side, sending bright jets of foam into
the air every time she struck the water. I liked it well
until we were in Mid-Bay. Then I began to feel my guts
going in and out of each other, and as the curragh rose
and fell I became seven times worse. I cried out.
“Have no fear,” said my father.
“Oh, it isn’t fear, but something is coming over me
which isn’t right.”
“Lift up your head, my boy,” said the King, “and take
a whiff of the wind.”
I did so, but it was no help. Before long a streak of
pain ran across my chest. I wanted to throw up. I tried,
but I could not.
“Heave it up,” said the King, “and nothing more will
ail you.”
Seven attempts I made, but with no success.
“Put your hand back in your throat,” said my father,
“as far back as it will go, and then you will have it.”
I did as he said, but I did not like it.
“Have no fear,” said my father.
“But isn’t it the way I am worst when I put my hand
back in my mouth?” :
“Don’t mind that, but leave it well back until the
burden comes up.”
I tried again and again. Every time I pushed my hand
back the desire to retch would run through my body. I
kept my hand back patiently, ever and ever, till at last
I felt my belly beating against the small of my back. Then
up came the burden and I threw it out.
My uncle was on the thwart in the bows rowing hard.
He looked at me and gave out a great rush of talk. But,
alas, I no more knew what he was saying than the oar
in his hand.
We were only a quarter of a mile from land now, with
a fine view of the Island before us. The wind had
dropped. There was not a breath in the sky, a dead calm
on the sea, a wisp of smoke rising up straight from every
chimney on the Island; the sun as yellow as gold shining
over the Pass of the Hillslope from the west; a curragh
towards us from the north, and another from the south;
an echo in the coves from the barking of the dogs, and,
when that ceased, the corncrake crying “Droach, droach,
droach!” The beauty of the place filled my heart with
delight. Soon I saw people running down by every path
—two, three, four! At last it was beyond me to count
them. They were coming like ants, some of them running,
others walking slowly, till they were all together in a
crowd above the quay.
We went in through a narrow creek no wider than the
curragh. My eyes opened wide as I looked at the pool
within. Not an inch of the slip but was covered with
children and grown men. You would think it was greed
was on them to tear the curragh asunder, and they chat-
tering and clamouring like a flock of geese a dog would
send scattering.
The curragh stretched up alongside the slip. I got out.
The crowd closed round, all but the children who
gathered round myself, every one of them staring at me,
some with a finger in their mouths, others coming up be-
hind me. A shamefaced feeling came over me with the
way they were peering at me. When I looked at them they
would smile and hide their faces one behind another.
“Be off!” said the King to the children who were in his
way. They scattered in fear. And now the men had the
curragh on their backs and were putting her on the
stays. I was standing on the top of the slip, a little afraid,
for before me was a stout little lad as plump as a young
pig. He kept staring at me out of his big blue eyes, his
nose dripping, his finger in his mouth and he chewing
it. He looked at my head and then at my feet. Then he
moved round to examine me behind. I could feel his
warm breath on the back of my neck. I put my hand in
my pocket and gave him some sweets so that he would
take his close face away from me, upon which he ran off
to the others. But when they saw the sweets they all came
round again pressing in upon me.
At that moment down the path came an old man. He
looked at me smiling. Coming up he embraced and kissed
me and began to talk to me in fine English.
“Who are you?” said I.
“Och, isn’t it a strange thing that you would not know
your own grandfather?” said he with a laugh. “Come up
with me now,” said he, taking me by the hand. But, oh
Lord, it was a good half-hour before we reached the house
on account of all the old women who came out to wel-
come me. “The devil take you,” said an old man who was
standing near, “don’t choke the child!”
‘The house put great wonder on me. I had never seen
the like of it before. It was small and narrow, with a felt
roof, the walls outside bright with lime, a fine glowing
fire sending warmth into every corner, and four súgán*
chairs around the hearth. I sat down on one of them. A
dog was lying in the cinders. When I patted him with my
hand he leapt up with a growl, drew his tail between his
legs, and slunk away into the corner.
I had two sisters and two brothers in the house, so I
did not feel lonesome. When everything was ready we
*Rope made of hay used for seating chairs.
sat in to the table. And a fine, wholesome table it was for
good, broken potatoes and two big plates of yellow
bream—the custom of the Island at the fall of night.
My father and my grandfather and my two sisters were
talking in Irish, but I could not understand them. Now
and then they would look at me and smile. After a while
two boys came in, then three girls, and so on until the
house was full.
When supper was over my sister swept the floor and
shook sand over it. I was sitting on the chair, watching all
that was going on. In another little while the lamp was
lit. I could see the dry sand sparkling on the floor in the
lamplight. Then a sound behind me made me turn
round, It seemed to be within the hearth. I turned to
my father:
“What is it,” said I, “making music in the hearth?”
“Did you never hear that? It is a cricket.”
Meanwhile a young man had come in with a melodium
under his arm and now he struck up a tune, Two boys
and two girls came out on the floor, and it would raise
the dead from the grave to watch them dancing the four-
handed reel.
I looked at the clock. To my surprise it was midnight.
I had not felt the time passing. Musha, said I to myself,
if I were in Dingle now, it is long since I would have
been in bed with Mickil beside me, and great talk we
would have had together!
The dance was getting wilder and wilder. A soft drop
of sweat was coming out on the boys. When it was over
they sat down and all clapped hands.
“Why are they doing that?” said I to my grandfather.
“They are urging Eileen to sing,” said he.
At that moment she began. It was delightful to listen
to her in the stillness of the night, everyone silent, with
their chins on their hands, not a word out of them save
now and then, at the end of the verse, when my grand-
father would cry, “My love for ever,’ Eileen,’ and that
was the first bit of Irish I picked up that night.
When the song was finished everyone clapped again
and the clamour spread through the house, a couple here
and a couple there whispering together, all of them full of
bright laughter.
After a while, my father whispered in my ear, “Ask
your grandfather to sing. He has a fine voice.”
“Won't you give us a song yourself now, grand-
father?” said I.
“I will not refuse you,” said he, smiling.
Leaning his cheek on his hand, he struck up “Éamonn
Mágáine,” and there is no doubt but he was a fine singer
in those days. Listening to him as he came to the end of
each verse, I would feel a shiver of delight in my blood,
and it is no wonder, with the sweetness of the song and
the tremor of his voice. Every word came out clearly. I
did not understand the meaning of the words, but the
other part of the song was plain to me—the voice, the
tremor, and the sweetness. ‘There was not a sound from
anyone, only the cricket, which had not ceased its own
music in the hearth.
When he came to the end: “My love for ever!” I cried
aloud in Irish. Everyone laughed and clapped their
hands.
It was now very late. The people began to scatter home-
ward to the white gable.2 Soon we were all asleep.
1 A blessing signifying praise.
2 That is, to bed.
“Would you like to go up to the hill with me?” said my
grandfather, putting the straddle on the ass to bring
home a load of turf.
It was a fine, calm, sunny day. My father had gone at
the sparrow’s chirp lobster-fishing to Inish-vick-ilaun in
the west and was not to return till Saturday.
“I would,” said I.
We went up the road, my grandfather with a stick in
one hand, the other holding his pipe in his mouth for
lack of teeth.
When we reached the top of the road we had a fine view
between us and the horizon to the south—the Great
Skellig and Skellig Michael clearly to be seen, Iveragh
stretched out in the sunshine to the south-east, not a puff
of air nor a cloud in the sky, herring-gulls in hundreds
around the trawlers which were fishing out in the bay,
larks warbling sweetly over the heather, young lambs
dancing and playing tricks on one another like school
children who would be let out in the middle of the day.
We walked on until we reached Hill Head. “Look
where your father is lobster-fishing,” said my grand-
father, pointing west towards the Inish. “Oh, it is grand
to be up in that Island on such a day as this. Do you see
the house?”
I stopped and looked. “I do not,” said I.
“Look carefully at the middle of the Island and you
will see the sun sparkling on something.”
“Oh! Is that it? I dare say you were often there.”
“My sorrow, I spent a great part of my life going out
to it, and it is little the shoe or stocking was worn in
those days, not even a drop of tea to be had, nor any
thought of it.”
“What used you to have?”
“Indian meal, oatmeal, potatoes, and fine fish from the
sea; and they left their mark on the people. Little sick-
ness or infection came to them. Arra, man, it is the way
with them now that they have shoes on them as soon as
they can crawl, not to mention all the clothes they wear,
and for all that they are weak, and will be. Would you
believe that it is many a day I left the house at sunrise,
myself and Stephen O’Donlevy, Pad Mór, and Shaun
O'Carna, for we were the crew of the one boat, dear God
bless their souls, they are all on the way of truth now.”
As he spoke, the tears fell from the old man and he
stopped for a while as if to put from him the catch at his
heart.
“Well,” said he, drawing a long sigh, “would you be-
lieve it, we would have nothing on leaving the house but
five or six cold potatoes and we would not come home
until the blackness and blindness of the night? Where
is the man who would stand such hardship now? Upon
my word he does not exist.”
“I doubt he does not. And what used you to be doing
in the run of the day?”
“Killing seals and hunting rabbits, And if so, my boy,
we used to be envied when we came home with our spoils,
for I tell you, little Maurice, there were many here at the
time who could not stand that hardship.”
We were shortening the way in this manner until we
came to where the road ended. “Isn’t it a great wonder,”
said I, “the road was not continued all the way to the
west?”
“I will tell you why, since one story draws another. Do
you see that tower above? At first it was to be built on the
summit of the Cró to the west and the road was to be
made up to it. But when they got as far as this they were
overcome with laziness, so the head man said it was too
costly to make the road all the way to the Cró and they
went no farther with the road but built the tower up
there instead.”
“I suppose you don’t remember it being made?”
“Scarcely. But my father, God have mercy on his soul
and the souls of the dead, was working on it. His wages
were only fivepence a day.”
“Musha,” said I with a laugh, “wasn’t it very small
pay?”
“Upon my word, Maurice, it wasn’t too bad for that
time. There was no flour to be bought, no tea or sugar.
We had our own food and our own clothes—the gather-
ing of the strand, the hunt of the hill, the fish of the
sea and the wool of the sheep. The devil a bit was there
to buy, Maurice, save tobacco, and you could get a
bandle of that for threepence. So where was the spend-
ing?”
We were silent then for a while until we reached Gusty
Gap, with a view now of the north coast of the Island,
where the waves were thundering in from the ocean and
breaking against the rugged, upstanding cliffs, sending
jets of foam as far as you could see into the sky.
“Isn't it a wild place, daddo*?”
*Name for grandfather.
“It is indeed. Do you see that rock below? It is called
the Lóchar Rock, and I will tell you how it got the
name.”
He sat down on a tuft of grass, took off his hat and
passed his hand back over his grey hair. “I was only four
years old, but I remember well the day when a sailing-
ship called the Lochar struck that rock below, Five sailors
came safe out of her. They swam ashore and climbed up
the cliff and not much of the morning was spent when
they walked down into the village, not a stitch of clothes
on them but the same as when they were born. The
wonder of the world was on the people of the village as
to where they had come from, and they could not under-
stand their speech. My father brought two of them to our
house, Pad Mór took in another two, and it was Tomás
O’Carna, I think, who took in the fifth man. It was, in-
deed; I remember now. My father asked them where they
were from and what was their cargo. One of them had a
few words of English and he gave my father to under-
stand that it was wheat they had on board. The place
they had left was Halifax and they had spent three
months on the sea, tossed east and west until the gale
threw them in on that rock below. Soon afterwards the
storm broke up the ship and the coves and strands were
filled with wheat. We lived the lives of gentlemen while
it lasted. My father had so much gathered in that we had
enough for a whole long year.”
“Well, now, that is a wonderful story,” said I
My grandfather got up and we walked on towards the
Doon to the turfstack. I didn’t notice the time passing
until we had both panniers full and were on our way
back across the hillside. My grandfather was teaching me
Irish all the way home, and I was well pleased with all
the knowledge I was getting from him.
I had a brother and sister, Michael and Eileen, going
to school at that time.
“What about coming to school with us?” said Eileen.
“I don’t know. What sort is the teacher?”
“A very nice man.”
“I am glad to hear it is a man, for the women are the
devil,” said I.
I went along with her at last. The master had not come
yet so we sat down on the ditch. A crowd of boys were
kicking a stocking football. I had never seen the like of
it before—the heel of a stocking full of crushed straw and
the mouth sewn up. There was a head of sweat on the
players, and no wonder; the top of the village against the
bottom of the village and the bottom always winning.
They were giving each other a terrible pounding, with
bruises and cut shins in plenty, sparks flying from nailed
boots and everyone panting and groaning.
“The master is coming,” said Eileen.
I looked up and saw him walking down through the
glen—a short, stout man with a big belly out before him.
He opened the door, rang the bell, and we went in.
It was not long before he noticed me. “What is your
name?” I told him. ‘Where were you till now?” “In
Dingle.” “Were you going to school?” “I was, master.”
“What class were you in?” “The fifth class.” “Good boy,”
said he, opening the roll-book and writing down my
name,
I sat down on a bench beside a fine gentle lad, a sturdy
little lump of a fellow. An arithmetic lesson was going
on. I soon had my sums done and put down my pen and
looked around. All had their heads bent except two, who
were already finished like myself. The stout little fellow
nudged me. “I see you are very quick at your tables. Will
you help me?”
“I will,” said I. I looked at them and soon had them
done.
“Would you be my companion every day now?” said
he shyly.
“I would like it very much. Where is your house?”
“I will show it to you when we go home.”
“Very well. What is your name?”
“Tomás Owen Vaun.”
“Whist, Tomás, here is the master.”
Tomás and I were together every day now, going to
and coming from school. I was picking up Irish rapidly,
getting to know the boys and girls and becoming a fine
talker dependent on no one but as good as another at
the language.
One day I was at school, Tomás on one side of me and
Michael Peg Mor*? on the other. The master walked out
to the yard. We began playing tricks on each other. But
he had only gone down behind the school and he put in
his head through the bottom of the window where we
could not see him. We were having a great ree-raa when
everyone began to laugh and look at us. We wondered,
guessing something must be wrong. Looking round, we
began to tremble hand and foot when we saw the master.
*Thomas (grandson of) fair-haired Owen.
(Michael (son of) big Peg.)
“Ha! ha! when the cat’s away the mice will play.”
That is the only time they have for it, said I in my
own mind. “Your soul to the devil, Michael, we are done
for.”
The master came in as white as the wall, his two nostrils
wide open.
A blow across the legs, another across the back and
then across the legs again. But though the pain was going
to our hearts we let on there was nothing in the world we
liked better. Then he caught me by the shoulder and put
me in the corner with a long hard sum to do on my slate.
The same with Michael. When I had finished I saw
Michael making a sign to me that his sum was beyond
him. The devil, said I to myself, I will give you succour
by hook or by crook. When the master strolled out as far
as the ditch I darted across and handed Michael my slate.
“Take mine,” said I, seizing his. I was scarcely back in
my corner when the master returned. I had only finished
Michael’s sum when he came across to me, scowling.
“Have you done it?”
“I have, master,” said I, handing him the slate.
He didn’t say a word and it seemed to me he wasn’t
too pleased that I had been able to do it. He went over
to Michael, and his of course was done too.
When all the others went home we were kept in, ‘The
door was locked as though we were in prison. Michael
began telling me of all the ghosts that had ever been
seen in it.
“Whist,” said I, “isn’t it easy for us to get out through
the window?”
We climbed out and away home with us.
The next day was Saturday and no school, so my heart
was in my mouth for joy and delight. I walked out on to
the ditch. There was a fine burst of sunshine, my feet up
on the ditch and I considering where I would turn my
face.
I saw Shaun Fada coming towards me, the old man
with the loud voice,
“Isn’t it a fine day, Shaun?”
“There wasn’t a day like it this year, praise and thanks
to the King of Glory! Don’t you see him to the east, my
boy?” said he, pointing towards the old man they nick-
named White. A stooped figure was standing under the
gable of the house. “If you want to foretell the weather,
look at that fellow. If you see his head out, it will be
sultry, but if you don’t, you had better make for cover.”
The man in the east had not spoken yet though he was
not looking too kindly at Shaun.
“It seems we shall have sultry weather so,” said I.
“You may be as sure of it as there’s a cross on the ass.”
“Oh, musha,” said White, “I was never so bad as I am
today.”
“Bad, the devil,” said Shaun; “‘aren’t you always bad?”
“Musha, the killing of the castle on you! if you haven't
a noisy windpipe and it is no lie for the man who first
called you Junie of the Scroggle2,” said White, leaving
the gable and going into the house.
“He is in a temper now,” said Shaun.
“It looks like it,” said I.
“I swear by the devil you are making great progress
with the Irish.”
“Ah, there’s nothing like youth for picking it up.”
“That’s true. Praise youth and it will prosper. How
do you like the Island?”
“I like it well.”
“My heart from the devil, you will tire of it some day.”
“I don’t know that yet.”
“On my oath, you will,” said he, leaving me.
I sat down on the ditch again, nothing to be heard but
a woman east calling her son ‘Tigue, another woman west
calling her daughter Kate, and a dog barking far away.
“Your dinner is ready, Maurice,” said my grandfather,
coming out.
“Isn't the sea very calm today, daddo?”
“It’s a fine sight, praise to God on high,” said he, bar-
ing his head. “Come in now before the potatoes get cold.”
1 An old curse.
2 Name for the heron, in reference to its long neck.
THE next day, a Sunday, was very fine, the sea calm, and
not a sound to be heard but the noise of the waves break-
ing on the White Strand and the footsteps of men walk-
ing down to the quay on their way out to the mainland
to Mass.
There were six or seven curraghs out in Mid-Bay by
this time, the men in them stripped to their shirts. Soon
I saw Tomás coming down.
“God be with you, Tomás.”
“The same God with you. Wouldn’t it be a fine day on
the hill? Would you have any courage for it?”
“Your soul to the devil, let us go,” said I.
We went up the hill-road together, sweet music in our
ears from the heath-hens on the summit. Each of us had
a dog.
“Maybe,” said Tomás, “we would get a dozen of puffins
back in the Fern Bottom and another dozen of rabbits.
I have a great dog for them.”
We reached Horses’ Pound, the heat of the sun crack-
ing the stones and a head of sweat on us. We sat down
on a tuft of grass. The devil if Tomás had not a pipe and
tobacco. He lit it and handed it to me. “I don’t smoke,”
said I. “Try it,” said he.
When I had had my fill of it, I gave it back to him and
stretched myself out on my back in the heat of the sun.
But, if so, I soon began to feel Horses’ Pound going round
me. I was frightened. Tomás was singing to himself.
“Tomás,” said I at last, ‘something is coming over me.”
He looked at me. “It is too much of the pipe you have
had. Throw up, and nothing will ail you.”
I would rather have been dead than the way I was,
wheezing and whinnying ever and ever till at last I
threw up.
When we got to our feet we could not find the dogs.
We whistled but they did not come.
“Beauty, Beauty, Beauty,” I cried aloud, for that was
the name of my dog.
“Topsy, Topsy, Topsy,” cried Tomás.
At that moment my dog appeared with a rabbit across
her mouth. “My heart for ever, Beauty!” I cried. Then
Topsy returned with her mouth empty. “You can see now
which is the better dog,” said I.
We went on to the Fern Bottom and soon my dog had
scented a puffin. We began digging the hole, but the
ground was too firm and we had to give it up. Off with
us then as far as White Rocks.
“We have a good chance now for a dozen of rabbits,
for the burrows are very shallow here.”
“Look,” said I, “Beauty has scented something.”
Down we ran. I thrust my hand into the burrow and
drew out a fine fat rabbit.
“Your soul to the devil, Topsy has scented another,”
shouted Tomás, and away with him down to the hole.
Before long we had a dozen and a half.
“We had better take a rest now,” said Tomás, sitting
down on the grass. He took out the pipe again and of-
fered it to me. “Musha, keep it away from me,” said I;
“I have bought sense from it already.”
It was midday now, the sun in the height of its power
and a great heat in it. While we were talking, Tomás
rose up on his elbow. “Do you know where we will go for
the rest of the day?”
“Where?”
“Gathering sea-gulls’ eggs in the Scórnach.”
Away we went till we reached its mouth. Looking down
at the cliff, a feeling of dizziness came over me.
“What mother’s son could go down there, Tomás?”
“Arra, man,” said he with a laugh, “you only lack prac-
tice. I was the same way myself when I came here the first
day with Shaun O’Shea. He was for ever urging me till
I agreed to go down with him.”
“Maybe you are right. We had better hide the rabbits
here on top and not be carrying them down and up
again.”
We began to search for a suitable hole.
“There is a good one here, Tomás.”
“The devil, the black-backed gulls would find them out
there.”
At last we found a place and we did not leave as much
as a pinhole without covering it with fern and sods of
earth. Then we turned our faces towards the cliff.
Tomás was down before me leaping as light as a goat
through the screes, and no wonder, for it is amongst them
he had spent his life. “Take it fine and easy,” he said to
me, “for fear your foot would loosen a stone and hit me
on the head as it went down the hill. It is then you would
be raising a clamour, Maurice, when you would see me
falling over the cliff.”
“Don’t be talking that way, Tomás. You make me
shiver.”
A cold sweat was coming out on me with the eeriness of
the place. I stopped and looked up. When I saw the black
rugged cliff standing straight above I began to tremble
still more. I looked down, and there was nothing below
me but the blue depth of the sea: “God of Virtues!” I
cried, “isn’t it a dangerous place I am in!”
I could see Tomás still climbing down like a goat,
without a trouble or care in the world. There was a great
din in the gully, it shining white with the droppings of
the sea-birds—kittiwakes, herring-gulls, puffins, guille-
mots, sea-ravens, razor-bills, black-backed gulls and petrels
—each with its own cry and its own nest built in the rock.
I was looking at them and watching them until before
long the dizziness left me, while I thought what a hard
life they had, foraging for food like any sinner.
As I was thinking, I saw a puffin making straight
towards me in from the sea. It was quite near me now,
and I saw that it had a bundle of sprats across its mouth.
It came nearer and nearer until it was only five yards
away. It was likely going to land on the rock, I thought,
so I lay down in the long heather which was growing
around. It came in fearlessly and I made a grab at it with
my hand. But it had gone into a burrow beside me. ‘The
entrance was covered with bird dung. I began digging it
out, and it was easy enough, for I had only to thrust my
hand back and lift up the ledge of a stone. There was a
fine fat whippeen* in it. I thrust my hand in to draw it
out, but, if so, I wished I had not, for it gave me a savage
bite with its beak. When I caught it by the throat it dug
its claws into me so that my hand was streaming with
blood. At last I drew it out and killed it.
I arose and looked down. Tomás was nowhere to be
seen.
“Tomás,” I cried.
“Tomás,” said the echo, answering me.
“Well,” came up from Tomás far below.
“Well,” repeated the echo, the way you would swear
by the book there were four of us on the cliff. It seemed
to me that he was miles below me. God of Virtues, said
* Young puffin.
I to myself, he will fall over the cliff as sure as I live. I
will go no farther myself anyway.
I was wandering backwards and forwards among the
screes until I came across another burrow with dung at
its mouth. Faith, I have another, said I, taking courage.
I began to dig. Soon I had drawn out a fine fat puffin.
At the end of my wanderings I had three dozen.
I was now the happiest hunter on the hills of Kerry.
I sat down on a stone and drew out the bundle of bread
I had brought with me for the day. I ate it hungrily.
When I got up and looked at the whippeens I had
thrown in a heap in the hollow beside me, I wondered
how I would carry them home. Then I remembered I
had a rope round my waist. Untying it, I took hold of a
dozen of the birds, put their heads together and tied up
the dozen in a single knot. I did the same with the second
dozen and the third, till I had them all on the rope.
The sun was now as round as a plate beyond the
Teeracht to the west, and a path of glittering golden
light stretching as far as the horizon over the sea. I looked
down, but Tomás was not coming yet, for he was a man
who never showed haste or hurry so long as plunder was
to be had. I gave a whistle. The echo answered me as
before. Soon after I heard him shouting, “I am com-
ing!”
Hundreds of birds were flying round, rabbits leaping
from one clump of thrift to another, a sweet smell from
the white heather and the fern, big vessels far out on the
horizon you would think were on fire in the sunlight, a
heat haze here and there in the ravines, and Kerry dia-
monds lying all around weakening my eyes with their
sparkle.
Now I could see Tomás climbing slowly up, his face
dirty and smeared with earth and no jersey on him. I
laughed aloud when I saw the look of him. He was climb-
ing from ledge to ledge till he was within a few yards of
me. He had taken off his jersey, tied a cord round the neck
of it and thrown it over his back with whatever booty
he had inside it. Coming up to me he put down the jersey
carefully on the ground.
“The devil take you, Tomás, what have you got?”
“I have guillemots’ eggs, razor-bills’ eggs and sea-gulls’
eggs, my boy,” said he, wiping the sweat from his fore-
head with his cap.
“By God, you have done well!”
“Your soul to the devil, why didn’t you come down,
man, and we would have had twice as many?”
“I was too frightened,” said I, pretending I had got
no plunder myself. “I dare say it is as well for us to be
starting now.” And going across to my bundle I threw
it over my back.
“What have you there?”
“Puffins in plenty.”
“Where did you get them?”
“Here in the scree without stirring out of it.”
“By God, you are the best hunter I ever met.”
We were moving on now up to the head of the cliff.
We went on from ledge to ledge and from clump to
clump. When we were up at last we lay down to rest.
“Wait till you see the eggs I have,” said Tomás, open-
ing his jersey.
They were a lovely sight, covered with black and red
spots. “We have had a great hunt,” said I.
“Very good indeed. Have you many whippeens?”’
“Three dozen.” .
“Och, we will never carry them all home. But it is
where the trouble will be now if the eggs are not clean
after all our pains.”
“Can’t you see for yourself they are clean?” said I,
laughing.
“Ah, that is not the cleanness I mean; but come with
me and we shall soon know.”
We went down to the south to a big pool of water in a
bog-hole. “Look now,” said he, taking up an egg, “if this
egg is hatching it will float on the water, but if it is clean
it will sink.”
He threw in the egg. It remained floating.
“Och, the devil take it, there is a chick in that one.”
He took it out and broke it against a stone and sure
enough there was a chick in it. “Faith,” said he, “it is a
good beginning.” He put in another in the water and it
was the same way again. “The devil a clean one among
them,” said I. “I am afraid you are right,” said he, throw-
ing in another and not one of them sinking.
He lost heart then after all his walking in the run of
the day and all for nothing. Seeing how despondent he
was on account of it: “Don’t mind,” said I; “haven’t we
enough, each of us with a dozen and a half rabbits and a
dozen and a half whippeens?”’
We divided the spoils, and when we had all done up in
bundles we were ready for the journey home. I looked
at Tomás again and laughed.
"I don’t know in the world why you are laughing at
me since morning.”
“Because anyone would think you were an ape you are
so dirty.”
“Faith, if I am as dirty as you are, the yellow devil is
on me.”
“What would you say to giving ourselves a good dip
in the pool?”
“It is a good idea.”
We stripped off all we had and went in, and when we
were dressed again we felt so fresh we could have walked
the hill twice over.
“The devil, that was a grand dip.”
“Arra, man, I am not the same after it. Now in the
name of God let us turn our faces homewards.”
It was growing late. The sun was sinking on the hori-
zon, the dew falling heavily as the air cooled, the dock-
leaves closing up for the night, sea-birds crying as they
came back to their young, rabbits rushing through the
fern as they left their warrens, the sparkle of the Kerry
diamonds gone out and a lonesome look coming over the
ravines.
“It is night, Tomás.”
“It is. Isn’t there a great stretch on the day?”
“There is, and my people will likely be anxious about
me for they don’t know where I am. They will say it is
into some hole I have fallen into.”
“Ah, mo léir,* it is often I was out and it is only mid-
night would bring me home.”
* Literally, my woe, my ruin—alas!
“But I am not the same as you.”
“Why not? Amn’t I a human being the same as your-
self?”
“Ah, you are an old dog on the hill and your people are
used to your being out late and early. It is the first time
for me.”
We were now in sight of the village, lamps lit in every
house, dogs barking, the houses and rocks clearly re-
flected in the sea which lay below them without a stir
like a well of fresh water, the moon climbing up behind
Cnoc-a-comma, big and round and as yellow as gold.
We said good-bye and parted, Tomás to his house and
I to mine.
One fine day in the month of August the King was after
coming in from Dunquin with the post-bag. It is the
custom of the Island for everyone to be on the quay for
his coming, young and old, and often he would have
enough to do to draw breath with the crowd around him,
thrusting in their heads and chattering.
“I dare say you have no news from outside?” said
Shaun Fada.
“Musha, it is little news you would get at this time,
only the people to be hard at work,” replied the King,
fingering the letters.
“Oh, long work on them,” said Shaun Fada, turning
out towards the sea, “there are people here, too, and the
devil a bit of work is sickening them and they are living
as well as any sinner in Ireland, though it’s a strong word
to say.”
“Indeed, you were ever talking nonsense.”
“Your soul to the devil, it’s no nonsense. Don’t you
see them yourself as lazy as any cripple from here to
Belfast?”
“Any man now who has any spirit,” said the King,
getting up, “let him take a curragh south to Ventry next
Sunday. There is going to be a great race in it.”
“They won't go—no fear of it. Did you hear of any
curragh to be going in for it?” asked Shaun, turning to
the King.
“Indeed there are—a curragh from the Cooas, one from
Ballymore and another from Leitriúch.”
There was now no talk in the village of anything else
but the races. Everyone I met on road, hill, or strand, his
first greeting was “Are you going to the races?” “I am.
Are you?” “I am.”
On the Saturday night before they took place the boys
and girls were gathered in together gossiping about the
morrow. I met Tomás Owen Vaun. “The devil, Tomás,
what about going to the races?”
“The devil, let us go.”
“Does your father know?”
“Arra, man, I told him today I was going and all I got
was a clout on the back which threw me out on my
mouth.”
“It is the same with me, but we will creep out unknown
to them. If we could get ourselves inside any curragh all
would be well.”
“Oh, it would, man.”
“Be up with the chirp of the sparrow, so, and we will
make off in the first curragh we can get.”
When I went in, Eileen, Shaun, and Michael were
polishing their shoes for the races. I said nothing but sat
by the fire, with a lip on me. Eileen was running around
in a flutter. She came up and took the iron from the fire.
“Go to bed now,” said she to me, ‘and have the kettle
boiling for us in the morning.” She annoyed me so that
I gave her a slap on the cheek. Then I ran down to the
room and went to bed. But, believe me, my two eyes never
closed. I lay listening to the tick-tock, tick-tock of the
clock all night long till it struck five.
I got up unknown to the others, washed and dressed
myself, and an egg would not have broken under my feet
for the lightness of my tread for fear I might be heard on
the floor. I made the fire and put on the kettle. Then I
put my head out through the door, and indeed it would
have raised the dead from their graves—an edge of golden
cloud over Mount Eagle from the sun that was climbing
in the east, a calm on the sea, not a stain in the sky and
the lark singing sweetly above my head.
When I had eaten my bread and tea I went off for
Tomás and found him ready before me. “Shaun Tigue
and Shaun Tomás are gone down to the quay. Hurry
on and they will take us out.”
They had the curragh afloat. ‘Hurry, hurry,” I cried,
“or they will be gone.”
We raced down the slip. “Shaun, will you take us?”
“Where are ye going?”
“To the races.”
“Very well, jump in.”
In we leapt, joy in our hearts, the two of us seated in
the stern, the happiest creatures on the earth of the
world. When we were a little distance out from the quay
I looked back at the village and saw the boys and girls
walking down. “Look, Tomás, what good luck we had to
leave the quay in time!” Laughing, he gave me a pinch in
the thigh. ““Musha, it’s true. If we were on the quay now
we would never get away.”
‘The sea was like a pane of glass, a stream of ebbing tide
out through the Sound to the north, guillemots, razor-
bills and petrels on the water, the four men stripped to
their shirts rowing hard.
Shaun Tigue spoke out in the bows, ‘Do you see the
loon?”
We looked south and saw a big, white-breasted bird
floating down with the tide.
“Isn’t it a fine bird, Tomás? Wouldn't you think it was
a young gannet?” said I.
“It is very like one.”
An old man, Shamus Kate, was in the middle. “That is
a bird never stepped on dry land,” said he.
“And where do they lay?” asked Shaun ‘Tomás.
“Out on the sea.”
“And wouldn’t you say the sea would carry off the
egg?” asked the other man.
“On my oath it does not, for she lays it between her
two thighs and keeps it there till the chick is hatched.”
We were approaching Great Cliff. It was a low ebb-
tide. “By God,” said Shamus, “we'll have great work tak-
ing the curragh upon to the shore.” Everyone took off his
shoes and drew his trousers up over his knees. Leaping
out, we drew the boat up through the stones till we had
her above high-water. As soon as we found ourselves on
dry land, Tomás and I ran up the Cliff and made neither
stop nor stay till we reached the chapel in Bally-na-houn.
We sat down to wait for Mass, very shy, for we knew no
one in the place. “The devil, isn’t there a great difference
between this place and the Island?” said Tomás. It was
his first day on the mainland and it was a great wonder to
him.
When the priest arrived we went into the chapel. As
we went down on our knees Tomás whispered to me:
“Oh, isn’t it a big house! How was it built at all?”
“Whist,” said I, “or the priest will hear you.”
Soon he was prodding me again. “Oh, I'll be killed, for
my father is down behind and he looking at me,” he
whispered.
I glanced back and saw my brother Shaun shaking his
fist at me. “Oh, they will kill us,” said I.
“Don’t mind. We'll steal away south unknown to
them.”
We moved up more into the crowd till we were by the
wall so that they could not see us. Then we crept along
slowly till we were near the door. As soon as Mass was
over we ran out and up through the fields to the Hill of
Clasach.
The day was very sultry.
“The devil, Tomás, let us throw off our shoes and we'll
be as light as a starling for the road.”
“A great thought,” said he, and we sat down on the
roadside. We tied our shoes together and flung them
over our shoulders.
Half-way up the Clasach I looked back and saw the
crowds ascending the road from the chapel.
“Oh, Lord, look at all the people coming to the races!”
“Oh, mo léir, aren't there many people in the world!”
When we came in sight of the parish of Ventry, Tomás
was lost in astonishment.
“Oh, Maurice, isn’t Ireland wide and spacious?”
“Upon my word, Tomás, she is bigger than that. What
about Dingle where I was long ago?”
“And where is Dingle?”
“To the south of that hill.”
“Oh, Lord, I always thought there was nothing in
Ireland, only the Blasket, Dunquin, and Iveragh. Look
at that big high hill beyond! Wouldn’t it be grand for us
to have it at home? What sport we would have climbing
to the top of it every evening after school! I wonder what
is the name of it!”
“Don't you know it and you looking at it every day
from the Blasket? That's Mount Eagle.”
“Is that so, indeed? In the Blasket it seemed as if it
were in Dunquin.”
We had a brilliant view before our eyes, southwards
over the parish of Ventry and the parish of Maurhan and
north to the parish of Kill, green fields covered in flowers
on either side of us, a lonely house here and there away
at the foot of the mountain, Ventry harbour to the south-
east, lying still, three or four sailing-boats at anchor, and a
curragh or two creeping like beetles across the water, the
mountains beyond nodding their heads one above the
other.
We were leaping for mirth and delight. “Your soul to
the devil, Tomás, it is a grand day we will have.”
“Arra, man, think of the boys at home. Won't they
be envious when they hear the two of us are gone to
the races!” And he took a goat’s leap down the road and
I after him panting.
“But one thing only, Tomás,” said I when I caught him
up. “We haven't a penny to buy anything,”
“Don’t mind that. I promise you when we meet our
own people they will give us pennies.”
“Maybe.”
“And what's more, when my father is drunk, believe
me it is easy to get money out of him.”
We were down at White Mouth now. On our way
through the village Tomás stopped again.
“The devil, Maurice, look at the shop and the nice
things in the window.”
“Musha, if we had money, isn’t it nice and comfortably
we would buy those fine apples?”
“Do you know what we'll do? Let us wait here till
they come. You know they won’t kill us now.”
We sat down outside the shop.
“The devil, isn’t it grand for the boys who live here?”
said Tomás. “Isn’t it they have the fine life compared with
us who are stuck in the Island?”
“Musha, it’s true for you. Any time they like they can
go down to Dingle.”
“Arra, man, can they not go down to the place where
the liners leave for America? What is to stop them? There
is no sea before them.”
"I don’t know about that. You imagine now if you
were living on the mainland that you could go anywhere
you pleased, but upon my word you couldn't, my boy.”
“Why not?” said he with his two eyes thrust in to the
window of the shop.
“What about the long road and the empty pocket?”
“Musha, when I got hungry I would go into a house
and get food, and away I would go again.”
“That’s talk in the air, my boy. Wait now till I tell you
a story I heard from my grandfather about his own fa-
ther. My people were living at that time in Cooan.
Do you see that place to the south?”’ I said, pointing
towards it. “Well, that is where I would be today only
for my great-grandfather going to the Island.”
“Wasn't he a strange man to go there?”
“Ah, what could the poor people do at that time when
the rotten landlords threw out all the tenants at the
Cooan and scattered them like little birds? However, that
is not the story I have to tell you, but about my great-
grandfather. When he was living at the Cooan they used
to go to Cork selling their firkins of butter, and one day
when he happened to be going there and was within three
miles of Cork there fell the heaviest rain that ever fell.
He walked on, wet to the skin. After a while whom
should he meet on the road but the great poet of long
ago, Egan O’Rahilly, and would you believe it, Tomás,
they were closely akin to each other!
“God save you, Micky,’ said Egan.
“God and Mary save you, Egan,’ said my great-
grandfather,
“I dare say you are hungry as well as wet since leaving
the Cooan?’
“‘Faith, I am a little.’
“‘And so am I.’
“It happened there was a farmer’s house by the road-
side which had a very bad name, for the farmer had a
heart as hard as a stone and the world knew it as a house
where no man ever got food to eat or drink to drink.
But, if so, the barony that time was trembling in fear of
the poets.”
“Why?”
“Arra, man, wouldn’t they shame you alive in those
days with the satires they would write! Anyone who dis-
pleased them they would cover him with abuse to be read
by the big world.
“Soon they were approaching the farm-house. “Let
us go in here now and I tell you we'll get food and
drink,’ said Egan. My grandfather looked at him. ‘Arra,
man, isn’t it time you should know that house where no
man ever got either?’ ‘Don’t mind that,’ said the poet,
‘he is the devil himself if I can’t manage him.’
“They went inside dripping with water. The farmer
was seated at the hearth. My great-grandfather stood in
the doorway. ‘God bless all here, said Egan, walking over
and giving his heels to the fire. The farmer did not speak
a word at first or ask if they had a mouth on them. Then
at last he spoke: ‘Should you not know your manners
not to be wetting the floor that way.’
“Egan gave him no answer, but after a while when
he saw the churlishness there was in his heart he winked
at my great-grandfather and gave a shout of laugh-
ter.
“God give us cause to laugh,’ said the farmer with a
start, ‘what is amusing you, you buffoon?’
‘Musha, I am thinking of the crow I came across
today on my road from the west and what it said.’
“'And what did it say?’ said the farmer, sticking out his
lip.
“ ‘It came over my head, following me for a quarter of
a mile, and this is what it was saying: Egan, Egan, Egan
O’Rahilly; Egan, Egan O’Rahilly! Look how the crows
themselves do know me.’
“Arra, Tomás, when the farmer knew whom he had
in the house he leapt from his chair.
“‘A hundred thousand welcomes to you! Maura!’ he
shouted to his wife, ‘come in here. Musha, isn’t it God
who guided him to us?’ ‘Who?’ said she. ‘Arra, the noble
Egan O’Rahilly!’
“She ran up to him with outstretched hands. ‘A thou-
sand welcomes to you!l’
“The farmer gave the same welcome to my great-
grandfather and led him up to the fire. He went down to
the room and brought out a couple of chairs. Neither he
nor his wife could do enough for them; they got the
choice of all food and a bed to sleep in, for the farmer
would not let them go without spending the night in his
company, a thing he had never done before.”
“Wasn't Egan very cunning?” said Tomás.
I stretched myself and glanced back along the road.
“The devil, Tomás, they are coming.”
“Is it so?” said he, looking back, a flush spreading on
his cheek.
“Don’t mind. Think of Egan and how cunning he was.
Let on we are perished with the hunger and they will
give us something.”
We were thinking now that they would beat the life
out of us. But as they came nearer I saw they were smil-
ing, “All’s well, Tomás,” I whispered. We remained with
our heads bent till they were before us.
“Musha, look where the two changelings are,” said my
sister Maura. They all laughed. “Well, it’s no good talk-
ing. They would do anything they liked,” said Maurice
Owen Vaun. “Don’t mind about that,” said my brother
Shaun, “don’t you know that youth does be gay.” “Let
them go now,” said. Maurice.
“Come in here with us,” said my brother.
I gave Tomás a prod, and indeed we soon had all we
wanted, the two of us sitting on a stool drinking tea. My
brother gave me ten shillings and a crown to Tomás, and
Tomás’s father likewise.
“When ye go down now to the strand keep back from
the horses,” said Maurice Owen Vaun. “Off with you
now and spend the day as ye please.”
Out and away with us down the road to the east.
"I wonder, Tomás, what shall we buy?”
“Do you know what we'll buy?” said he in a whisper;
“we will have a drink.”
“Maybe it would make us drunk.”
“Ah, we won’t drink much.”
“Did you ever drink?”
“Arra, man, I did, that night they had the barrel in the
house of Dermod O'Shea. I drank a pint and never got
drunk.”
In the course of our talk we were walking on till we
found ourselves outside the public-house in Ventry.
“Your soul to the devil,” said Tomás, “we'll get it in
here.”
We went in and sat down on a long settle stretched
beside the wall. There was a tall, grey-headed woman
inside the counter and a cross look on her face. She spoke
in English.
“Are ye going to the races?”
“We are,” said I.
Tomás laughed. I winked at him. He understood at
once what I had in mind and put on a dignified expres-
sion. At last I got up.
“Give us two pints, if you please.”
She looked at me and laughed. Then she looked at
Tomás, We looked at each other.
“Two pints?” said she in surprise,
“Two pints,” I repeated sourly.
“Where are ye from?”
“From City-cow-titty 1,” said I, with a glance at the
door to see if my brother Shaun was coming.
“And have ye money?”
“We have,” said I.
“We have,” said Tomás,
She turned in and filled two pints.
I took hold of one and handed it boldly to Tomás.
Then I took my own pint and sat down to drink it. I
could not help laughing when I saw the impudent look on
the face of Tomás as he raised the glass to his mouth. He
took five sips. Then he stopped, looked at me, shook his
head and frowned.
“It is good,” said I.
“Oh, it has a foul taste. I will never drink it.”
“You want courage, my boy,” said I, raising my own
glass again. “I will tell you,” said I, putting it down, “why
you get a foul taste in it. It is because you are only sipping
it. When you raise your glass to your mouth make no
stop till you have to draw your breath.”
He raised his glass and took a good pull out of it. “I
think you are right,” said he.
We finished our pints and Tomás wiped his lips with
his hand.
“Let us have another.”
“The devil, we have our fill now.”
1A village east of Dingle.
“Don't mind that,” said he, turning to the counter and
calling for two more.
I whispered to him: “I am thinking we don’t look like
men yet, the way that scraggy woman is laughing at us,
and we had better clear out of this before your father and
Shaun come in.”
“Drink that,” said he, “and don’t be talking. Isn’t it
a day out of sixty days, as the old man said the night
they had the barrel in Dermod’s house?”
I saw he was getting merry. I raised my pint to my
mouth and we went on till we had the glasses drained
again. I began to feel my head in a whirl. I looked at
Tomás and his two eyes were sunk back into his head.
He laughed and laughed again without any cause.
“Come on,” said I.
At that moment I felt the house beginning to go round
me. I began to sweat. I stood up and went out. No sooner
had I passed the door than I was thrown down on the
back of my head. I looked round. No one was to be seen.
“All's well,” said I, groping along the wall till I reached
the yard. I sat down on a stone and tried to throw up.
Putting my fingers back in my throat I threw it up as
clean as I had drunk it. I lifted up my head, and, by God,
I felt as well as ever but I tell you I cursed the man who
first thought of porter,
I don’t know in the world where is Tomás, said I to
myself. Isn’t it a great wonder the desire to retch hasn't
come over him as it did with me. I walked out whistling,
letting on nothing. When I approached the door I heard
talking inside and I knew by the voice it was Tomás. I
could hear him saying there wasn’t a man in Ventry good
enough for him. I went in. He was standing in the middle
of the floor, without his cap, a big new pipe in his mouth
at which he was puffing. He was running with sweat.
“The devil take you, where did you get the pipe?”
“I bought it, as I am well able to do.”
“Isn't it he who has the sauce now?” said the woman,
Tomás leapt up to the counter and struck his fist
on it.
“If it is fight you want come on out here. I am the man
for you and for any man in Ventry.”
“Come, Tomás, or we will miss the races.”
“The devil. I had forgotten all about them talking to
that scarecrow of a woman.”
At last I got him away,
“By God, ‘Tomás, you are drunk,” said I, and we went
down the road to the east.
“Arra, man, I am not,” said he with a laugh. “I could
drink a barrel of it yet.”
With those words he fell against the wall. I lifted him
up and lead him into the yard. “Try if you could throw
up now, Tomás, and you will be all right after it.”
He put his hand back into his mouth and before long
he threw up all he had drunk.
Raising his head he looked at me sorrowfully. “Musha,
isn’t it great folly for any man to be drinking?”
“It is true.”
“I feel well now but for the nasty taste in my mouth.”
“That is easy to cure.” And I ran back to the shop and
bought some sweets.
We walked on, eating the sweets, without stop or stay
till we reached Ventry Strand.
“Oh, Lord, where will food be found for them all?”
said Tomás.
“Isn't it a wonderful crowd?”
“Oh, it passes understanding.”
The two of us now did not know was it on earth or air
we were walking with the delight in our hearts, such a
tumult and confusion were on the strand, every sort of
party each with its own trick going on.
Before long we noticed a big bulk of people together
and the laughter of the world on them.
“There is sport back here,” said Tomás.
We ran towards them. There was a terrible big man
standing in their midst with a little table and a pack of
cards, the four aces on the table. I had no other thought
but that the veins in his neck would burst the way he was
shouting. “Hello, hello, hello! Come on, ladies and gentle-
men! Someone for the lucky club! Hello, hello, hello!”
“What is he saying?” asked Tomás.
“JE you put a penny on any club or on an ace and it
turns up, you get threepence and a penny for himself.”
We stood watching him, getting the fun of the world.
It was not the game we were watching but the man
himself and the strain he was putting on the veins of his
neck with his bawling.
“Come on,” said I; “maybe we would see a better trick
than that.”
We had not gone far when we came upon a cripple
playing a banjo and singing to the music. “The devil,”
whispered Tomás, “isn’t it well he is able to stand on the
two feet that are under him?”
As soon as he finished, a lanky fellow who was along
with him came round with his cap in his hand gathering
pennies which he got in plenty. We gave him one, the
same at the rest. Then the cripple began to sing “Danny
Boy,” and a good hand he made of it.
There was a “Hello” here and a “Hello” there, the two
of us running round like a hen after laying an egg, till
we came to a barrel and a man down inside it and every-
one making shots at him. He would stick his head up and
put out his tongue. Then someone threw one of the
blocks, two of them, three, but did not hit him. Another
man was attending the crowd, shouting, and neither of
them with a word of Irish. “Hurray, hurray, here is
Sammy in the Barrel willing to keep his head for any
man. Three chances for a penny. Come on! Come on,
lads! Sammy is prepared to die if he gets a severe blow.”
At that moment Sammy showed his head and let out a
roar, the two of us there and our hearts broken with
laughter.
“Your soul to the devil, Tomás, let’s try it,” said I.
I went up to the man. “Give me three blocks.”
He handed them out, “Come on, my lads,” he cried.
I went up to the mark. A big crowd was gathered
round, Sammy showed his head. “Pooh! Pooh!” he
shouted.
I could not help laughing when I saw the way he was
bent. Then I threw a block and just hit the edge of the
barrel.
“A great shot, my hearty,” cried an old man beside me.
I took courage and let the next one go before Sammy
showed his head. Just as the block was making for the
edge of the barrel he bobbed up and got it straight on the
bridge of the nose. His companion ran over and took him
up. He was streaming blood,
When the crowd saw what I had done they pressed
round from all sides, embracing me. “Musha, my love for
your hand for ever!” cried one. “Oh, musha, may God
save you! Isn’t he the sprightly lad?” said another.
An old man leapt towards me. “Arra, musha, where are
you from?”
“From the Island.”
“Musha, my love for you for ever from the village far
west!” he cried, putting his hand in his pocket and giving
me half a crown.
I was senseless with the clamour all round me and I
was frightened, too, that Sammy would come up to get
satisfaction for the blow.
When I got myself extricated from them, we ran down
the strand leaping as lightly as goats for sheer delight
until we noticed four curraghs drawn up in a line, the
men stripped and their oars stretched forward.
“Your soul to the devil, Tomás, look at the curraghs
ready to race.”
“Oh, Lord! won’t it be great sport watching them!”
And he leapt into the air for joy.
We sat down on our heels.
It is there was the clatter and clamour, the disputing
and gnashing of teeth, the praise and the disparagement,
each man with the people in the race according to his
ancestors, like a swarm of bees buzzing on a fine day of
harvest.
“Isn’t it a great pity, Tomás, we don’t know the cur-
raghs?”
“It’s true. We won’t get any pleasure in the race since
we don’t know them.”
“Wait now and I will ask someone,” said I, going up to
a man seated above us.
“Where are those curraghs from that are going to race?”
“Well, do you see the curragh that is nearest to your”
said he. “That is from my own place, a crew in whom I
have confidence.” :
“What place is that?”
“The Cooas. And do you see the curragh with the white
shirts? That is from Ballymore. And the one with the red
shirts is from Leitriúch. And the curragh with the black
shirts is from Ballydavid.”
“Thank you,” said I, returning to Tomás and telling
him what I had heard.
“I wonder who is that splendid, big man in the middle
of the curragh from the Cooas?” said Tomás.
“Isn't he a wonderful man for size?”
I turned to the old man above us and asked him who
was the big fellow.
“Arra, man,” said he, laughing, “you must have heard
mention of Tigue Dermod, the man who would draw the
devil himself in the wake of the curragh.”
“Ah, is that he?”
“It is indeed. They will soon be racing now,” taking a
slice of tobacco out of his pocket, putting it into his back-
teeth, and chewing it.
At that moment a gun-shot was fired and off they
started. The old man let out a roar:
“Boo, boo, boo! Pull Tigue, Tigue, Tigue!”
Tomás and I burst out laughing to see the old man
standing up on the rock without his hat and heedless of
everyone. There was shouting and whistling all over the
strand and the old man beating the rock with his boot.
“Your soul to the devil, Tigue, take the victory to the
north!” he cried. “Remember you never lost yet! Remem-
ber your ancestors!” with his mouth open from ear to ear
and a long yellow streak of tobacco down his chin.
He was losing his wits now and the hoarseness choking
him. He slid down the rocks with his capering and slipped
up to his knees in the sea. But, my sorrow, he took no
heed of the water. There he was, striking his palm with
his fist. “Bravo, bravo, bravo to you, Tigue!”
A middle-aged woman came down, her shawl in her
hand, her voice cracked with shouting. We knew from
the way she was praising them that she was from Bally-
more.
“Musha, my love to you for ever, oh flower of men!”
cried the old man.
“Yé, what's that you are saying?” cried the woman, her
hair flying in the wind.
“Look at them winning, my girl.” And he threw his hat
into the air.
The curragh from the Cooas was now turning ‘the last
post.
“Bravo, bravo, bravo, flower of men!” roared the old
man again, his feet stretched into the water unknown to
him, his mouth covered in tobacco stains, while he kept
putting in a fresh slice every minute.
When the curragh from the Cooas was approaching the
quay, the man in the bows lifted up his two oars in the air
to show they were the victors.
“Up Cooas!” roared hundreds of voices together. “Up
Cooas! Up Cooas!”
“Oh, Lord! they have my head split,” cried Tomás.
“Come down to the slip till we see how they look after
the race,” said I.
People were up to their waists in the sea, stretching out
their hands and welcoming the crew. I had no thought
but that they would drown themselves in the crush. There
was no understanding what they were saying with the
hundreds of mouths all shouting together.
“Don't go too far down, Tomás, or you will be
drowned.”
At that moment he startled me with a laugh.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Look! Do you see the old fellow below trying to keep
his grip?”
I looked down. I was anxious for him, for I was sure
he would be drowned. He was giving his hand to the man
in the stern. “Musha, son of a good mother, I knew you
would do it.’ he shouted. Then he went up to Tigue
Dermod and gave him his hand. “Man beyond all men,
if you could not do it, who could?” Then to the second
man, giving him his hand: “Musha, son of him who lives
not, didn’t I see it was in your muscles?” And last of all to
the stroke: ““Musha,” he sang, “love of my heart, my little
jug, may it be full!”*
* Snatch of an old song.
At that moment the curragh and all inside it was lifted
out of the water on to the green grass above. Then away
with them all to the public-house.
“Come on up, Tomás. It is there will be the sport.”
“The devil,” said he when we reached the door, “this
is the house we were in before. We have no need to go
in again.”
“Don't mind that,” said I, and we went in boldly.
Tigue Dermod was standing in the middle of the floor,
as tall as a giant. The old man who had done the roaring
was standing at his side talking hoarsely and looking up
at him like a child asking his father to take him in his
arms.
‘Tomás and I never took our eyes off the giant. His neck
was as thick as a bull’s, God bless the man. They were
calling for gallons, one after another, till they were blind
drunk.
“Musha, your soul to the devil, Tigue, isn’t strength a
fine thing! Up Cooas! Up Cooas!”
At that moment a man from Ballymore leapt up to
him. “What the devil is that talk!” said he, catching the
old man by the hair.
Tigue leapt out to the man from Ballymore and raised
his fist above his head. “If I let down this sledge-hammer,
you will be as dead as a stack.”
Everyone laughed.
“If he strikes him,” said Tomás to me, “he will make a
dead stone of him.”
Soon songs began about the house and everyone raging-
red with drink, as is the habit at such times.
“I wonder, Tomás, where is your father and my brother
Shaun. Maybe they would be looking for us. We had bet-
ter go out and see if we can find them.”
We went out and in the course of our search we came
across a tall, lanky fellow on the strand with a stick stuck
in the sand and he shouting. We went down to him. He
came towards us with three rings in his hand.
“Three shots for a penny. Come on, my boys!”
“Try it,” said I to Tomás.
He went up and got the rings.
“Take it fine and easy,” I advised him when he was
standing on the mark. “If you get the three rings down
on the stick you will win threepence.”
He threw one and got it down on the stick.
“Musha, my heart for ever!” I cried. “Now the second
one! Take it easy.”
He let go another but did not get it down.
“The third now!”
He threw the third and got it down.
“You went very near it.”
The lanky fellow ran round gathering up the rings.
“All but!” he shouted. “Try again!”
Tomás took up the rings, stood on the mark, threw
one and got it down on the stick. “My heart for ever,
again!” I cried. He threw another and got it down. The
lanky fellow was watching with his eyes starting out of
his head.
“Easy now, Tomás! Keep your arm in the same position
it was before.”
He did not reply but let fly the third ring.
It went straight down on the stick.
I gave a shout of applause. But the lanky fellow was not
shouting any longer. Tomás leapt up to him. “My six-
pence, my boy!”
The lanky fellow gave a cry, pointing down the strand
to the west. “Oh, my God! there is something up.” He
went off at a run, and at first we thought something won-
derful had happened. But a man came up to us. “Listen,
my lads, nothing has happened, but that fellow wants an
excuse for not paying you.”
“I swear by the devil I will drag it out of his pocket,”
said I to Tomás.
“As sure as there’s a cross on the ass.”
We ran after him. He was a lean, worn-out fellow, his
two jaws jutting out through his skin and his legs bending
under him. ‘‘Arra, man, what is he but a skeleton!” said
Tomás.
We watched him till he had the stick standing again
on another part of the strand, and was shouting shrilly.
“Go up to him and ask for the sixpence.”
Tomás went over. “Are you going to give me my six-
pence?” said he, with a shake in his voice.
He took no notice of Tomás but went on with his
“Hello! Hello! Hello!”
“Are you going to give me my sixpence?” said Tomás
again, but, getting no attention, he ran up to the stick,
pulled it out of the sand and swept off the rings along
with it. At that the lanky fellow let out a yell. “Where
are you going with them, you rascal?”* he cried, seizing
him by the throat.
*In English.
‘Tomás’s blood was up now and I behind him cheering
him on in the name of his ancestors. That was enough.
Tomás struck him in the chest and sent him staggering,
his legs shaking beneath him. Then the lanky fellow
made for him again, but Tomás put his head down and
dived into him. He had a great grip of him now, push-
ing and pounding the way you would hear them a mile
away and I behind Tomás urging him to battle. He was
a stout, solid block of a lad and he was getting the upper
hand of the skinny fellow. People were gathering in ones
and twos around the warriors while I was growing hoarse
giving Tomás the prick of youth. There was now a big
crowd round us.
“What the devil is going on here?” said one man.
“Don’t you see the little boy,” replied another, “and
he too much for Cosey.” (That was the name of the
lanky lad.)
Then another man spoke who seemed to know Cosey
well. “The devil take you, Cosey, have you no shame
for that little babe of a boy to be getting the upper hand
and the whole barony looking on?”’
A tremble came into my blood. “Your soul to the devil,
Tomás, don’t spend the day with that scarecrow! Make
one effort and strike him down beneath you! Think of
all who are looking on! Play your strength on him! Bring,
the victory to the west, man!” I cried, my blood boiling.
I had hardly finished when the lanky lad went head
over heels, ‘Tomás on top of him, his knees on his belly
and his hand on his throat,
“Oh,” cried Cosey, “I am dead.”
“By God, you will be dead indeed if you don’t give up-
the sixpence,” cried Tomás.
“Ah, it is a great pity to see a man killed before your
eyes,” said one in the crowd, and he ran in to part them.
I went up to Cosey and told him to give up the six-
pence. Putting his hand in his pocket he gave it to me.
“All right, now,” said I, ‘‘you can keep it. We only wanted
to let you know that you can’t bluff boys from the west.”
Then turning to Tomás: “Come on,” said I, “maybe
we would get a flip from someone on account of this.”
We went up the strand. “Faith,” said Tomás, “a good
word does not break a tooth.”
“Do you know what I was thinking when I saw you
and the other fellow fighting, especially on Ventry
Strand? I was thinking of the duel between Dáire Donn
and the King of France long ago,t for Daire Donn was
a big, long fellow and the King of France a sturdy little
block of a man like yourself.”
“By God!” said Tomás, rubbing his hands with de-
light, “we were like enough to them.”
Before long we met Shaun, Maura, Eileen, and Tomás’s
father. They were making ready for the road.
“Musha, where were you since morning?” said Shaun.
“Faith, we spent the day strolling among the crowd.”
“Your soul to the devil,” said Tomás, giving me a
nudge, “Let us stay here tonight. We'll have grand sport.”
“Musha, my pity for your pate,” said his father, “isn’t
it youth that’s foolish!”
“Let us be moving west while we have the day,” said
Shaun.
“It is as well,” said Maurice Owen Vaun. “There is no
need to let the night overtake us.”
We started off on our road. The sun was sinking be-
hind Mount Eagle in the north and the evening fine
and warm; mirth and merriment, laughter and shouting
here and there after the day; every man merry with drink,
children with cheeks stained from ear to ear from eating
sweets, tricksters hoarse with shouting, racers exhausted
from all the sweat they had shed, tinkers at the roadside
sound asleep after two days’ walking to the races; here a
pair singing, there a pair fighting; groups of people in
the distance as far as the eye could see and they stagger-
1 The reference is to the Battle of Ventry, an old Irish legend.
ing from side to side; all of them making for home and
talking of nothing but Tigue Dermod and his crew, a
melodium at every cross-road making the hillsides echo
in the stillness of the evening; groups of boys and girls
dancing to the music and the boys shouting “Up Cooas!”
at the end of every tune.
“Musha, aren’t we unfortunate,” said Tomás, “that
we can’t stay among them and take a turn in the dance
because of the long road we have to travel, and, worst of
all, with three miles of sea to cross! Oh, isn’t it heart-
breaking entirely?” said he, looking pitifully into my
face.
“And maybe the sea rough,” said I.
“Oh, it is true for you, and if I live to grow a beard I
will bid farewell to the Island and build a house for my-
self out here.”
“Think of the poor old men over there who cannot
make merry as they made merry here today.”
“Musha, I don’t know in the world who was the poor
fool who went over there first,” said he with a laugh.
“Whoever he was, he hadn’t a spark of sense.”
We were approaching the top of the Clasach and were
unable to keep up with the others we were so weak.
“Faith, I am done for with the hunger,” said I.
“You took the word out of my mouth. I don’t know
what we will do.”
We could hardly put one foot before the other.
“What we will do is, the first house we meet, we will
go inside.”
We wandered on slowly until we saw a house far away
down in a lonely valley, a wisp of smoke rising from the
chimney, trees growing around and a steep hill above it.
Whatever hunger was on us before, the sight of the house
made us ten times worse.
“Let us go to it,” said Tomás.
“Ah, it’s too far. Maybe we can make our way to
Dunquin.”
We started off again, our knees bending under us with
fatigue. We dragged on, step after step, till we came to
Ballykeen. The house of Pádrig Eamonn was before us
at the side of the road.
“Come in here, Tomás. It is a good house, man.”
"I will do it if you say so,” said he, blushing.
The door was open. Tomás looked in through the
window. “Faith, there is no one inside, and I see a loaf
of bread on the table.”
“Is that so?” said I, going in and Tomás following me.
We looked up and down the house. There was no one
to be seen and nothing to be heard save the crickets
singing in the hearth. We looked at each other. “Since we
are here we had better stay our hunger with the loaf,”
said I.
I took it, struck it against the edge of the table and
halved it. I gave the other half to Tomás.
When we had eaten our fill, we set off again but we
were hardly outside the door when we were caught from
behind and dragged back to the middle of the floor. I
looked up to see Pádrig Eamonn with a grip of me and
his wife with a grip of Tomás.
“What devil or demon brought ye in here to take off
that loaf of bread?”
“Oh, hold your hand, strong man,” said I, for Pádrig
was a big giant of a man and he was looking vicious.
With those words he let me go and looked at me be
tween the eyes.
“We are from the Island,” said I, “and when it goes
hard with the hag she must run, and that is the way we
were with the loaf, for we did not taste a bite of food
since we left home at the chirp of the sparrow. So as we
came up the Clasach our guts were twisted together with
hunger and faintness.”
“Oh, God help ye,” said Pádrig, looking pitifully at
us now. “Go out, Kate, and bring in a tin of milk. That
is the best for them. I thought at first ye were lads from
this parish.”
Kate went out with a can in her hand.
Tomás and I were seated on two chairs still biting
lumps out of the loaf. Pádrig was talking to us, but I tell
you it was little desire we had for talk. “Take it easy,”
said he, “till you get the milk.”
Kate came back and handed me a big saucepan and
another to Tomás. Pádrig was questioning us about the
races, but it was little heed we gave him with our greed
for the food and drink. When we had the loaf finished
we would have liked another, but we had already taken
too much and so who would have had courage to ask
for more. I tried to ask for another but something spoke
inside my heart, saying: “Don’t ask. Don’t disgrace your-
self. Aren’t the people of the house amazed at ye enough
without asking for more?”
“I suppose,’ said Pádrig, “ye won’t go over tonight.”
“Upon my word, we will.”
“And where are the rest of the Islanders?” said he,
stirring in his chair.
“They were down the hill before us.”
“Faith, I am thinking it is they we saw down the road
to the cliff an hour ago,” said Pádrig, looking at his
wife.
“There was no one else to be there,” said she.
“On my word, if so they will be gone over before you.”
“Maybe you are right,” said I, getting up. “Good-bye
now and a thousand thanks for your generosity.”
“The blessing of God be with ye,” said the two
together.
Away we went down the roads, leaping now as light
as goats, we were so fresh after the meal. The sun had
gone down in the west after bidding farewell to the big
world, sheep-shearings in the sky overhead, the old men
of the parish stretched out on the top of the cliff giving
their breasts to the fragrant sea air and talking together
after the day, a heat-haze here and there in the bosom
of the hills moving slowly among the valleys, a colt
whinnying now and then and asses braying.
As we reached the top of the cliff we met Shamus Beg.
“God save you, Shamus,” said I.
“God and Mary save ye, my treasures,” said Shamus
Beg softly. “Where were ye since morning?”
“At the races, Shamus. Did you see any man from the
Island going this way?”
“Musha, my treasures, ye had better step out or they
will be gone over before you.”
We hurried on, but only to see the curragh out past
the Cock. I whistled through my hand. Tomás shouted.
“The devil a turn will they make,” said he.
I gave another whistle. They stopped and turned back.
“Your soul to the devil, I thought we would be out
tonight,” cried Tomás with a leap into the air.
“Well, if we were itself, it is not a stranded stone we
would be. Think of what you said yourself this morning:
‘Isn’t Ireland wide and spacious?’ ”
We went down to the slip. “What the devil was keep-
ing you?” shouted Maurice Owen Vaun.
“We went for food, and we needed it,” said I.
“What house?”
“Pádrig Eamonn.”
“A good house,” said my brother Shaun. “You did
well.”
We sat behind in the stern. The sea was very still, a
little sickle of a moon over in the south-west and the
lights of the Island plain to see.
“The devil, Maurice, strike up a song for us,” said I,
for he was pretty merry at that time.
He gave us “Eamonn Magaine” fine and slowly. We
were now in as far as Mid-Bay. Maurice’s voice was grow-
ing stronger. “My love for your voice, Maurice,” said
Shaun now and then, and when he would hear the praise
he would surpass himself.
As soon as the song was finished he began ‘“‘Skellig’s
Bay” without any inducement, and there was no stopping
him now till we reached the quay. He was taking an echo
out of the coves, and when the dogs on the Island heard
his voice they raised their own. You would swear by the
book, in the strangeness of the night with forty dogs or
more raising an olagón, that living and dead were
gathered on the shore. And when the people heard the
clamour, not a man, woman, or child but came out from
their houses. We burst into laughter to see them. They
crowded down to the quay. We moved into the pool,
Maurice shouting “Up Cooas! Tigue Dermod for ever!”
The curragh was backed in. Soon she was being
dragged up the slip, everyone lending a hand and shout-
ing “Ho-lee-ho-hup! Ho-lee-ho-hup!”
Now Tomás and I were standing at the top of the slip.
We were full of pride and conceit, and why not—home
from the races like any man.
When we went into the house—my brother Shaun,
Maura, Eileen, and myself—my father and my grand-
father were at the fireside before us and they proud, as
is the wont of parents, to see their children returning to
them full of bright laughter.
“Well, Maurice, I suppose you had a great day?”
“Musha, I never had the like of it before,”
“I believe you, my heart, for you ate nothing leaving
the house. Did you see the Srool?”
“What is the Srool?”
“Is that the way with you after your fine long day on
the Strand of Ventry?” said my grandfather with a laugh.
“I never heard mention of the Srool, so it was hard
for me to notice it.”
“It is a stream of water which runs down the strand
and the whole world can see it bursting up and down
again, up and down, up and down without ceasing.”
“I wonder why it does be bursting up and down in that
way continually.”
“Did you never hear tell of the duel between Oscar
and the foreign warrior on that strand during the Battle
of Ventry? Whenever Oscar threw the foreigner the water
would burst up through the sand; when he got up again
the water would sink back; and it has remained so ever
since.”
“I don’t know at all. It is hard to believe it.”
“No doubt it is hard to believe, but we have to believe
many things we never saw.”
“Ah, but there are things and things.”
“Och, you with your ‘things and things’! Wasn’t it
the same way with us the first time we heard that the
Germans had made a ship to fly in the sky. I tell you it is
many times the man who wrote that nonsense story in
the paper was called a fool.”
“It is true for you.”
“Well, no more of that, but tell me, did you see any-
thing to interest you?”
“Musha, I didn’t, but the number of people that was
there—you would say there were not as many in the whole
world.”
“Ah, God pity you, aren’t there twice as many people
in the city of London as there are in the whole of
Ireland?”
Before long I was dozing in the chair, no longer heed-
ing what my grandfather was saying. I began to dream
that I was fighting Tomás and that he thrust a spike into
my ear. I leapt up from the chair. It was my grandfather.
He was tickling my ear with a wisp of straw, and burst
out laughing when he saw the leap I gave.
“Ah, musha,” said he, “you are beaten by the sleep at
last. Leave the chair and go to bed.”
My grandfather and I were lying on the Castle Summit.
It was a fine sunny day in July. The sun was splitting the
stones with its heat and the grass burnt to the roots. I
could see, far away to the south, Iveragh painted in
many colours by the sun. South-west were the Skelligs
glistening white and the sea around them dotted with
fishing-boats from England.
“Isn’t it a fine healthy life those fishermen have,
daddo?” said I.
I got no answer. Turning round I saw that the old
man was asleep. I looked at him, thinking. You were
one day in the flower of youth, said I in my own mind,
but, my sorrow, the skin of your brow is wrinkled now
and the hair on your head is grey. You are without
suppleness in your limbs and without pleasure in the
grand view to be seen from this hill. But, alas, if I live,
some day I will be as you are now.
The heat was very great, and so I thought of waking
him for fear the sun would kill him. I caught him by his
grey beard and gave it a pull. He opened his eyes and
looked round.
“Oh, Mirrisheen *,” said he, “I fell asleep. Am I long
in it?”
* Little Maurice.
“Not long,” said I, “but I thought I had better wake
you on account of the sun. Do you see those trawlers out
on the horizon? I was just saying that it’s a fine healthy
life they have.”
“Musha, my heart,” said my grandfather, “a man of
the sea never had a good life and never will, as I know
well, having spent my days on it, and I have gone through
as many perils on it as there are grey hairs in my head,
and I am telling you now, wherever God may guide you,
keep away from the sea.”
“Musha, it seems to me there is no man on earth so
contented as a seaman.”
I looked south-east to the Macgillicuddy Reeks. They
looked as if they were touching the sky.
“Musha, aren’t those high mountains?”
“They are indeed, if you were down at their foot.”
At that moment a big bee came around murmuring to
itself. My grandfather started to drive it away with his
hat. “There is no place under the sun is finer than that,”
said he, stretching his finger south towards the harbour
of Iveragh. “When you would be entering that harbour
you would have the Isle of Oaks on your right hand and
Beg-Inish out before your face.”
"I dare say the water is very still there.”
“A dead calm. The creek runs three miles up through
the land to Cahirciveen. And do you see, on the east of
the creek, there is another harbour? That is Cooan Una.
And east again is Cooas Cromha, and east again the
place they call the Rodana.”
“It seems you know those places well, daddo.”
“Ah, my sorrow, it is many a day I spent in them.”
He put his hand in his pocket and drew out his pipe.
When he had it lighted, he got up. “Come now and I
will take you into Pierce Ferriter’s Cave.”*
*Pierce Ferriter, lyric poet, leader of the Kerrymen in the Rising
of 1641, when he was captured and hanged at Killarney.
We moved down through the Furrows of the Garden,
up to our ears in fern and dry heather.
“Look now,” said he, pointing down, “do you see that
ledge of rock? That’s the Cave.”
“Isn't it a great wonder he went down so far?”
“Sure that’s the place he wanted, my boy, where he
could cut down the soldiers of England.”
“How?”
“Don’t you see the ledge? The entrance is under the
overhanging cliff. He used to be inside with a big stick.
Then the first soldier who would come down to the
mouth of the cave, Pierce would just give him a thrust
with the stick and send him over the cliff.”
“Wasn’t he a wonderful man?”
“Oh, he did great destruction on the English at that
time.”
We were down at the Cave now. My grandfather crept
in on all-fours and I behind him, for the entrance was
not more than two feet high. Once inside, there was
room to stand up for it was above seven feet. I looked
around. “Musha, isn’t it a comfortable place he had, but
I dare say he used never to leave it.”
“Indeed he did, whenever the soldiers left the Island.”
“And how would he know that?”
“The people here used to be coming to attend upon
him whenever they got the chance. Look at that stone.
That's where he used to lay his head.”
“It was a hard pillow.”
“No doubt. Did you ever hear the verse he composed
here when he was tired of the place, on a wild and stormy
night? It is only a couple of words.”
He sat down on the stone and, taking off his hat, he
recited:
“O God above, dost Thou pity the way I am,
Living alone where it is little I see of the day;
The drop above in the top of the stone on high
Falling in my ears and the roar of the sea at my heels.”
As he spoke the last words, the tears fell from the old
man.
“Musha, daddo, isn’t it a nice lonesome verse? And
another thing, it is many the fine learned man the Eng-
lish laid low at that time.”
“Ah, Mary, it is true. I tell you, Maurice, Pierce suf-
fered here if ever a man did. Have you the verse now?”
said he.
“I think I have, for it went to my heart.” And I re-
peated it to him.
“You have every word of it.”
“Isn’t it wonderful the way you would keep in your
head anything you would take an interest in?”
“That is very true, for when I was young like yourself
there is not a word I would hear my father saying, dear
God bless his soul, but it would stay in my memory. It
is time for us to be making for the house now in the
name of God.”
I looked up at the cliff and then down where the waves
were breaking angrily. “There’s no doubt, daddo,” said
I, “but he had the roar of the waves at his heels.”
The sun was fading in the west, yellow as gold, the
birds singing in the heather, hundreds of rabbits out on
the clumps of thrift, some of them, when they saw us,
running off with their white tails cocked in the air, others
with their ears up looking hard at us.
“Wait now, till you see them scatter in a moment,”
said my grandfather, picking up a stone. He threw it,
but they did not stir. “Upon my word but they are bold,”
said he and gave a shout, and it seemed five voices an-
swered him with the echo in the coves below. Then I
saw the rabbits running, tails up and ears back, and in a
moment there was not one to be seen save an old one as
grey as a badger.
“Isn’t it strange the grey one didn’t stir?”
“Ah, my boy, that’s an old soldier at the end of his life
and he is well used to that shouting.”
“I wonder what length of life is appointed for them?”
“Only three years, and I assure you they work those
three years for a livelihood as hard as any sinner. But
here we are home again,” said he as we came in sight of
the village.
“You are very good at shortening the road.”
“Upon my word, Mirrisheen, I would be better still if
Iwere seated up on a horse-cart for it is hard for an old
man to be talking and walking together.”
I saw three or four men with their oilskins coming down
the path to the quay.
“By my soul, Tomás, they are going mackerel-fishing
tonight.”
“So they are. As soon as I have finished my dinner, I
will call for you. We will have great sport in the curraghs
while they are boarding the nets.”
“We will. Make haste now and don’t be long.”
My father was at home before me and his nets ready
for the night. I began swallowing down my dinner in
haste.
“What's the great hurry you are in, foolish boy?” said
my grandfather.
“Tomás Owen Vaun and I are going down to the
quay.”
“Musha, my pity for your head, it would be better you
would eat your food properly.”
“I should think they will get plenty of fish tonight?”
“It would be no wonder if they did with all the gan-
nets were about today,” said my grandfather, thrusting
his pipe into the ashes. “There was never such a day for
them. They were right up to the mouth of the quay!”
Tomás came in chewing a chunk of bread. “Hurry,”
says he.
“Musha, crow, don’t choke yourself,” said my grand-
father with a laugh.
I got up from the table and we hurried down to the
quay.
I went into my father’s curragh and Tomás into his.
I was very happy, looking down into the sea and listen-
ing to the glug-glag of the water against the boat. After
a while I put out an oar and I was dipping it gently
when somehow I gave it a pull. The Curragh gave a leap
and her bow struck a rock, the way the two men who
were standing on the thwarts, boarding the nets, were
thrown down. “Your soul to the devil, what have you
done?” cried Shaun Tomás who was near me. He caught
me by the head and heels as if to throw me overboard.
When I saw the sea below me I screamed, thinking he
was in earnest, but he drew me in again quickly. After
that I stayed as quiet as a cat and my heart beating like
a bird you would have in your hand.
Some of the curraghs were leaving now, moving out
west through the mouth of the Strand. When my father
was ready they put me out of the curragh and she moved
away. I walked up to the top of the slip. There I met
Tomás.
“Do you know where we will go now?” said he. “Back
to the top of the Strand and we will have a great view
of the curraghs fishing.”
There was not an old woman in the village but was
already there, sitting on her haunches looking out at the
curraghs. The evening was very still. It was a fine sight
to look out towards the shore of Yellow Island at the
shoals of mackerel and the curraghs running round on
them like big black flies.
‘There was no understanding the old women now who
were foaming at the mouth with their roaring.
“Your soul to the devil,” cried one to her husband,
“throw the head of your net behind them!”
“Musha, you’re my love for ever, Dermod!” cried an-
other when she saw her husband making a fine haul of
fish.
One woman, Kate O’Shea, her hair streaming in the
wind like a madwoman’s, was screaming: “The devil
take you, Tigue, draw in your nets and go west to the
south of the Sound where you will get fish for the souls
of the dead. Och, my pity to be married to you, you
good-for-nothing!”
“May the yellow devil fly away with you, you have the
place destroyed with your noise!” shouted one of the
fishermen when he heard the screams ashore.
As for Tomás and me, our hearts were black with
laughing at the old women. Their shawls thrown off,
waving their arms at their husbands, they called to them
to come here and to come there around the fish, until
the fish themselves seemed to be distracted by them.
The sea was now like a pane of glass. You could hear
the mackerel splashing in the nets and others out of their
senses rushing across the top of the water in an effort to
escape, for the day was strong yet and they could see the
nets.
Before long Shaun Fada came down from the village,
and with him Shaun Michael and the Púncán* ‘They
stood in the middle of the crowd watching the
women.
“Achvan, achvan,? aren’t they the mad crowd?’’ says
Shaun Michael.
“They are, musha, so,” agrees the Púncán, throwing
out a big spittle of tobacco.
“By the devil’s body, is it going out of your wits you
are?” cries Shaun Fada to the women.
1 Nickname of old man in the Island.
* Old phrase said to mean “By the white steed.”
“Arra, your soul to the devil, my lad, what ails you?”
says old Mickil, stretched out on the grass.
“What ails me is a pain in my head listening to those
seal-cows of women.”
“Och, the devil himself couldn’t get right from some
of them!”
The women were growing hoarse now, especially Kate
O'Shea.
“Kate is giving out,” says Shaun Michael.
“The devil a wonder, short of her having a throat of
iron,” says Shaun Fada.
“Faith,” says old Mickil, rising up on his elbow, “I
am here for half an hour now and you wouldn’t find a
bull-seal to bellow the like of her ever since.”
“Look,” says Tomás to me, “your father is drawing in
his net again.”
The din stopped. Not a word from anyone. You would
think a hand had been laid on every mouth, everyone
watching my father drawing the nets. He caught hold
of one end of them.
“Musha,” said Shaun Michael, “I think the net is
straight down with fish.”
At that my heart rose with delight. My father drew in
the end of the net. ‘There was a mackerel in every mesh.
“Upon my soul, I doubt he won't land all he has,”
said Shaun Fada.
“No matter for him,” said the Púcán, throwing an-
other spittle of tobacco, and a big yellow streak down
his chin from chewing it.
“The devil, my lad, he will have to cut the net,” said
old Mickil.
“What's that you are saying?” said the Púcán.
“What I am after saying, devil.”
“Och, whist so, whist so,”
“Arra, devil take you, man, what do you know about
fish?”
“I killed as many as you ever did,” retorted the Púcán,
spitting again.
“Musha, it is the few you ever killed, old crow!”
My father’s curragh was now hardly an inch out of
the water. He drew out his knife.
“Look now, he will have to cut them,” said Shaun
Fada.
“Look indeed, achvan,” said the Púncán.
It was then there was commotion among the curraghs
when they saw my father cutting his net. They began
rushing up to get the cut piece, for the man who would
get it would get the fish for himself so long as he brought
the piece safe to the quay.
When Kate O’Shea saw the confusion out to sea, she
let out a great shout. “Musha, your soul to the devil,
Shaun, keep it for Tigue!” she cried to my father.
Knowing that Tigue had not much in the world, my
father shouted back to her to go and call him. She leapt
up and darted out on to a spur of rock, calling her
husband who was back at the mouth of the Narrow
Sound. Everyone thought she would drown herself.
“My heart from the devil,” said old Mickil, “what
haste there is on the woman in the west.”
“Achván, she is as bad as a wild sheep,’
Michael.
“It’s all right so long as she does not drown herself,
God between us and all harm,” said Shaun Fada.
“Amen,” said the Púcán, not forgetting to spit.
When Tigue heard her he turned back. “What ails
you?” he cried.
“Hurry on, in the devil’s name; Shaun Leesh has his
nets cut and is keeping the piece for you.”
said Shaun
Without another word Tigue rowed hard to the east
and my father gave him the piece he had cut from the
net. Tigue drew it in and soon his curragh was as low
in the water as my father’s.
“That fellow has had an easy night of it,” said Shaun
Fada.
“I will go east to the quay before my father, Tomás,”
said I, getting up.
“Very well, I will wait here for mine,” said he.
I went off at a run and was not long making my way.
First I called at the house. My grandfather was smoking
at the fire.
“Where were you since?” said he.
“I was back at the top of the Strand, and my father is
coming in now, and his boat is full.”
“Musha, God bless the news-teller.”
“Come out till you see,” said I, running out, my grand-
father following me.
“Indeed you are right. Wait now till I put on the kettle
and we will go down before them.”
When we reached the slip the curragh was on the pool
and down to the gunwale with fish.
“What are you going to do?’ shouted my grand-
father.
“I don’t know. What had we better do?” shouted back
my father.
“Back her in a while, anyway.”
My father backed her in alongside the slip.
“Now,” said Shaun Tomás, standing up in her, “you
have good knowledge, Owen, and your teeth worn out
on the sea. What do you advise?”
My grandfather looked up at the sky.
“In the first place,” he said at last, “the night is very
fine, and in the second place it is settled, and since you
have the night for it, the best thing you can do is to
make with her for the town in the east.”
“I would not refuse,” said Shaun Tomás.
“We had better start out so, in the name of God,” said
my father.
“You have time enough yet to go up and take a sup
of tea,” said my grandfather. “I will paddle the curragh
till you return.”
They went up, while my grandfather and I went
aboard the boat. The fish were piled high in her, sleek
and clean. Thousands of little sparkling eyes were danc-
ing in the water.
“What would you call those sparkling eyes, daddo?”
“Sparkle fire or phosphorescence. Take in your head
or you will be falling out.”
Before long my father and the other two were on the
top of the slip.
“Upon my word, Owen, you would stand a night back
at Carrig Valach yet,” said Shaun Tomás, drawing on
his oilskin trousers.
“I would, by my soul, as well as any man.”
Shaun took hold of the stern of the boat and lifted me
out. My grandfather stepped out after me.
“Won't you take the sail? You might get a wind part
of the way.”
“You are right,” said my father, going up for it.
“Safe and sound with ye now,” said my grandfather
as they moved out through the creek.
We went home. Maura and Eileen were before us with
a fine red fire.
“On my oath, there is a sweat on me after that walk
from the quay,” said my grandfather.
“I dare say a man grows weak when he reaches your
age, daddo?”
“Oh, musha, he does, my heart. Did you never hear
how the life of man is divided? Twenty years a-growing,
twenty years in blossom, twenty years a-stooping, and
twenty years declining. Look now, I have sayings you
have never heard,”
“And in which twenty are you now?”
“In the last twenty, and it is to God I am thankful for
His gifts. Well, it is time for bed. Let us go down on our
knees and say the Rosary.”
When the long cold nights came the boys and girls spent
them in our house. How happy we were waiting for
Hallowe’en, and playing the old Gaelic games—the Ring,
the Blind Man, Knucklestones, Trom-Trom and Hide-
and-Seek; a fine red fire sending warmth into every
corner, bright silver sand from the White Strand on the
floor glittering in the lamplight, two boys and two girls
going partners at a game of knucklestones in one corner
of the house, four more in another corner.
It was Hallowe’en, and most of the boys were in Dingle.
We were expecting a great night of it, when they would
come home with the apples, oranges, and sweets. Maura
and Eileen had the hearth swept and scrubbed, a glowing
fire was burning, the lamp alight, and we waiting.
“Aren't they a long time coming?” said Eileen, with a
glance at the fire and then at the door.
“They won’t be long now,” said Maura, and soon we
heard the chatter and laughter approaching.
The door opened and the clamour and hubbub poured
into the house. You would think they had been in prison
for many a long day and had only just been let out.
The games began. A cord was tied to the rafters and
a big red apple tied to the cord. One goes down to the
door and takes a running leap up towards the apple. He
misses it. Then another. The third succeeds in getting
a bite. So they go on till the apples are all eaten, Then
another game begins. There is a big bowl of water at
the fireside and they are roasting beans. Every boy and
girl who are great with each other get two beans, a little
one for the woman and a big one for the man. They put
the two beans in the fire. As soon as they are roasted
they draw out the beans and throw them into the bowl
of water. If they sink it is a sign that those two have great
love for each other, and I tell you they are the two who
would sleep happily that night.
Tomás Owen Vaun and I were amongst them, but we
were too small to try for the apples. But when one of the
boys would get one in the leap, he would give it to us,
the way we had our bellies full all night long.
When the apples and sweets and everything else were
eaten, Pádrig Peg stood up. “I am going to make a short
speech,” said he, “and I hope all will agree with what I
have to say.”
Everyone claps hands.
“Now,” said he, “this is Hallowe’en, and it is not
known who will be living when it comes again, so I am
going to set going another plan to make a night till
morning of it. We will all go in twos and threes with
lanterns through the Island hunting thrushes, and when
we have made our round let everyone come back here.
See you have a good fire down for us, Maura, and there
is no fear but we'll have a roast for the night.”
“Very good,” said one. ‘A great thought,” said an-
other. Everyone agreed.
They began to look for bottles to knock the bottom
out of them, for there is no lantern so handy as such a
bottle with a candle stuck into the neck. Everyone was
ready to go, all except our Maura and Maura O'Shea,
who were to stay in the house baking bread and cakes.
“You will come with me,” said Pádrig Peg to Tomás
and me, “and I promise you we will have the biggest
booty, though we won’t go far from home.”
Off we went, the three of us with our lanterns, west to
the Strand. It was a frosty night, the stars twinkling, the
Milky Way stretched across the sky to the south and the
Plough to the north, a light easterly breeze coming
straight from Slea Head, giog-giog-giog from peewits in
the glen, a light here and a light there on the hillside
from the others, and we on our way west to the Big Glen,
for many thrushes do be sleeping in the bushes there.
“Hush now, don’t make a sound,’ said Pádrig Peg,
“for the birds will fly out if they hear us talking.”
We moved on quietly, Pádrig in front on his haunches
up through the glen. ‘There is one here asleep,” said
he, catching it and killing it. “Quiet now again!” said
he, passing on and we following him.
We soon got another and another till we had seven
altogether.
“I wonder,” said Pádrig, sitting down and lighting his
pipe, “where we had better turn our faces now?”
“What about the Sandhills?” said I.
“Maybe there is not a better place,” said he getting
up, and off with us again.
“Whist,” said Pádrig, “for fear you would wake them.”
He had hardly spoken when we heard giog-giog-giog.
“What is that, Pádrig?’” I whispered. “It’s a peewit
blinded with the light.” We began to search and be-
fore long Pádrig found it lying between two clumps of
thrift.
“We are doing well,” said he, taking out his pipe again.
“Arra, man, we will soon have an ass’s load if we go
on like this,” said Tomás.
When Pádrig had had enough of his pipe he handed it
to us and we smoked away like any old man. Then we
turned our faces west to the Spit of Seal Cove, and got
four more in the cracks of the rocks.
“I know a place where we would get twenty, if we went
there.”
“Your soul to the devil, let us go, Pádrig.”
“But it’s a very dangerous place,” said he, looking into
the lantern as if he was thinking deeply.
“Where is it?”
“Down in Seal Cove,” said he with a bit of a laugh.
“Were you ever there?”
“Oh, it is often I was,” said I,
“And I, too.”
“We will try it so,” said Pádrig.
The cove looked mysterious in the dead of night. You
would think the living and the dead were below with
the roar of the waves breaking in among the rocks and
the hiss of the foam through the cracks of the stones.
Then the wave would sweep back again and you would
think it was hurling the rocks, weighing hundreds of
tons, against each other. Then another wave broke in,
so high that it covered the mouth of the cove, and you
would say it was afire with the phosphorescence that was
running through the water. It plunged against the rocks
and sent spurts of foam into the sky,
“Oh, Pádrig,” said I, “isn’t there an eerie look on it?”
“Not at all, man, once you would be down there. Have
no fear. Catch hold of the tail of my coat and let Tomás
catch the tail of yours.”
He went down slowly over the edge, I with a drowning
man’s grip of his coat and Tomás with the same grip on
mine, not a word from any of us save now and again
when Pádrig would say: “Take it fine and easy. Don’t
be afraid,”
We were just at the end of the descent when another
big wave broke in, and it looked seven times worse there
below. It swept in, sending flashes of light into the air.
It swept against the rocks and I was sure the whole cove
had fallen in with the terrible roar.
“Have no fear,” said Pádrig again, “and don’t speak a
word now till we go across to that patch of soil beyond,
for there is a big crevice there where they sleep every
night.”
We went across to the crevice, my head aching with the
roar of the waves. Pádrig thrust his hand in and drew
out a thrush. He thrust it in again and drew out another.
We got fifteen in all.
The trouble now was to get up again. We crossed to
the foot of the cliff and I caught Pádrig by his coat-tail
again, Tomás catching me by mine. Up we climbed from
ledge to ledge till we reached the top.
“Were ye afraid at all?” said Pádrig.
“The devil a bit,” said Tomás.
“Do you know, Pádrig, what was troubling me? The
mystery of the place. When I heard the terrible roar of
the waves, it seemed as if the sea would come in to where
we were standing.” —
“I felt the same,” said he, “for it is a very lonesome
spot and it’s often my father told me that people had
been heard speaking below in it.”
“Oh whist, Pádrig,” said Tomás, “don’t be frighten-
ing us.”
“It is time to be making for the house, for I dare say
the others are come before us. How many have we now?”
said Pádrig, getting up and turning towards us.
“Twenty-eight and the peewit.”
“Och, the devil, we have roast for the night, so.”
We made no stop or stay till we reached the house.
As soon as we went in, “How many have you?” they all
cried with one voice.
“Who of yourselves has the most?’ said I.
"I have twenty,” said Tomás-a-Puncdn.
“Faith,” said Pádrig, “we have twenty-eight.”
With that there was a great outburst, everyone clap-
ping us.
They were all thrown out on the table, and when
everyone had added his share there were a hundred. “Let
all begin plucking now,” said Shamus O’Donlevy. We
began plucking the feathers, all except my sisters Maura
and Eileen, Kate O'Shea, and Kate Peg, who were busy
roasting and washing plates. The house was a pleasant
sight now, everyone full of bright laughter, Shaun
O'Crihin seated by the fire playing his melodium, four
out on the floor dancing a reel, others cooking, others
eating; and as soon as each four would finish their meal
another four would take their places at the table until
all were satisfied.
Michael Baun*! was sitting shyly at the head of the
table. All the night he had been looking at pretty Kate
O'Shea. At that moment four boys arose to dance a set.
They called four girls and Kate was one of them. I had
a cat’s eye on Michael, and Kate couldn’t make a step
to right or to left unknown to him. When the set was
over, she sat down on the knees of Tomás-a-Púncán.
Michael's eyes flashed. He gave three or four long sighs,
stretched himself twice, and gave a yawn like one wak-
ing from sleep. Musha, upon my soul, said I in my own
mind, the shafts of Cupid have pierced you, my boy.
* Fair Michael.
After a while Kate put her arm round Tomás’s neck. I
was watching Michael. When he saw her he scratched his
head and ground his teeth. Letting on nothing, I walked
across to him and sat down on his knee.
“Michael,” said I, ‘‘isn’t it shy you are?”
“Faith, Maurice, there’s no need for a person to leave
his chair, when, if he did, he wouldn't get it again.”
“Listen, Michael, did you ever hear what Pierce
Ferriter said one night when many people were gathered
together, among them the girl who had won his heart,
and he saw her sitting on the knees of another man?”
He looked at me sharply. “What did he say?”
“This,” said I:
“She I loved most beneath the sun,
Although she had no love for me,
Seated on the knees of her own man,
It was a bitter sight and I within.”
He gave such a sigh I felt myself going up into the air
with the lifting power of it.
“Oh, Maurice, where did you hear that verse?”
“From my grandfather. Do you like it?”
“I like it well, for I know the way Pierce felt at that
moment.”
“Anyone would think the same disease was on your-
self.”
He bent his head, then raising it he looked across at
Kate.
“That disease is on me, Maurice,” said he sadly.
“The devil, Michael, tell me who she is and maybe I
would coax her to you. Is the girl in here now?”
“She is.”
“Wait now and see if I can make her out,” said I look-
ing around. “Kate Peg?”
“Not she.”
“Kate O'Shea?”
He looked down.
“Ah, Michael, I see it is she. Does she know you want
her?” I whispered.
“She does not.”
“Your soul to the devil, why wouldn’t you tell her?”
Eileen came over to us. “Now, Michael,” said she,
“turn in to the table, yourself and Maurice.”
‘There were two plates of roast thrushes before us.
Kate O'Shea had not come to the table yet. I went over
to her. “Kate,” said I, “come across with me now. Sit
there next to Michael.”
He looked at Kate and tried to speak to her, but his
courage failed him. He tried again but could not.
“Well, Michael,” said she, “have you any news?”
Before she had finished her question he had answered
her. He looked at me, his face lit up, his lips trembling.
One fine October morning Michael Peg and I were in
the house of Pádrig O’Dála talking and conversing of the
affairs of the world. After a while we wandered out into
the yard. There was a light breeze from the east, rooks
in plenty flying overhead and a fine settled look on the
day.
“I wonder would you care to go west with me to the
Inish?” said Pádrig.
“Your soul to the devil, come!” said I with delight.
“Musha,” said he, looking out to the south-east. “I
have some fine new pots in the sea still and if I had them
ashore they would serve me another year.”
“Faith, it’s not better for us to be in,” said Michael,
“Get ready so,” said Pádrig, and Michael and I went
to get provisions for the journey.
I snatched a chunk of bread and hurried back.
Michael was coming down the path, his cap on one side
of his head, a pipe in his mouth and the smoke going up
into the air, his shoulders stooping and the stones ringing
from the nails on his boots.
“By God,” said he as he came down, “it will make a
great day.”
The curragh was afloat, each of us with his dog who
knew well he was going hunting. As soon as the boat
touched the water they leapt in, wagging their tails, their
tongues out and barking to each other like any three
men who would be talking together. We put our gear
aboard and moved out along the coast of the Island to
the west.
As we were making Hill Head we got a nice breeze of
wind from the east. When we were far enough out we
drew up the sail, and out she moved swiftly. We were
very comfortable, plenty of tobacco from Pádrig,
stretched out at our ease and Michael telling us the story
of Robinson Crusoe. We listened intently, and so we
were shortening the journey little by little.
“I suppose we are not half-way yet, Pádrig,” said I.
“It’s not far now, as soon as the Teeracht is visible be-
yond Black Head. Go on, Michael.”
The Teeracht came into sight. We had a beautiful
view as we crossed the Great Sound. I could see the little
white buildings up in the Teeracht and the shining white
road built through the black rocks from the sea all the
way to the lighthouse. To the south were the two Skelligs
bathed in sunshine, the sea full of all kinds of sea-birds,
the waves murmuring around us, Inish-vick-ilaun and
Inish-na-Bró growing bigger and bigger as we approached
them, a group of sheep here and there on the top of
Inish-na-Bró and others down in the steep, dizzy cliffs.
How fearless they are, I thought, missing a good deal of
the life of Robinson Crusoe on account of the beauty of
the place and the depth of my thoughts.
Before long we saw the house on the Inish, its felt roof
glittering in the sunlight and fine green fields around it.
Farther to the west I saw a flock of goats and I thought
of Robinson and of the goats he came across on an island
just like this. Hundreds and thousands of birds were
around, some of them flying through the air, others float-
ing on the water, others settled on the rocks. I did not
know what Michael was saying with all the thoughts that
were running through my mind.
We were alongside the island now and I got the sweet
smell of the fern, which grew to the height of a man. I
was longing to go ashore. Pádrig lifted his cap and looked
around thinking. “The first thing we had better do is to
get the pots, for it is low tide now and we won't be long
getting them if they are to be found at all. Then we can
spend the day as we please!”
We rowed south to the bottom of the Carhach.
“Take it easy now,” said Pádrig, “there’s a pot here.”
I turned the curragh round on the pot, and he drew
it up.
“Where does the next pot lie, Pádrig?”
“We will go south to the Moon Cave. There should
be another there.”
We rowed on to the south till Pádrig told us to stop.
I looked in and saw a pot between me and the cave. We
backed in. Pádrig got hold of the cork and began to draw.
“Why is that cave called the Moon Cave, Pádrig?”
"I will tell you. Do you see the way its mouth is turned
south-east? Well, there isn’t another cave in the island
that faces in that direction, and when the moon does be
rising over Iveragh she throws a fine light straight into
its mouth.”
We went on from one pot to another till at last we
had five of them and I learned the name of each place
from Pádrig. We went west to Merchants’ Gully, across.
the mouth of Bird Cove, all around the Thunder Rock,
till we reached Gulls’ Point. There we found another pot.
Pádrig was drawing it in, in a leisurely way, while he told
us of the time when he was a child growing up in the
Inish. Suddenly he stopped talking and looked up at a
big high rock broken off from the island and about forty
feet above the sea. I looked at him and could see that
something was astonishing him.
“What do you see above?”
“I swear by the devil I see the queerest thing I ever
saw.” He was peering intently.
“What is it?” said Michael.
“Don’t you see the man seated above with a hard hat
on him looking out to the Skellig?”
I looked up. There he was, clearly visible, his knees
crossed. Nobody spoke. Who could it be? There was no
one living in the Inish, and even if there were, how could
he get out on that rock?
“Faith, Pádrig, he is there without a doubt and, if so,
he is not of this world.”
Michael looked at me and turned pale. I felt a shiver
in my blood and a cold sweat came out on me. Then I
thought I saw a mischievous look on Pádrig. I began to
think. At last I remembered my grandfather telling me
once of a certain rock to be seen in the Inish which was
called Micky the Pillar. It looked from the sea for all
the world like a man in a hard hat. “Your soul to the
devil, isn’t that Micky the Pillar?”
Pádrig laughed. “Upon my word, it gave the two of
you a good fright.”
“Indeed,” said Michael, “it is no laughing matter. I
was terrified when I saw it.”
“You are not the first,” said Pádrig, sitting on the
thwart. “But this won’t do, my boys,” he said, putting out
an oar. “We are letting the day pass and doing nothing.
We will go west through the Sound of Mantle Island and
then make for the Strand.”
Suddenly Pádrig stopped rowing and stood up. “I
swear by the devil those are tame geese in on the rocks,”
said he pointing in-shore. “What would bring tame geese
here?” said Michael. ‘On my oath, a storm would,” said I.
He took in his oars and remained standing in the
curragh till we were close upon them. “Easy now,” said
he, “for fear they would fly.”
We counted nine of them. We backed her in, and
Pádrig had hardly stepped out of the boat when every
one of them leapt into the air and flew out into the bay
between us and the Skellig. We kept our eyes on them
until they settled on the water.
“Back her, back her,” shouted Pádrig. “Get outside
them and we shall round them in before us.”
It was not long before we had rounded them in, ever
and ever, until they swam into Yellow Beach and climbed
up on to the rocks. Pádrig leapt out after them but they
all flew off again except one which he caught. “Och, devil
take them, they are long on the sea. Look,” said he, lift-
ing up the goose, “there’s not a feather’s weight in it.”
He crossed its two wings and threw it into the stern.
Off we went again, blind with sweat, till we had
rounded in the other birds. At last we had six of them,
and indeed the evening was now growing late for a star
was to be seen here and there in the sky.
We went south through the Narrow Sound and then
east alongside Inish-na-Bré. There was not a breath in
the sky, glug-glug, glug-glug, from the falling tide out
through the Sound to the south, sea-birds in thousands
on the water, porpoises diving in and out between each
other on the edges of the tide, a patch of mackerel here
and there, a white path of foam in the wake of the cur-
ragh, a bright shining fish taking a leap into the air with
the fineness of the evening.
When we were about twenty yards from the Laoch
reef I got a very nasty smell. “Poof, poof!” I cried, for
it was going through the back of my head.
“What ails you?”
“Och, don’t you get the smell?”
I had hardly finished speaking when Michael and
Pádrig cried together: “Poof, poof!”
At that moment I happened to glance out between me
and Iveragh and about ten yards to the south I saw rings
on the sea.
“The devil,” said I, “what is that out there?”
Pádrig gave a shout. “Your soul to the devil, it's a
shark, and it is from it we are getting the smell. Row,
row as hard as you can and make for land.”
We pulled out, none of us speaking a word. There was
nothing to be heard but the panting of the crew and the
thud of the curragh leaping across a wave and the splash
under her bow when she sent up a spurt of foam. We
were pulling hard but had not gone far when the shark
arose alongside the curragh—the biggest animal I ever
saw, as long as a ship. You could see clearly its big blue
gullet which could swallow three curraghs without any
trouble. We were in great danger—out in the middle of
the Great Sound, a couple of miles from land and that
savage, ravenous, long-toothed monster up beside us, the
way it had only to turn its head and swallow us up. I
thought that at any moment we might be down in its
belly. We were still pulling with all our strength, strain-
ing every sinew, the beast rolling along beside us, and
from time to time giving us a side glance out of his two
blue eyes.
“It will sink us if it moves across below the curragh,”
said Pádrig breathlessly. “Row on, we are not far from
land now, with the help of God.”
Our eyes and mouths were pouring sweat, our muscles
bending with the strain, not a word spoken. I could hear
the panting of the other two, the grating of the oars and
the splashing of the beast through the water which kept
sending spurts of foam into the curragh. And all the time
the smell of its breath was affecting us. There was no
escaping it.
“You had better not kill yourselves,” said Pádrig,
“whatever it may do with us.”
He had scarcely spoken when the shark turned straight
in towards the side of the boat.
“God have mercy on us, he has us now. Row! row!”
“What about throwing out one of the dogs to it?”
said I.
“Arra, devil, row, or it will get you instead of the dog.”
By this time we were only ten yards from Black Head.
We began to take heart when we found ourselves in-
shore, scraping the limpets from the rocks in our haste.
We rowed east till we went into the Cave of the Palm.
The shark came no farther. We stopped. We were un-
able to speak. Our breath was gone and our mouths wide
open trying to fill our lungs. Pádrig caught hold of a
bottle of water that was in the stern and took a long pull
out of it.
“Oh, God of Virtues,” said he, “what a hacking day!
The likes of it never overtook me since I was born and
God send it will not again. Arra, man,” said he to me,
“you were out of your mind that time, in the Great
Sound, when you were for throwing the dog to the
whale.”
“I wonder what it would have done if we had?” said
Michael.
“You and the curragh would soon have been down its
gullet.”
“Why do you say that, Pádrig?”
"I will tell you. When the dog had pleased it, it would
have been seeking another, though it would have only
been a small morsel, and it would have set upon the
curragh and swallowed us all.”
“What was in my mind,” said I, “was that it would
spend a nice while eating it and then we could escape,”
“Och, that beast wouldn't have known it wasn’t a fly
it had swallowed.”
The sun had sunk in the west, the stars beginning to
twinkle, wonderful colours spreading over the sky, a seal
snoring here and there in the coves, rabbits over our
heads among the clumps of thrift, sea-ravens standing on
the rocks with their wings outspread.
“Let us move east in the name of God,” said Paddrig,
putting out his oars.
“It is often,” said Michael, “that mockery comes to
the bed of truth. Do you remember this morning when
you let on that Micky the Pillar was a man from the
other world? Wasn't it a fine burst of laughter you had
at the two of us? But it is no thought of laughter you
had back through the Great Sound.”
“Faith, I am thinking there was not a bit of fear on
the two of you.”
“The devil if there was much,” said I.
“No doubt, for you did not know the way it was with
that beast. If you had known you would have been in a
yellow terror.”
“We can only die once,” said Michael, “and if we had
died in the Great Sound wouldn’t we have been as well
off?”
“And why, if you are so fearless, wouldn’t you leap into
the water now?”
“Och, that’s talk without sense.”
“How so?”
“Because the day is appointed for us all.”
When we reached the quay, there was nothing alive
on the slip before us but a couple of waterhens picking
mussels. When they saw us they flew out screaming over
the pool.
About three o’clock one morning I heard a knock at the
door.
“Who is there?” called my grandfather.
“Me,” said the voice. “Open.”
I wonder, said I to myself, what that man wants at
this time of night? There must be something wrong for
him to be out at such an untimely hour. Listening, I
heard my grandfather opening the door. ‘Is that you,
Shaun?” said he.
It was Shaun Liam.
“My mother died half an hour ago, and I have come
to call Shaun Leesh to go with me to Dingle about the
wake.”
“Musha, the blessing of grace with her soul,” said my
grandfather. “Isn't it quickly she went? Come in and sit
down.”
When I heard what they were saying my blood turned.
It seemed as if all who had ever died were outside the
window and old Kate Liam among them. If a mouse or
even a beetle made the slightest stir, I thought it was
she. Lifting up my head I looked out through the win-
dow. She seemed to be looking straight in at me. I was
getting worse. The night was as black as pitch. Musha,
Shaun Liam, said I to myself, how did you find the cour-
age to walk here from your own house and no one with
you at all?
The two of them were sitting by the fire talking about
old Kate, and if they were not praising her it is not day
yet. Isn’t it a strange thing that everyone who dies gets
great praise from people? I wondered why. Then a
thought came into my mind. It is from fear. They are
afraid, if they abused the dead man, he would come be-
fore them in the night.
My thoughts were scattered by the sound of my grand-
father rising from his chair.
“Arra, Shaun,” he was saying, “isn’t it quickly she went
in the end?”
“That is the way with death,” said Shaun. “I dare say
if we all knew our day there would be no knowing how
it would be with us.”
“It’s true,” said my grandfather. “And indeed it was
time for her to go.”
“Faith, I am thinking she was in and out of a hun-
dred.”
“Upon my word she was. How is the sea tonight,
Shaun?”
“It is fine and soft.”
I lay listening and thinking till I fell asleep. Then I
woke up and listened to hear if they were still talking.
I could hear nothing but the sound of the waves breaking
wearily below the house. Shaun was gone.
I was seized again with a feeling of mystery and hid
my head under the blanket. Then, however it happened,
I peeped out at the window. I gave a start. two shining
eyes were peering in at me. My blood turned as cold as
ice. The eyes were staring at me—old Kate’s eyes. Wasn’t
it well I recognized them? And wasn’t she come now to
take revenge on me for stealing her tobacco long ago
when she could not run after me? But now she could
move like the wind. I tried to cry out. But my tongue
swelled in my mouth, while I could not take my eyes
away from what was in the window.
At last I let out a scream which put the whole house
in confusion. My brother Shaun was in the bed next to
mine. He leapt up.
“What ails you?” said he.
“Look at the window!” I cried.
My grandfather came in. ‘‘Who screamed?”
“Look at the window!” said I again, my eyes still fixed
in terror on it.
“Musha, God help you,” said he, “what is it but the cat,
you silly creature!” And he went up to the window to
drive it away. Then I saw that it was indeed my own cat
with its two ears cocked.
The next morning was fine with a light easterly breeze
and a lonesome look on the village on account of the
corpse being laid out, everyone idle on such a day and no
school. I looked up at the Clochereeny, the hill above the
village, and it seemed as if there was a lonesome look on
the stones, on the sky, and on the sea. I saw an old woman
approaching from the west, another approaching from
the east, all making for the house of the dead.
My grandfather looked out. “Praise be to God on
high,” said he, raising his hat, ‘‘the day is keeping fine
for the sake of old Kate, dear God bless her soul.”
“It is indeed, God be praised.”
“Faith, Maurice, I thought you were a great soldier
till last night.”
“Upon my word, if you had been lying there thinking
of old Kate and had seen the two eyes in the window you
would have been in as bad a way as myself.”
“Och, would you believe that one night I was alone in
the house and I saw three people standing at the bedside
and the three of them dead for three years past?”
“And had you no fear?”
“Not at all, no more than I have now.”
“And you recognized them?”
“As well as when they were in the world, they talking
and I listening, though I could not understand them. I
will go east now to the house of the dead for a while,”
said he.
“I will go with you,” said I.
A sort of tremble came into my blood as we approached
the house for I had never yet seen a corpse. When we
reached the door my grandfather stopped and spoke
softly to me: “When you go in, take off your cap and go
down on your knees beside the body and say a prayer
for the soul of old Kate.”
We went in.
It seemed as if I was inside a mill with the beating of
the blood in my head, and when I saw the change that
had come upon her, stretched out as straight as a candle
and covered with a sheet, I thought she would rise up.
My grandfather walked across the floor and went down
on his knees. From the doorway I stood watching him.
God guide me aright, said I to myself, now is the time
for me to show courage. She will surely get up and eat me.
I entered slowly and went down on my knees. But it
was not of prayer I was thinking, but watching the body
for fear it would make any stir. Then I saw my grand-
father getting up and I arose to my own feet with such a
rush that I nearly tripped him over. I sat down on the
long bench beside the wall.
‘There was a group of old women around the fire, smok-
ing and chatting.
“Musha, I wonder now,” said old Nell, turning to my
grandfather with her pipe in her mouth, “what was the
age of Kate Liam?”
"I am thinking she was in and out of a hundred.”
“Musha, dear God bless her soul,” said she again,
puffing out the smoke through the house, “it is many a
good day and many a bad day she saw in her time.”
“No doubt of it,” said my grandfather.
“Upon my soul, Owen,” said she, passing her hand over
her white hair and preparing for talk, “it is well I re-
member the first day I ever went along with her to gather
heather back in the warren, and that is a long while ago.
When we had the heather gathered and packed in the
sheets and had sat down to rest, Kate drew a pipe from
her pocket and a box of matches.” And shaking her head,
Nell gave a side glance at the corpse. “Musha, God send
I won't send any lie on her, Owen,” said she, passing her
hand over her hair again. “Well, astór, Kate was smoking
away comfortably and talking of the affairs of the world.
‘Here,’ said she, ‘take a pull out of that,’ offering me the
pipe. But I would not take it for I had never smoked yet.
““Ah, musha, take hold of it,’ said she. “Don’t you know
there is nothing so soothing as a smoke when you would
be seated at your ease?’ ”
“It was true for her,” said my grandfather.
“Musha, I don’t know if she is listening to me now,”
continued Nell, with another glance at the body and
puffing at the pipe, “but if she is, I am not putting any
lie on her. Well, in the end I took it, astór.”
“I am sure you did,” said my grandfather.
“I did then, though I wished afterwards I hadn't, for
it sent my trotters into the air,” said she, and she spat into
the fire.
“The devil,” said my grandfather, “excuse me for in-
terrupting your story, but it would take many a bandle
of tobacco to send your trotters into the air today.”
“You may well say so,” said Nell, smiling. “Anyway,
when the two of us were coming down Lappet Top, I had
to sit down on a tuft of grass and throw up all the rub-
bish I had in my body on account of the pipe. Kate was
sitting beside me, bursting with laughter. ‘Musha, may
the big fellow fly away with you,’ said I to her, ‘and your
pipe with you, if it isn’t fine the way you have nearly
sent me to the other world.’ ’’ She took another look at
the corpse. “Musha, Kate,” said she, addressing it with a
laugh, “‘isn’t it easy to tell there’s no life in you, for it is
many a laugh you would make at that day yet if you were
listening to me now.” And with that the tears fell from
old Nell.
“Faith, you have left that day far behind,” said my
grandfather.
“Ah, Owen, would you believe it, I was going to her
very often after that, sipping at the pipe till I was an old
artist at it. Look, isn’t the world strange! Old Kate laid
out today and I left behind after her.”
“It is the way of the world,” said my grandfather, get-
ting up. “The blessing of God be with you,” said he, mov-
ing towards the door. “Devil take it,” he said to me on
our way home, “you nearly had me over that time after
my prayer. What happened you?”
“Musha,” said I, “I promise you it is not many prayers
I said but watching the corpse for fear it would rise
up.”
“Och, my pity for your pate. There is not much sense
in it yet.”
“Don’t mind that,” said I, “all beginnings are weak,
and I will do better the next time.”
Eileen had the supper ready.
“Isn’t it strange the curragh for the wake is not coming
yet?” said my grandfather, looking out towards the cliffs
on the mainland. “Upon my word,” said he, taking off
his hat and sitting down at the head of the table, “old
Kate makes a nice corpse.”
“Och, whist,” said I, “wouldn't it frighten anyone to
look at her! I wonder, daddo, were there ever two laid
out here in the one night?”
“There were, and three. I remember them myself. And
what's more, they were here for three nights on account
of bad weather.”
“I dare say the village was mournful during that time,”
said I. “And isn’t it strange they wouldn’t have a grave.
yard here for themselves? Upon my word, daddo, if I
were dying I would order my body to be buried above at
the Tower.” :
“Musha, my heart, you would do no such thing. It
would be another matter if others were buried there
before you.”
“I wouldn’t mind so long as I had the fine air of the
place,” said I.
I went to the door and looked out.
“Look, daddo, the curragh for the wake is coming.”
I walked out as far as the ditch. The curragh was ap-
proaching the quay, the coffin aboard and everyone, big
and small, running down to the slip. I went down and
stood at the top, looking on. The curragh was below, the
coffin, with yellow clasps, in the stern, and everybody
with a mournful look. They lifted the coffin ashore and
carried it up. You could see yourself reflected in the
polished grain of the wood. I saw the name inscribed
on a yellow clasp: “Mrs. Kate Coyne, born May end,
1833, died November 1913.” Musha, said I to myself, I
don’t know in the world why they make it so fine, for
in three days’ time it will be deep in the clay. How strange
are the ways of the world!
The next load to be brought out was a barrel of porter,
then a big rough pack of bread and two boxes full of
pipes. Four men were shouldering the barrel and whisper-
ing that it would make a fine night’s wake. Four more
were under the coffin, all making their way up the path.
On the top I met my grandfather,
“You are looking sorrowful, daddo,” said I.
“It’s the way with the old, my lad, for I have one foot
in the grave and the other on its edge.”
I noticed that the four men carrying the coffin were
taking a very roundabout way.
“Why don’t they go straight up the path, daddo?”
“Don’t you know,” said he, “that it is not right to take
a short road with the coffin to the house of the dead nor
yet with the corpse to the grave?”
We went home. My grandfather sat down, took out his
pipe, and laid his hat on his knee. “Musha, dear God
bless her soul,” said he, “she was a kindly, generous,
warm-hearted woman in her prime.”
“Musha, I don’t know,” said I. “I am thinking she
would get praise now she is dead, whatever she was.”
“That is so,” said he, thrusting his pipe under a red
sod of turf, “but Kate Liam deserved praise from my
knowledge of her, though it is true that the proverb can-
not be gainsaid: If you wish praise die, if you wish blame
marry.”
“Faith, daddo, I never heard that till now.”
“Och, mo Iéir,” said he, “you have many things still
to learn.”
“Shall we go to the wake?”
“We will spend part of the night there,” said he with
a glance at the clock. “Did you ever hear of what hap-
pened at a wake in the parish of Ventry long ago? ‘There
was a woman of that parish living alone of whom it was
rumoured that she had plenty of money. Well, when her
last sickness struck her down she sent for the priest. He
came and put the holy oil on her. As he was leaving the
house she called him back: ‘Musha, father, for the sake
of God and the Virgin Mary, would you give me a few
pence to wet my heart?’ The priest gave her sixpence
and departed. The old woman died that very same night,
and on the morrow, when the neighbour women were
preparing the corpse, one of them found a hard twisted
lump in her hair behind her head. It was a purse with
five pounds in it. They agreed to take it to the priest.
“What ails ye now?’ said he. ‘Musha, it’s like this,’ said
the best talker of the women, telling him the story. The
priest drew back as pale as death. ‘Oh, oh,’ he cried,
beating his hand against his breast, ‘after asking me for
as much as would wet her heart! Go back with the money
to her own house,’ said he, his voice trembling, ‘and make
no delay till you throw it in the fire. Bad luck will come
to anyone who keeps it.’
“They returned and did as the priest told them. When
night came there were many at the wake, talking and
conversing of the old woman’s money. At twelve o'clock
there came in through the door a fine, spirited, well-
favoured man. Everyone looked at him, whispering who
he might be. He walked over to the corpse and it seemed
to the people he was talking softly. He took out of his
pocket a fine white handkerchief. Everyone was watching
in silence. He placed the handkerchief under the chin
of the corpse and the dead woman put out the Holy
Communion she had taken the day before. Then he
folded up the handkerchief and departed.”
“God keep us, daddo, the people in the house must
have been horrified.”
“They were. When they saw the portent, some of them
ran out of the house in fear; but most remained, talking
eagerly, some saying that the woman was damned and it
was the God of Glory who had come in—everyone with
his own opinion. An hour later the door opened again
and there entered a ragged, ugly man, unshaved and
unwashed, with his toes out through his shoes. ‘The peo-
ple sat wide-eyed in wonder. He walked over to the body,
put his hands round it and carried it off. And from that
day to this no one has ever set eyes on that corpse or
heard news of it.”
“It is likely it was the old fellow carried it off,” said I.
“Who else! God between us and evil,” said my grand-
father, lighting his pipe from the ashes. He got up and
looked at the clock. I dare say it is time for us to be
making for the house of the wake.”
“Very well,” said I, walking to the door.
“Wait now, Maurice, till I fill my pipe and we will be
moving off, in the name of God.”
I looked out towards Dunquin. The moon was high
in the sky and the night very bright. I thought I saw a
curragh making for the quay.
“Daddo,” said I, calling in to him, “there is a curragh
come in since, whoever they are.”
“Musha, didn’t you see the barrel coming in today?”
said he, scraping out his pipe with his knife. “As sure as
I am here I know those four men, for there is ne’er a
wake with drink in it but those four will be there—
Shamus Brack, the Tailor of Clasach, Yellow Donal, and
Shaun Egan,” kneeling down before the fire to light his
pipe. “Come on now to the house of the wake.”
The house was full from end to end, a blaze of light
from the candles on the table and a white lamp from the
roof. If a pin had fallen from the rafters it must have
fallen on somebody's head—a group of old women at the
fire, the Púcán at the head of the table cutting tobacco,
Shaun Fada filling the pipes, everyone, young and old,
smoking, conversing, and talking of old Kate. As soon as
a man finished his pipe, he handed it back to Shaun to
get it filled again.
My grandfather put a whisper in my ear: “How are
you pleased with the night?”
“Delightfully,” said I.
In came the four strangers from Dunquin, looking shy.
Seats were found for them. “What did I tell you?” said
my grandfather, nudging me. The barrel was opened.
A bucket was handed round. On account of their reputa-
tion, I kept my eyes on the four till the bucket reached
them. A pint was poured for Shaun Egan, the first of
them. He made no stop till he had swallowed it down.
At that moment the dead woman’s son, Shaun Liam,
came across to my grandfather. “Come up to the room,”
said he.
We followed him, and it was there the goat was roast-
ing as for stout lumps of old women with pipes as long as
a bandle in their mouths. Looking up into the rafters
you would think it was a heat-haze in a hollow of the
hills on a summer evening with all the smoke they were
sending through the room.
“Musha, God bless your life, Owen,” said Kate Joseph,
and I think she was merry with whisky.
“Long life to you,” said my grandfather, sitting down
on a chair. “‘“How are you these days, Kate?”
“Musha, I am middling. Good health to you!” said she.
“Isn’t it quickly Kate Liam went from us in the end?”
“That's the way with death. But yourself is in your
third March yet,* God bless you.”
* Reference to sea-birds which attain maturity in the spring of
their first year.
“Ah, musha, God forgive you, Owen, don’t you see I
am no more than a shadow?” said she, handing the pipe
to Maura Crihin. '“Take that and smoke it for the soul
of old Kate who was merry a year ago back from today.
Musha, I wonder, Owen,” she went on, drawing her black
shawl up over her head, “do you remember the day when
I and the woman who is laid out tonight went across to
the Cosh with you in the big boat long ago?”
"I do,” said my grandfather with a bit of a laugh.
"I can’t remember now who were with us,” said she,
looking into the red flames of the fire and knitting her
brows.
“Musha,” said my grandfather, “it was Paddy, Pad
Mor, Stephen, Pats Vicky and Shaun O'Donlevy.”
“Faith, you're right,” said Kate, turning round to him
and drawing her red petticoat in round her feet. “It was
indeed, and your brother Mickil,” she cried with a sigh
of delight at remembering him, “and it’s great sport we
had that day.”
"I never saw the like of it since,” said my grandfather.
Meanwhile Shaun Liam was moving around with a
bottle of whisky and a glass. First he poured out a half-
glass for Maura Tigue. Kate Joseph blushed and smiled
as she saw the whisky approaching. She put a question to
my grandfather, then glanced at the bottle without heed-
ing his reply. Maura Tigue drained the glass.
“Well, dear God bless her soul and the souls of all the
dead!” said she.
“Amen,” said we all.
I was still watching Kate Joseph. I could not but laugh
inside my heart. As the bottle approached, a sharp look
came into her eyes. She kept fidgeting anxiously in her
corner. Shaun had not half filled the glass for her when,
“That’s enough, Shaun, my lad,” said she; “don’t fill it
right up. Ah, that’s too much!”
She took a long draught of it, then coughed, and
coughed again.
“You are choked with it,” said my grandfather.
“It is pretty strong enough,” said she, and you could
hardly have heard her at the hole of your ear, for the
drink had gone with her breath. With the second breath
she tossed it all off and gave the blessing to the soul of old
Kate as was meet. Then my grandfather drank a glass
and, faith, I got a half one myself and drank it as well
as anyone. Maura Tigue pulled out her pipe again and
it passed from woman to woman till the room was full
of smoke.
They were talking and smoking, my grandfather telling
them of the great day they had at the Cosh long ago,
when Mickil beat all the men of the place with his sing-
ing, till Shaun Liam came in again with a bucket of
porter.
“Now,” said he, “take a pull out of that.”
They were not slow to obey him, and the woman who
was sitting shyly without a word till then was now warm-
ing up in wordy dispute with her neighbour, and my
grandfather as merry as any.
I got up and went down to the kitchen. A big table
was laid in the middle of the floor, five or six eating, talk
throughout the house, a pipe in every mouth, the young
keeping each other company in one corner and the old
in another discussing seriously the affairs of the world. I
threw myself among my equals, but I soon grew sick of
their senseless chatter. I liked better the conversation of
the old and that has been the way with me always, so I
went up to the room again where I found the others as
before.
After a while my grandfather got up and looked out
through the window. “Faith,” said he, “the day is dawn-
ing. We had better go home, in the name of God.”
I wanted no more than the wind of the word, for I was
blind with the sleep.
“Good night to you all,” said my grandfather.
“May the night prosper with you,” said the old women
together.
“Upon my soul,” said he as we left the house, “those
women don’t know that it isn’t a wedding feast.”
Out on the ditch next morning I saw three or four
little clouds between me and Grey Top. As I watched,
they became entangled till they were one big cloud mov-
ing towards me from the north. It was growing black,
and I watched it till it was hanging over Slea Head. I
went in.
“Faith, daddo, the day is beginning to look very bad.”
He put out his head through the doorway. Just then
heavy rain began to fall and it started to blow from the
north-west.
“Upon my soul, I am doubting Kate will spend another
day here and maybe two. God help us, the sea is all in a
whirl of foam.”
No one stirred out that day. But next morning it was
so fine you would think a bad day had never come. My
grandfather opened the chest and took out a coat, the
like of which I had never seen, with a long tail and three
buttons behind. I watched him putting it on for the
funeral.
“Musha, daddo, I never knew you had that. What sort
is it at all?”
“Ho, ho, my boy,” said he with a laugh, “that is the old
Gaelic fashion.”
I took hold of the tail of it. It was as stiff as a board
of oak.
“I suppose you have had it always?”
“Arra, man,” said he with another laugh, “I have not
always been in the world; but it is a good age, for my
father left it to me, the blessing of grace be with him, and
it is likely there is no one to wear it today but my-
self.”
I drew back from him, laughing. “Do you know what
it is? To judge by your appearance, without lie or jest,
you don’t look more than twenty years old.”
“Come on,” said he, “and don’t be mocking me. God
be praised, isn’t it sweetly that blackbird is singing?”
As we walked up towards the house of the dead, when-
ever I got the chance I dropped behind to take a look at
my grandfather, and indeed you would have thought he
was a great peer from the city of London with his striped
trousers and tail-coat, the white shirt with its hard front
and a high collar under his chin.
He went in among the old men and I among my
comrades.
“I wonder,” said Tomás Owen Vaun, “‘shall we be able
to go out to the graveyard in Ventry?”
“Och, not at all, man, they won't let us,” said I. “But
look here, Tomás, if the sea were rough again today, we
would get another holiday from school tomorrow.”
“Arra, what good would that be, for when tomorrow
came we would be seeking another?”
Four men brought out the coffin and rested it on two
chairs. The old women gathering round it began to moan,
sweet and soft: “Olagón, olagón!”
It was for Kate Joseph’s voice I listened, for she was
reputed to be like a banshee for keening.
“Oh, musha, Kate,” she began with a fine tune on the
words, “isn’t it you were the graceful woman, and it is
little profit for me to live after you, olagón! olagón!
olagón!”
When they had finished their keening I saw them
laughing merrily with one another.
“Musha, Tomás,” said I, “do you think they are lone-
some at all after old Kate Liam?”
“Yé, mo léir, no more than the seal-cow back in Bird
Cove,” said he.
The four men raised the coffin to their shoulders. All
followed them.
“Isn’t it a strange world if you look into it, Tomás?
To think the day will come yet when you and I will be
stretched in a coffin ourselves without a thought or feel-
ing.”
We were at the quay now, the two of us sitting at the
top watching the men busy with the curragh and the
oars till they had the coffin on board. They moved out
through the pool, the sun shining over their heads, a
white path of foam in their wake.
My grandfather came down the path with many others
who were unable to go out. He stopped at the top of the
slip looking out at the curraghs. We could still hear the
grating of the oars.
“It is a wonder you did not go, daddo,” said I.
“My sharp sorrow, there was a time when I would have
gone, but, alas, not today. Ah, musha, Kate,” he cried,
looking out over the sea, “dear God bless your soul, you
were a good companion in a market town.”
The tears were falling down his cheeks.
“Look at your grandfather,” whispered Tomás. “He is
crying. That is the man who is sorrowful and not those
fickle women.”
We got up.
“I have to go for a load of turf today,” said Tomás.
“We have not a sod in the house.”
“May the day prosper with you,” said I, turning home.
The month of Samhain* is the time when there does be
a rush for pollock in the Island.
* November.
One fine day when the ground was hard with frost,
with a little air of wind from the east and a fragrant
smell from the sea, I wandered out of the house and stood
a while thinking. The sea-birds were flying around in
quest of fish. There were thrushes in plenty hard by and
they fleeing before the cold. It was of the life of the birds
I was thinking and the passing of the tide from the strand.
After a while another thought struck me and I made
my way to the house of Pádrig O’Dála. Pádrig was before
me at the door, gazing south-east, humming a tune.
“A fine day, Pádrig.”
“It is, thanks be to God, and a good day on the sea.”
I went inside the house and who would be there but
Paddy Tim.
“It is a fresh day, Paddy.”
“Ah, it is not so fresh yet, that the goats would eat it.” *
Pádrig came in.
“Do you know what I was thinking?” said he. “That it
would be a good day to go fishing for pollock on the Wild
Bank.”
“And spend the night in the Inish?” said I, delighted.
“I dare say we will do that,” said Pádrig, “but get
ready now and don’t delay.”
The Wild Bank lies to the south-east of Inish-vick-
2 Glas, “fresh,” also means “green.”
ilaun, a good way out in the Bay, It is a reef under water
where the sea sweeps and breaks in bad weather, and it
has a great name among the old men for fish.
We were across the Great Sound now, and there’s no
doubt but it would delight a sick man at that time to be
looking north and south at the sea-birds hunting over
the wild sea. Soon we saw a guillemot a little way off to
the south with her young chick behind her. Above them
was a great black-backed gull and he swooping down at
the chick. Every time he swooped the chick would dive
and go astray on him; and every time the chick came up
again, the gull would make another swoop.
“Musha, isn't the gull a treacherous bird?” said Pádrig
O'Dála.
“Not at all,” said Paddy Tim. “Isn’t it trying to fill his
belly he is, and isn’t it the same thing you are trying to
do yourself with the pollock on the Wild Bank to the
south?”
“Och, that’s talk in the air,” said Pádrig.
“Why so? Isn’t the guillemot herself watching for
something to put in her belly and isn’t it the same way
with the gull? Upon my word, I see no more treachery
in him than there is in yourself.”
I was not giving much ear to their talk but watching
the gull swooping down, and the poor mother doing her
best to defend her own. In the end the gull made another
swoop and caught the chick by the tail, With that the
mother flew at him, and you never saw such a tussle as
there was between the two birds until at last the gull had
to let go. Then the chick dived under water and the
mother after it. Faith, thought I, they are after making a
fool of the gull. And away he flew west over the waves.
We were making the Inish by this time and my heart
beating like a watch with delight, for I was never yet up
in the island. “It is growing late,” said Pádrig. “The best
thing we can do is to go ashore for the night and we can
rise with the sparrow’s chirp in the morning.”
I looked west towards the island. The sea was like glass
for smoothness, little fish playing on the top of the water,
the sun going down behind the Narrow Sound and throw-
ing its golden beams on the Foze Rocks which looked like
a castle of gold on the horizon, shining with a super-
natural light.
“Musha, Pádrig,” said I, “isn’t it a beautiful sight that
is around and about us?”
"I swear,” said he, turning to me with a laugh, “I don’t
know is it on myself or not, but as soon as I clear the
Horse’s Mouth westward it seems as if a cloud rises from
my heart. Maybe it is because I was born in the Inish.”
“In my opinion,” said Paddy, “even if you were born
above on the Muilcheann, you would love it.”
The word was not out of his mouth when I heard from
the island a noise which took an echo out of the coves:
Gurla-gu-hu-hu-golagón! gurla-gu-hu-hu-golagón!
My heart leapt, for it is often before I had heard that
spirits were to be seen and fairy music to be heard above
in the Inish.
“What is it, Pádrig?” said I tremulously.
“Row on,” said he with a laugh, “and you will soon
see what it is.”
We rowed on, our eyes on the strand, and soon we
heard it again: Gurla-gu-hu-hu-golagón!
“Look in now, and keep your eyes on the shingle.”
I looked in and what did I see but up to forty seals
stretched at full length, sunning themselves on the strand.
Pádrig let out a roar. They raised their heads. Then away
with them as hard as they could go to the water. Not a
spot of the strand but was hidden by the spouts of foam
they sent up into the sky; and when we were within ten
yards of the strand, not a seal was to be seen, the sea still
again, save only the rings they had left in their wake. I
looked down through the water. I could see the bottom
clearly and the seals rushing out below.
“Oh, Lord, Pádrig, isn’t it a marvellous speed they
have?”
“It is no wonder, my boy. Did you never hear the say-
ing: Sturgeon, ling, or seal, the three swiftest fish in the
sea?”
We went in on to the shingle. I looked up at the cliff
above my head as is the habit of a stranger when he comes
to a foreign land. When we had the curragh on the stays
and our gear in order for the night, I strolled away,
wandering, taking heed of everything around me.
In the course of my ramblings I found a black stone
and some old names cut into it. I could not count all that
were on it, but this is the one that put the greatest won-
der on me: “W, W. Wilson, Jan. 1630.”
I called Pádrig: “Devil take it, would you believe there
is a name here which has been made for two hundred
and eighty-four years?”
“Och, my pity for your head, did I not see a man from
Dublin once who found a name above in the churchyard
which was made a thousand years ago?”
“Better still,” said I, and at that moment a verse came
into my head and I recited it to Pádrig:
“The trout lives in the stream,
‘The duck lives on the pool,
The blossom lives on the tree,
But lives not the hand that wrote.”
“Indeed, my boy,” said Pádrig, looking at me between
the eyes, “there is a power of nonsense inside your head.”
We turned our faces up into the island and climbed an
old path through the cliff. There was a beautiful view.
The Teeracht with its little white houses lay behind us
to the north. Over in the west, nine miles away, were
the Foze Rocks, and nothing to be seen beyond them but
the sky like a great shining wall, and the sun descending
big and round into the sea. Over to the east was the Bay
of Dingle and a melancholy look coming over the hills
with the fall of night.
We moved on together, up to our knees in the long
grass. Soon I saw the house above me at the foot of a little
hill with fine fields around it. We had three dogs with
us, and with their ears cocked they ran off before us
through the island. Hundreds of rabbits were to be seen
making hurriedly for the warrens, running past as thick
as ants, ears back, tails up, and the eyes starting out of
their heads in terror of the dogs. In a few moments the
whole island was in confusion—the sheep running wild,
the goat fleeing for its life, the birds screaming across the
fields northwards to the lonely reefs. What wonder! When
did they last see a man of this world? I thought of Robin-
son Crusoe when he landed on just such an island. What
would he not have given to be a goat when he saw a
herd of them running together and he without a com-
panion!
The delight in my heart was growing as I came nearer
to the mystery of the island. But I grew sad as I thought
of all who had ever lived there, making a livelihood for
themselves like the wild goats, and not one of them alive
today.
Two of the dogs came running up to us, each with a
rabbit across his mouth. They threw them down at our
feet, and then made off again.
“Oh, Pádrig, aren’t the dogs well taught?”
“Upon my word,” said he, feeling the rabbits, “there
is fat on these. Have you a knife?”
I gave him mine and he soon had the guts out of them.
We walked on again but had not gone far when we saw
the dogs running back with two more rabbits. “Faith,”
said I, “if they keep this up, we'll have spoils tomorrow.”
When we came to the ditch of the field outside the
house, a start was taken out of me. I stopped and listened.
I hear it, said I in my own mind, the sweetest music I
ever heard. I heard it again. My heart leapt. “Pádrig!”
said I, “do you hear anything?”
He looked at me and listened. “I swear by the devil,”
said he, lifting his cap and scratching his head, “that all
who ever died in the island are above in the house making
sport.”
I did not doubt him on account of the reputation of
the place for fairies and a shudder ran up from my little
toe to the roots of my hair.
Pádrig looked at me again. He was smiling. “Did you
never hear of a petrel?”
“I did not.”
“That is a petrel now.”
“Where?”
“It is inside the ditch.”
I listened again, and true enough for him I could hear
it clearly now, the sweetest song ever heard by mortal
ear. I would have spent the whole evening listening to it
but for Pádrig making fun of me.
We went up to the house—a little, low hut with a felt
roof, ruins in plenty around, weeds and nettles growing
among them. We went inside. It was nice and clean, the
walls whitened with lime, and a little room below. I
went down to the room, to see two rabbits scampering
away through a hole they had made in the wall. Pádrig
came down and threw a curse at them when he saw the
hole.
I looked up at the walls which were covered in cob-
webs and a picture of Moses as black as soot. I took it
down, but could not read what was written on it. “I sup-
pose, Pádrig, this is here since you were born?”
“It is, and for ages before me. Let us go out now and
cut some fine dry fern for the night.”
Not far from the house we came upon fern in plenty
growing as high as ourselves. We began tearing it out,
and soon each of us had gathered the makings of a good
bed. We left it to dry at the bottom of the house and
went in. One of us kindled a fire, another went to draw
water, another swept out the floor—each at his own task.
I opened two of the rabbits and hung the other two out-
side the door on a nail.
We soon got the look of a hearth on the place, the lamp
alight, a fine glowing fire put down and sending out
warmth through the house. We sat down to dinner, and
a savoury dinner it was—a fine stew of rabbits and plenty
of soup.
When we had eaten our fill: “Faith,” said Pádrig, “I
had better go out now and lay twenty traps or so, and
maybe we will have another dozen of rabbits tomorrow.”
In half an hour he was back again. “It is as well for
us now to bring in the fern,” said he, “for we have need
of a stretch.”
We soon had our beds made, each in his own corner,
and stretched ourselves out after the weariness of the day.
“Don’t be sleepy in the morning,” said Pádrig, “for the
quaybach1 is the very devil for the rabbits. Musha,” said
he again, stretched back contentedly in the fern with his
pipe in his mouth, “it’s many the day I spent here in my
1Great black-backed gull.
youth with ne’er a care nor a trouble in the world, and
I tell you there was abundance here then as for milk in
plenty and butter. My father had twelve cows here at one
time and it’s many the firkin he sold at the market. But,
my sorrow! look at it today—nothing but ferns and
nettles.”
Before long we fell asleep. About two o'clock I awoke.
There was nothing but darkness and the sound of the
other two snoring. I was seized with fear when I saw
where I was, thinking of all I had ever heard about the
fairies. The moonlight was pouring through the window.
How envious I was of the other two snoring peacefully in
the dead of night! As I lay thinking, what did I see but
a human hand passing across the window and taking up
the two rabbits I had hung on the nail.
I leapt up and tried to scream, but the tongue swelled
in my mouth. I could see him clearly now. He had a
horn-peaked cap and the clothes of a sailor. I could hear
his footsteps outside as he went away with the rabbits.
“Oh, Lord,” I cried, “save me from the fairies!”
I got up somehow and went over to Pádrig and gave
him a kick which lifted him clean out of the fern.
“What ails you?” said he, looking up in the moonlight.
“Oh, oh, Pádrig, it is someone I saw outside the window
going off with the rabbits.”
“Musha, my pity for your brass head,” said he, stretch-
ing back again into the fern,
I lay down once more and at last I fell into a light
doze. How long I was asleep I do not know, but when I
awoke Pádrig was calling me:
“Oh, Lord,” said he, “the bright day is here.”
“It is not. It is only the light of the moon.”
He went down to call Paddy Tim: “Paddy! Paddy!”
“Hm,” mumbled Paddy at last.
“You had better stay here, Paddy, till the two of us go
drawing the traps, and let you have the breakfast ready
before us when we return.”
“Hm, hm!” said Paddy, stretching back again.
“What were the delusions that came on you last night?”
said Pádrig as he lit the lamp.
“Upon my word, they were no delusions at all, but the
man was there in his own shape and I’ll bet anything
you like that the rabbits are not on the nail now.”
“Arra, man,” said he, turning to me when he had the
lamp alight, “don’t you know that no one dead would
take the rabbits?”
“I don’t know, but alive or dead, he took them.”
“And where is the living man on this island?”
“Isn't that the whole matter?” I was getting a sort of
courage now that the lamp was lit.
“Go out now and see if the rabbits are there still.”
“Upon my word I will not, but go yourself for I have
had enough of it.”
As he reached the door he struck something heavy with
his foot. “What the devil is this?” said he, stooping to
pick it up. “Arra, your soul to the devil, it is a big tin
of tobacco. Faith, Maurice, you were right. The rabbits
are gone. A sailor must have come ashore and taken
them, and, look, what did he do but slip a tin of tobacco
under the door, as is the custom with them?”
We started out to draw the traps. The moon was mov-
ing slowly among the stars above and throwing a silver
glitter on the sea through the Bay of Dingle to the east;
bright points of light in the dew, which lay heavy on the
grass; a dead calm on the sea and not a breath from the
sky; grass and fern up to our knees and a sound like a
whirlwind sweeping through the fern from the rabbits
running through it with the dogs pursuing them; an
odd cry from the heron with the fairness of the night;
the petrel with her own song; cóch-cóch-cóch! from the
black-backed gull across the island to the north; meggy-
geg-geg! from the goats among the rocks; baa-baa! from
a sheep in the distance; and the seal not forgetting his
own olagón in the gullies far below.
We were now across the field to the south and we as
light-hearted as any rabbit in the island. We heard a cry
from a gull, then another, as if they were closing around
something.
“Och, bad cess to them, they have the rabbits eaten,”
said Pádrig, leaping over a rock and I after him, ever and
ever, till we came to the first trap where we found two of
them tearing a rabbit asunder. “Hucs, hues, hucs!” he
cried as he drew near them. Off they flew to perch on the
top of a rock near by, crying cag-cag!
They hadn't done much damage to the rabbit. We
drew it out; then away with us as fast as we could by
the Rock’s Foot to the east and then by the Spring
Meadow to the south, drawing one trap after another and
a rabbit in every one of them.
Away with us again to Bird Cove in the west, till we
came to the head of the Cove, and there we heard the
olagón from the seals on the shingle below. Anyone who
had no knowledge of them would think that the living
and dead were gathered there. We sat down for a while
listening, the moon shining in on us.
“I wonder, Pádrig,” said I, his back to me, lighting his
pipe, “would you believe that those are men under
magic?”
“I have heard it, and upon my word I would believe
it for they are just like old women keening. Och,” says
he leaping up, “the strand does not wait for milking-
time.”
Away he went and I after him, my heart out on the
palm of my hand for I had a dozen rabbits on my back,
and I could not keep up with him. Only that was not the
trouble, but the island was full of holes covered with
fern, the way it was often when I put out my foot I would
go down a hole up to my hip and then away with me on
the crown of my head and the rabbits on top of me. I
was blind out, down a hole and down a hole, till at last
I became so out of humour I wished the island and the
rabbits to the old fellow. I had no view of Pádrig and
was drowned in sweat, and I did not know east from
west. I sat down, dropped my pack of rabbits on a clump
of grass, threw off my cap and wiped my brow. Well, said
I to myself, I am alone at last, and I might as well have
taken it softly from the beginning.
I looked round, There was nobody to me or from me,
and I knew not on what side of the island I had stopped.
I was listening to the different cries of the birds and
watching the dew sparkling in the moonlight, rabbits
darting by me to the east and to the west and making
black paths through the dew. Some lines of “The Mid-
night Court” came into my mind, and with the delight
in my heart I recited them aloud:
“'Twas my wont to wander beside the stream
On the soft green sward in the morning beam,
Where the woods lie thick on the mountain-side,
Without trouble or care what might betide.”*
After a while I got up. I wonder am I long here, said
I. Pádrig will think I have fallen over the cliff. I threw
my pack over my back. I looked east and I looked west.
God send me on the right road, I prayed. Where is the
house now? And where is Pádrig?
* Percy Usher's translation. “The Midnight Court” is a long poem
by Brian Merriman, a Clare poet of the early nineteenth century.
I went on among the rocks, stooping low and thinking
again of all who ever died in the island, and the more I
thought the more afraid I became. Isn’t it a strange thing
I cannot think of anything else to scatter those terrible
thoughts out of my mind? I would try and fail. I was
glancing into every hollow in the rocks for fear there
would be anyone from the other world within. Then I
heard a couple of coughs such as you might hear from
an old man.
My heart leapt. I stopped. There I stood poised on one
foot, like the man long ago when the wind and the sun
tried to see who would strip the coat from him and he
standing without a stir in the middle of the road. I re-
mained in the same posture, my two eyes thrust into a
dark hole, for it seemed to me that it was out of that
hole the coughing came. As I watched, a cold shiver ran
through me the way I was trembling from head to heel.
Then I heard the coughing again, loud and strong. I
could stand it no longer and let out a roar. When the
thing within heard me, out he came with a rush, and
when I saw the big white mass making towards me from
the hole I let out one shout and fell out of my standing
on the clump. Just as I fell I saw what it was—a big wether
belonging to Pádrig O'Dála, and away he went down the
hill at a gallop. “Ah, musha,” cried I when I got back
my speech, “may the big fellow take the head from your
scroggle if it isn’t fine the way you are after putting the
yellow terror on mel”
I stood up and looked around. Look now, said I, woe
to the man without patience. And it is my firm opinion
that it is thus ghosts are made for many on this island,
for, for my own part, I have seen two apparitions in one
night.
I put my pack on my back again and off I went. I had
not got over my fright. I was still weak, but I swore to
myself, whatever else I would see, it would not
trouble me.
Before long I heard a hand-whistle, and my heart leapt
again. Listening carefully I heard another, nearer this
time. It is Pádrig in search of myself, said I, putting a
finger in my mouth and whistling in reply.
“Where are you?” called his voice.
"I am here,” said I in the height of my head; “where
is yourself?”
“I am at the Hollow of the Eagles,” cried the voice.
“Och, God be with me,” said I, ‘where is the Hollow
of the Eagles?”
He shouted again: “Where’s yourself?”
“The devil I know where I am,” I cried. “I'm going
astray.”
“Do you see the Teeracht?” he cried hoarsely.
"I do not, but I see the Foze.”
“Don’t stir, so, till I find you.”
I sat down on a clump, exhausted. Soon he was
above me.
“Come up,” said he. “The devil take you, where are
you all the night?”
“Arra, man, I had to make shift for myself when I
couldn’t keep up with you.”
“Faith, I thought you were up at the house long ago
but when I went up myself you were not there before
me.”
"I will be there soon enough.” But not a word did I
say about the sheep for fear he would be mocking me
for ever.
We went up to the house, to find Paddy Tim still fast
asleep. I gave him a kick in the side. He leapt up, looked
around, and rubbed his eyes. “Are ye come since?” says he.
“Arra, man, aren’t we after walking the four corners
of the island?”
“It must be day, so.”
“Not yet,” said Pádrig, “but near it.”
I put down a fire and went out to get water from the
well. The windows of the day were now opening in the
east, the moon sinking west of the Foze, and the red light
of the sun rising over the Macgillicuddy Reeks and so
westward across the Bay of Dingle, the light of day
quenching the light of night.
I returned home, put the water in the kettle, and hung
it over the fire. Then the thought struck me to walk out
and see the churchyard. I had long wanted to see it and
now was my time for it while the kettle was boiling.
It was only three hundred yards from the house. I soon
found it, in nice order, and beside it an old chapel.
Standing above the ruin was a cross, looking very ancient,
my hand’s length of moss on every stone. Look how even
the stone grows old! It is said that a priest is buried there
from the time when there was persecution on the clergy,
though there is a great change on the world today, praise
on high to the Eternal Father!
It was a lovely morning; steam rising from grass and
fern as the sun drew up the dew; the goat, the sheep, and
the birds stretching themselves after the sleep of night.
When I had examined the churchyard, I went into the
chapel—four feet of a doorway going in and a place for
an altar in the wall made out of a fine, firm block of
stone. I noticed many names cut here and there into the
stones. Everyone who had ever visited the place had left
his name behind him. Among them I found some old
writing of which I could make nothing. I was working
away at it and spending my mind on it when I heard
a hand-whistle. Faith, said I, I have spent the day and to
say that they are calling me; and off I went at a run back
to the house.
The other two were eating their breakfast before me.
“It seems,” said Pádrig as I came in, “that you are
running wild in the island.”
“Do you know what happened? I came across an old
writing in the chapel and I was trying to read it, but I
could make nothing of it.”
“Oh, I know where that is,” said he, pouring out the
tea.
“The devil, I thought no one had ever found it but
myself.”
“Ho, ho!” said he, turning to Paddy Tim, “hear what
he says! I remember,” he went on, turning to me again,
“when I was but ten years old, a great scholar came here
from England in search of old writings, and ne’er a stone
nor a rock did he leave without examining it, and after
all his examining he did not find the writing you are
speaking of now. Then myself and my sister, who is in
America now, we went with him one day around the
island and we said to each other that we had better show
it to him. So we brought him up to the place, and I tell
you he was delighted to get it. There he was with big
glasses on his eyes working away at it till he had taken
down every word, and when he had finished he put his
hand in his pocket and gave each of us a shilling.”
“Well now, wasn’t he a kind man?”
“Faith, I think he was the most decent gentleman ever
I saw,” said Pádrig, filling his pipe.
“I suppose,” said Paddy Tim, “it was the shilling made
the decent man of him.”
“Upon my word it was not, then, for he was decent
in every way. But do you know how long it is since that
writing was made?”
"I do not.”
“Guess.”
“A century?”
“No.”
“Three centuries,’ said Paddy Tim, spitting on the floor.
“Twelve centuries,” said Pádrig.
“And how would you know that?” said Paddy Tim.
“Arra, man, isn’t the date below?”
After a while I wandered out again and there is no
doubt but it was a heart-lifting day. I looked east between
me and the Great Sound. The sea was black with birds,
some settled on the water, others diving, and their sweet
music passing through my ears.
When I was tired with the sight of my eyes I went in
again. “Faith, men,” said I, “it looks as if we will have
a good day’s fishing on the Wild Bank.”
“We had better be moving off so, in the name of God,”
said Pádrig, rising from the table and clearing away the
things.
We went down to the strand. Soon we had turned our
faces to the Island and our backs to the Wild Bank, my-
self in the bows, the other two putting the lines in order,
the sea like glass and flotsam in plenty floating on its
surface.
“Do you know now,” said Pádrig, with a glance to the
bows, “what is the landmark you would take to be on the
Wild Bank?”
“Wait now,” said I, bending my head and thinking,
for I had often heard that landmark from my grand-
father. At last I thought of it and raised my head. “I
have it, Pádrig. It is the Bank of the Gardens of the
Mouth across the White Cleft.”
“Quite right.”
“But I am no wiser for that, because I don’t know
where is the Bank of the Gardens of the Mouth, nor the
White Cleft either.”
“You are in a muddle so, but I will tell you now where
they are,” said he, stretching his finger straight to the
north. “Do you see that cleft in the back of Inish-na-
Bró? That is the White Cleft. And about two miles
straight to the north from there is a reef which they call
the Bank of the Gardens of the Mouth.”
"I understand.”
“Be rowing on now, and as soon as you see that reef
straight over the White Cleft, you are on the Wild Bank.”
“Faith,” said I, putting out the oars, “there is no limit
to knowledge.”
I was the paddler of the curragh, so I had my two eyes
fixed on the horizon beyond Inish-na-Bré the way I
would see the reef. I was rowing on slowly, ever and
ever, till I saw clearly the Bank of the Gardens of the
Mouth across the White Cleft.
“Now,” said I with a shout of joy, “put out the lines,
and, by God, it looks like fish.”
It did, too, at that time, with all the guillemots, razor-
bills, sea-ravens and kittiwakes dipping themselves in pur-
suit of fish, and now and then the leap of a pollock would
send up a spurt of foam which sparkled in the sun the
way it would put stars on my eyes. Pádrig stood up, drew
out his pipe, and lighted it. I was paddling slowly round
the reef, each of the others with a pair of lines out and
they watching.
Soon there was a pull at one of Pádrig’s lines. He be-
gan to draw, but could make no headway.
“That is no pollock, I’m thinking,” said I.
“The devil a pollock,” said he, “but a seal, and it will
make two halves of my line.”
At times it would come fine and easy and Pádrig would
make a grimace, trying to keep hold of it. He was work-
ing away at it, ever and ever, till at last we could see it
through the water—a big, bright eel as long as the cur-
ragh.
“The devil take you, Paddy,” said I, “have the hook
ready for it.”
Paddy Tim took up the hook, put it neatly into the
gills and hauled in the eel.
“Faith, it is a fine fish,” said Pádrig, laughing for joy.
“It appears that the fish you would catch here is worth
calling a fish,” said Paddy Tim.
At that moment he got up quickly from the thwart
for there was another fish on his own line. He began
to draw, a sharp look in his eye, for fear it would get
away.
“Easy, Paddy!” says Pádrig. “Back her, Maurice,” says
he again softly, the way you would think he was afraid
to speak up lest the fish would hear him. Paddy was
drawing away and panting for breath, ever and ever,
till at last he landed it into the curragh—the finest pol-
lock I ever saw.
In the end of all, the boat was down to the gunwale
with fish. Then the tide turned and never a bite after
it. So we turned our faces homewards, well satisfied with
the hunting of the day.
There was a nice puff of wind from the west. “I sup-
pose the sail would take us east, Pádrig?”
“No doubt. Why wouldn’t it? Haul it up.”
We took in the oars and I soon had the mast up and
threw the jib-sheet to Paddy. I hauled up the sail to the
top mast and she slipped away to the east.
We were seated at our ease without a trouble or a care
in the world, though there is seldom such a thing on a
man of the sea. It was a comfortable time—the boat down
to gunwale with fine pollock, not a touch of stress on us
as we made for home, but the curragh moving east and
ploughing the sea before her, we pulling at our pipes
and talking and discussing the affairs of the world.
One evening long after that we were all on the quay
before the King in the hope of news from the mainland;
the girls maybe looking forward to a letter, a man wait-
ing for the tobacco he had sent for and desiring nothing
more than to get a morsel of it in his back teeth.
After handing out the letters the King sat down on his
heels and pulled out his pipe and tobacco, as was the
habit with him.
“Did you hear any rumours out today, Pádrig?”’ asked
Shaun Michael.
“The devil,” replied the King, “it is my strong opinion
we won’t live much longer now.”
“Achvan,” said Shaun Michael, “there must be a plague
coming so.”
“It is worse than a plague. The two sides of the world
are likely to burst against each other any moment.”
“Bad enough,” said Shaun Fada.
“Arra, man,” interrupted my grandfather, “why should
it be bad?”
“Your soul to the devil, who will buy the fish? Who will
buy the pig or the cow? Where will the buyers be found?
That's talk in the air, my boy,” said Shaun Fada, spitting.
“You may cut off the top of my ear,” said my grand-
father, looking hard at Shaun, “if buyers were ever so
prosperous as they will be at such a time.”
“Have sense, man,” said Shaun, turning his back on
my grandfather and walking away.
A week later we got tidings that England and Germany
were hurled against each other. Every time the King went
out to Dunquin he came home with a newspaper. The
old men would gather in his house every evening to listen
to the news, and it is often it came to a rowan-tree battle*
between them, some of them siding with the English and
others with the Germans.
* Reference to a legend of Finn.
One morning the villagers were driving their cattle as
usual on to the hill, and the first man to come in sight of
the Bay of Dingle opened his eyes in wonder. Not an
inch of sea but was covered in white timber. Such a rush
there was down the path to the quay, hurry and noise,
the grating of oars and ropes, curraghs which had not
stirred from the stays for six years being thrown down to
the water, and every man who had any strength in him
with his hands on his oars!
I was at school the same day with the rest who like my-
self were still unable to lift the bow of a curragh from
the stays. When we came home at midday, my sister
Maura told me in great excitement that the south coast
was full of wreckage. Out I ran and met Tomás Owen
Vaun on the road.
“Your soul to the devil,” cried he, “have you seen the
wreckage?”
“Come south,” said I breathlessly.
We ran out to the point and opened our eyes in aston-
ishment when we saw the sea—boards, beams, wreckage of
every sort covering it; one curragh after another round-
ing the point, down to the gunwale with timber, and
many more in their wake from the west, another out in
the Bay as far as you could see, another leaving the quay
after bringing a load safe ashore. We found it hard to
take our eyes from the sight, but time was passing and
we had to go back to school.
When school was over, and long it seemed till it ended,
we did not stay talking but raced home. Eileen and
Maura were in before me; my grandfather, father, and
brother Shaun out gathering wreckage.
I swallowed my dinner and ran down to the quay. As
I looked from the top of the cliff, I started. Wherever you
looked, there was nothing to be seen but white boards.
I glanced back to the White Strand and my heart leapt.
It was full of beams, some of them threescore feet long.
“Och, devil take it, Tomás, hurry down. The quay is
full of wreck!”
“Is it so?” he cried, the eyes starting out of his head.
We both leapt into the air with delight. “The devil,
Tomás, come south to the Point!”
“Hoo, hoo!” he shouted, throwing his cap into the
air.
When we reached the Point, there was not a child nor
old woman in the village but were seated on their
haunches on every stone looking out over the Bay of
Dingle. The sea was fine and calm with a light breeze
from the south and white beams floating as far as you
could see over the Bay. About twenty yards from the shore
was a plank of wood with hundreds of gulls settled on it
picking the barnacles. Before long I noticed two of them
fighting fiercely, and soon, like any other crowd, one be-
gan helping the other till they were all in the battle
drifting north with the tide.
I looked south to the Skelligs and saw the curraghs
making for home full of wreckage. We waited till they
reached the Point, when we all ran down towards the
quay, like the gulls themselves, and had great enjoyment
dragging the timber up the slip. Soon the light of day
was quenched and the wreck-gatherers had to put their
curraghs on the stays, well satisfied with the day's work
and their bones aching after all the rowing since morn-
ing.
Next day the quay and the strands were a grand sight,
big timbers lying here and there and not a curragh with
less than a hundred planks.
“By God,” one man would say, “war is good.”
“Arra, man,” said another, “if it continues, this Island
will be the Land of the Young.”
The war changed people greatly. Idle loiterers who
used to sleep it out till milking-time were now abroad
with the chirp of the sparrow gathering and ever gather-
ing. There was good living in the Island now. Money
was piled up. There was no spending. Nothing was
bought. There was no need. It was to be had on the top
of the water—flour, meat, lard, petrol, wax, margarine,
wine in plenty, even shoes, stockings, and clothes. Not a
house in the Island but a storeroom was built beside it to
keep the gatherings, and, without any exaggeration, when
you entered one of them you would think you were in
a big town, with all the barrels of flour piled on top of
one another, tins of petrol and every sort of riches; and
when the old man or the old woman came round, all they
had to do was to make for the barrels of wine and help
themselves to a draught. Buyers were coming from all
parts of Kerry to buy the wood, to buy the wax and every
sort of oil, so that money was being made rapidly. There
is no doubt but a curragh can make a wonderful stand
in a foamy sea. For from my own knowledge I can say
that from that time, though storms might come, she
would be out over the waves like a feather.
One Friday the King had gone to Dunquin for the
post, and, as I have said already, the whole village, young
and old, had to be on the quay to meet him.
“How is England doing, Pádrig?’” asked the Púncán,
when the letters had been given out.
“The devil,” said the King, “it is likely the end of the
world is coming, for they are making no stop now and
England is going to send out conscription through the
whole of Ireland.”
“Bad indeed so, bad indeed so,” said the Púncán,
spitting tobacco.
“Ah, that’s not the tidings we want,” said another man,
“but did you hear of a ship being sunk in any place
since?”
“The devil,” said the King, “one was sent down yester-
day morning near Cork Harbour, the Lusitania, the
finest ship the Americans ever had. They say there were
millionaires in plenty on board and isn’t it a terrible
thing that not a sinner of them came ashore alive. If this
breeze lasts from the south tonight, the coast of the Island
will be full of drowned men tomorrow.”
No one went to sleep in the Island that night. Many
‘were out on the headlands, north, south, east, and west,
others up at cock-crow next morning in search of the
millionaires. It was a Saturday and there was no school.
As soon as I got up I went south to the Point. It was a
fine morning, not a puff in the sky. I sat on my heels and
scanned every inch of the Bay. After about half an hour
I thought I noticed something far out to sea. I could not
make out what it was. I rubbed my eyes thinking it might
be only a fancy, but then I saw it again and two sea-gulls
settled on it. Certain of my opinion now, I ran home.
“By God, father,” said I, “I have seen something, what-
ever it is.”
“Is that so?” said he, getting up. “Go south again and
I will call Mick” (his brother).
I darted back to the Point. When I got there I found
Liam Tigue before me with a stoop on him, peering out
to sea.
“Is there any wreckage in the Bay, Liam?”
“Indeed I think I see something between me and Slea
Head,” said he, pointing south-east. “Look and see if you
could make out what it is.”
“By God, Liam, it is one of the millionaires.”
“As sure as I live,” said he, getting up.
I walked up to the ditch and Liam back towards the
village. With a glance down to the quay I saw my father
and uncle putting out in the curragh and pulling hard
past the Cliff Well to the south. When Liam saw them
leaving the quay: ‘You rogue,” said he, coming back to
me, panting, “it is well you knew your father was going
after it.”
“Is that my father?” said I, mocking him.
“It is, and well you knew it.”
My father was near it now. “Faith,” said Liam, “it is
a human being.”
They drew alongside it. Then we saw the man in the
stern leaping to the bows and the man in the bows leap-
ing astern.
“It is a human being, indeed,” said Liam, “and the
man in the bows hasn’t the courage to throw the rope
round it.”
They had it tied now and were turning home. We
stayed as we were till they came towards the Point.
“On my oath, Liam, it is a human body. Do you see it
standing straight down in the water?”
“You are right, for that is the lifebuoy under its head.”
Shortly afterwards, with a pull from the rope, the pale
face turned towards us in the sunlight.
We ran down the quay. It was a terrible sight, the
eyes plucked out by the gulls, the face swollen, and the
clothes ready to burst with the swelling of the body.
“What's that you had?” said Eileen to my father when
they came home.
“A dead body.”
“And what will you do with it?”
“Oh, we will bring it home,” said he, smiling.
I went out to the door. I saw a curragh making for
the quay and I thought it was peelers were in it. I ran
back in excitement.
“The peelers are come to the quay,” I cried, and my
father got up from the table.
He went to speak with the sergeant. It was arranged
to take the body to Dunquin so that the peelers could
take care of it till its people would take it. They went
down to the quay and I slipped into the curragh—my
father, my uncle, and myself in one of them, and the
peelers in the curragh from Dunquin. When we reached
the Great Cliff, the body was taken out and stretched on
the quay. The sergeant began searching the pockets,
all of us looking on, but soon he drew back again. ‘The
smell was too strong. No one had the courage to go
near it.
But there was one old man called Mick of the Hill
standing beside us with his hands in his pockets, He
walked up and stood over the body. He put a foot on
each side of it, took his hands from his pockets, looked
first at us and then at the body. He went down on his
knees and began to open the coat. When he had the coat
and vest open, he put his hand in one of the pockets and,
drawing out a small diary, he handed it to the sergeant.
I was standing by. When he opened the book the first
thing I saw was the drowned man’s name written like
this:
Henry ATKINSON
3 Edward. Street, London, W.C.
First-class Officer S.S. Lusitania.
In the other pockets were found a watch and gold
chain, a comb, a mirror, and three sixpences.
“Keep the sixpences yourself,” said the sergeant, “you
have earned them well.”
“Musha, God leave you your health, my son,” said
Mick, putting them in his pocket.
They all helped to carry the body to the top of the cliff.
Then they laid it in the sergeant’s motor car and went off
with it to Ballyferriter.
When I went out the next morning there was a light
swell on the rocks and you would think from the look of
the sky and sea that a change was coming. I was sitting,
one foot up on the ditch, looking north and south, deep
in thought, when Tomás Owen Vaun came running
breathlessly towards me.
“Easy, Tomás!” said I, “take it softly. I think, by the
look of you, you have seen something.”
“Oh, Lord,” he cried, “it is not that, but Shaun Lane
has a big boat full of sailors!”
“Och, whist, don’t be telling lies like that.”
“The devil a lie. They are rounding Long-Rock Head
with her.”
He ran off without another word. Looking after him,
I knew by the rush he was in he had spoken the truth. I
ran into the house.
“The devil,” said I to my father and grandfather, who
were before the fire, “Shaun Lane has a boat full of
sailors round Long-Rock Head!”
“Who told you so?” asked my father.
“Tomás Owen Vaun.”
“Och, Tomás is like yourself,” said my grandfather,
rising from the chair and taking up the broom to sweep
the floor.
I returned to the ditch and sat with my hand under my
chin, gazing steadily at the horizon in hope of seeing the
boat on its way from the west. Before long I saw the bow
of a curragh beyond the Spit and the men rowing hard.
I am thinking you were right about the boat, Tomás,
said I in my own mind. Just at that moment she came into
sight. She was full of people.
I ran in again. “The devil,” I cried, “the boat is round-
ing the Spit.”
Before you could clap your hands the news had gone
through the village. Young and old were out on every
clump of grass, some of the children running into hiding
for fear of them, others jumping for joy, old pensioners
who had not been able to leave the chimney-corner creep-
ing to the doors to see the sight. We ran down the quay.
The whole village was there, and such a crush that some
were up to their knees in the sea. But little they cared so
long as they got a view of the sailors.
As the boat came into the pool, the first thing we
noticed was three black men on board her. There was
another man, too, a Chinaman, with a small round face
and a snub nose, eyes like two pins and long black hair
down his back. Some were singing, some asleep, others
were talking. You would think they were a flock of geese,
some speaking English, others Italian and I know not
what. ‘They leapt out on to the slip, fifteen in all, some of
them strong, others unable to stand.
One of them, standing just beside me, was over six
feet tall, with a long narrow face, a beard over his breast,
a big fat nose and two little black eyes under prominent
brows, a scarf twisted round his neck, a horn-peaked cap
on his head and long boots up to his knees. I wonder, said
I to myself, looking up at him, will I ask him where he
is from. I tried to speak but something came into my
throat. I tried again.
“Where are you from?” said I.
He looked down at me and laughed. Then he gave out
a great rush of talk. Another answered him, and indeed,
you would go anywhere to listen to them, though you
could not understand them. Then the last man to leave
the boat spoke out and greeted the people in English.
My father spoke to him.
“I suppose you are the captain?”
“I am not, but the mate. I will tell you what happened
to the captain.”
Everyone gathered round,
“We were on the sea for a week, thrown east and west
on the top of the waves. We left Buenos Aires bound for
Cork. When we were about twenty miles south-west of
the Teeracht we met a submarine. It drew up alongside.
The captain spoke, ordering us to take to the boats as he
was going to sink the ship. Five boats we had and we got
them out as fast as we could. We were not far from the
ship when the torpedo struck her and we saw her going
down by the stern. Well, my good people, we are on the
sea ever since, for the weather was bad, and, what was
worse, we were scattered like the sons of Lir.* Och, it was
a terrible destruction,” he cried with tears in his eyes,
stretching his hands to the sky. “I had three brothers in
the other boats and no news nor tidings of them since.”
* Reference to one of the legends. Lir, father of Manannan, was
the old Irish sea-god. He has drifted into English literature under
the guise of Lear, while his son’s name is preserved in that of the
Isle of Man.
“They are safe with the help of God,” said my father;
“have no fear for them.”
“Indeed, I don’t know,” he said. “But with regard to
the captain, there’s no doubt he was a bad one. We had
no food in the boats but biscuits. He was giving us only
one biscuit a day and no water at all. He was giving me
enough, but I didn’t like the way he was treating the
others. The crew rose against him. They told him three
times if he didn’t give every man his right they would
throw him overboard. And then,” said the mate, “do you
see that big dark fellow over there?”
“The devil, my lad,” said old Mickil, looking at him,
“that fellow has a bad look in his eye.”
“Well, that man got thirsty and asked the captain for
a drink. The captain refused, and the fellow from beyond
leapt from the bows and caught him by the throat and
threw him into the sea.”
“Ah, that was bad,” said my father.
“It couldn’t be helped,” said the mate, “for he had a
big knife ready to put into the guts of any man who spoke
a word against him.”
When the mate had finished his story, the sailors were
brought up into the village and got what attention it
was in the power of the Islanders to give them. In three
hours, when they were all washed clean and shaved, with
an hour’s sleep, you would think they were not the same
men, all but the three black men who were unchanged
but for the shine on their faces after the washing.
They came down chattering to the quay, the whole vil-
lage following them, for everyone was amazed at their
talk, and especially at the black men.
“Great God of Virtues,” cried an old woman who
would not believe there were such people in the world,
“why wouldn’t they clean themselves?”
“Arra, Maura,” said another woman, “it is not dirty
they are but black from their birth.”
“Oh, musha, my pity for you entirely, isn’t it you who
has the skull of a chicken to tell me there are people
like that.”
“Arra, Maura, don’t be foolish. Isn’t it often I heard
old Andrew when he came home from America saying he
saw hundreds of those there?”
We went down to the quay, for the sailors were going
to Dunquin. I was standing at the top beside Shaun
Michael and old Mickil. We saw them walking down the
Causeway and the three black men out before the white
men.
“Achvan,” said Shaun Michael, “isn’t it a strange thing
those wouldn’t clean the coal from their faces?”
“The devil, my lad,” replied Mickil, ‘all the water in
Thresher’s Well wouldn’t clean them, for it is not dirt
that’s on them but a black skin.”
The black men stopped near by, looking out to sea and
talking in their own language, whatever it was.
“The devil, my lad,” said old Mickil, “I don’t like the
look of the big fellow, wherever he's from.”
“Take care of that one,” said the Púncán, who had just
come down; “he will eat you alive.”
“Musha,” said old Mickil, turning to him, “may he eat
yourself if the spittle isn’t down over your chin.”
I laughed so loud that the black men looked down at
me with a vicious look in their eyes, thinking that it was
at themselves I was laughing.
They walked down the slip, some singing, some talk-
ing, others with heads bent as if in trouble. They all went
into the boat except one who was still out on the slip,
shouting and roaring, though none of us could under-
stand him.
“Oh, Lord,” said one man, “maybe he is going off his
head, God between us and evil!”
He was leaping in anger.
“The devil, my lad,” said old Mickil, “if that man be-
low is not tied he will make corpses.”
There was a laugh here and here. When he heard the
laughter he rushed up to us in a poisonous haste, chatter-
ing fiercely. He pointed with his finger to the top of the
village: “‘Sacca, sacca, sacca!” and then a long rush of
talk. The mate shouted up to him from the boat, and he
gave a bold reply. You could tell it was bold by the
energy he put into his voice. Then he ran up as fast as he
could to the village.
Everyone thought now that he was out of his wits.
“God between us and evil,” said one man, ‘what had
better be done with him?”
“Give him tether for a while,” said another, “till we
see is he dangerous.”
“Upon my word, maybe he would do away with him-
self on the cliffs and we had better run after him.”
We watched him running till he went into the house of
Liam Tigue. The next minute he was out again with a
bag in his hand.
“Your soul to the devil,” said Shaun Michael, “it is the
bag. He left it behind him.”
“You are right,” said Shaun Lane. “That was the sack-
sack he was seeking.”
He ran down the path and passed us on his way to the
slip. Then, turning round towards us, he cried, so it
seemed to me, “Gurlamacras, gurlamacras!”
“May your journey prosper with you!” answered old
Mickil.
“Gurlamacras,” said he again with a smile.
“The devil, my lad,” said Mickil, “it wasn’t gurla-
macras with you just now when you had forgotten
your bag.”
He leapt aboard. The boat moved out through the
pool, the men waving their handkerchiefs till they were
out of sight.
One Tuesday in the month of May I washed and cleaned
myself with a heavy heart for school. Then I wandered
out and sat down at the end of the lane to wait for my
comrade, Tomás Owen Vaun.
Before long I saw the master coming down the glen.
I was smitten with the weariness of the world. How en-
vious I felt of the old men who were driving up their
cattle into the hill, even of the bird that would float
above my head, with nothing to trouble it but it singing
to itself when it wished, and flying off when it wished,
and going asleep when it wished. When shall I be a man?
When shall I be free from the oppression of the master
I see coming down the glen?
Tomás came up. “We'll be late,” said he. He was
smiling.
“Do you not feel at all lazy before school, Tomás?”
“Ah, musha,” said he with a frown, “if anyone is as
bad as I, I don’t know what to say.”
“As bad as you! Oh, Tomás, if you are as bad as I am,
I am content, for I thought there was no one in the world
so wretched as myself.”
We went inside and sat down on the bench. The mas-
ter took up a book. “Now,” said he, “we will do some
dictation.”
“Oh, Lord!” said Tomás, giving me a prod in the
thigh.
“Long, long ago,” dictated the master, “there was a
man living in the village of Ballyboy.”
But he had only read so far when we heard a clamour
outside. I looked out of the window and saw the Púncán
and the King going down the Causeway with thole-pins
and ropes, three or four hurrying after them, all with
the same gear. “Your soul to the devil, Tomás, more
wreckage!”
The master went out to the door. He stayed there a
while and then walked up to the mistress.
“Something wonderful is after happening,” said he;
“go out and see what it is.”
“The devil take you,” I whispered to Tomás, “the
dictation is over.”
The mistress came back, looking pale.
“What has happened?” said the master.
We were all listening.
“A big ship has gone down in the Sorrowful Cliff.”
He opened his eyes in astonishment. “Look after the
school till I come back,” said he.
“Look now,” said Tomás, ‘we'll have the day under
the hedge.”
We were all in the hurry of our lives for twelve o'clock,
making the noise of the world without any thought of
the dictation, for we had no fear of the mistress. She her-
self was in and out the door all the time, ever and ever,
till twelve o’clock came. Away we ran joyfully as fast as
our heels would carry us.
Great King of Virtues, it was a marvellous sight—tins,
barrels of flour, big black boxes, big white boxes, big
boxes of bacon, not a living being to be seen nor a
curragh on the stays.
“The devil, Tomás, come west to the Spit of Seals’
Cove. It’s there the whole village is gathered!”
Away we ran leaping for delight. As we approached
the Great Glen we met Maura Andrew with three card-
board boxes. “Oh, my heart, a big ship is gone down on
the Lóchar Rock and the sea is full of all sorts of riches,”
said she.
We ran off wildly and darted like birds along the lane
to the west till we went down on to Shingle Strand.
Everything was in confusion—boxes and chests of every
shape and colour, not an inch of the sand but was cov-
ered in wreckage.
“Oh, Lord,” cried Tomás, throwing his cap into the
air, “we are rich for ever!”
As soon as I set foot on the shingle, I saw Mickil
Shamus on my left with his head in a barrel, Dermod
O’Shea beside him and his mouth stained with drink.
“What is in the barrel, Dermod?”
Mickil Shamus drew out his head. There was the same
stain on his mouth.
“Now is the time for you to blow out your waists,” said
Dermod.
“What is it?”
“Cod-liver oil.”
I put my head over the barrel.
“Ah, don’t be sniffing it, crow, but swallow it down.
It will put marrow into your bones, a thing they lack
now.”
I took a mouthful, but if I had got a thousand pounds
I couldn’t have taken more. I spat it out.
At that moment I heard a shout from Tomás: “Oh,
the devil, Maurice, look east at the King with all the
chocolates!”
He had opened a big chest which had a number of
small boxes inside it, and he was laying them out on the
shingle. “Now, my lads,” he called out, “if you have
good teeth!”
He gave each of us a box. Thanking him, we ran east
among the rocks and sat down without a word of talk till
at last we were sick of the taste of them, for they were
very strong.
“Your soul to the devil, Tomás, isn’t it well we camel”
“Your soul to the devil, it is true for you.”
A great din was being raised from one end of the
Strand to the other, for as each curragh came in, everyone
was hard at work rolling the boxes and barrels above
high-water. We were half-way across the Strand when we
saw one with Big Peg and Maura Maura Owen. It was
all they could do to move it. We stopped to help them.
“Musha, love of my heart for ever,” cried Peg, “youth
is good. And as the wren said long ago when he pulled
the worm out of the frost . . .”
“What did he say, Peg?”
“‘Ah,’ said he, ‘strength is fine,’ and that is the way
with the two of us.”
We were pushing away at the barrel, laughing gaily
at Peg and her nonsense, for she was a great talker, till
the barrel struck a big stone.
“My love to God,” said Peg, “if it were in our power
to get it over that stone, we would be on the pig's back.*
Shoulder to shoulder, my friends!” said she with a shake
of her shoulder-blades, moving in to the barrel.
* Reference to the death of Diarmuid in the legend of Diarmuid
and Grainne.
We played our whole strength on it and got it over
the stone. We didn’t know yet what was in it; but we
were not long in ignorance, for when the barrel fell down
on the far side of the stone the hoops burst and it fell
asunder. In a moment fine red apples were leaping out of
it and hopping like balls down the Strand.
“Och,” cried Peg, “that’s done it.”
Away she ran, herself and Maura Maura Owen, gath-
ering up the apples. But everyone was now taking part in
the snatch for them, Peg in the east and Maura in the
west throwing every devil and demon at the others to
leave the apples alone. And indeed when they had done,
those they had were easily counted. As for Tomás and
me, we were not behind-hand in the hunt, and we hid
all we gathered at the east end of the Strand.
On our way west again we noticed two men up in the
Cave of Shevaun de Londra doing something secretly. We
followed them. They had not seen us yet. They had a
pretty, decorated box, not another like it on the Strand.
It was full of watches,
“Oh, Lord,” cried Tomás, “look at the watches!”
They overheard us and shut the box quickly.
“Be off with you!” cried Pats Lane, running after us to
drive us away.
When we had gone a little distance we stopped.
“Hucs!” cried Tomás, “we know what you have.”
“Get out of my sight!” shouted Pats Lane menacingly,
picking up a stone.
“Hucs, hucs!” we cried together and ran away west
along the Strand.
In the end we were weary looking at all the wreckage.
“What about going to see the ship?”
“Oh, Lord,” said I, “you are right.”
When we came to the mouth of the path from the
Strand, we found Shaun Liam and two others opening a
big box.
“Wait till we see what they have here,” said I.
They were not long taking off the top with an ax.
There was a big roll inside, twisted up together like
glass.
“Wait awhile,” said Maurice Pad, taking a box of
matches out of his pocket.
He put a match to the stuff. It took fire at once, the
flames running through it with a terrible roar.
“Oh,” cried Liam, ‘‘draw back quickly for it will do
harm!”
“My love to God,” cried Big Peg, “the devil is done and
the little village burnt!”
We all fled into the Cave of Shevaun de Léndra wait-
ing for the explosion. But it did not come. We crept out
again. The flames were roaring up into the air.
“God give us the grace of patience,” said Peg, “for
I had no thought but it would send the Strand and all on
it in shreds into the sky,”
Just then the master came down the path panting, for
he was big and fat.
“What burnt the box?”
“Arra, musha,” said Shaun Liam, “we had no thought
but it would explode on us.”
“What was inside it?”
The devil I know, master.”
Tomás and I were scraping among the ashes which
had been left after the blaze. I found a piece still un-
burnt. I handed it to the master. “Ah,” said he, examin-
ing it, “it is a great pity it was burnt. It was gelatine,
very costly stuff.”
“Och, God be with us,” said Shaun Liam, scratching
his head, “‘isn’t it a great pile of money we have de-
stroyed!”
“My love to God,” said Peg, raising her hands, “what
I have to say now I think no fault can be found with it;
that if men knew what was the purpose of each thing,
what it was good for and what it was worth, not one of
their seed would be poor for seven generations.”
Tomás and I climbed the path. When we came above
the Sorrowful Cliff it was an astonishing sight. Nothing
but wreckage! Without a lie, you could have walked out
from the Spit of Seals’ Cove and gone ashore in Inish
Túiscirt without wetting your foot, with ail the cotton-
bales, chests, boxes, and appurtenances on the sea.
“Oh, Lord,” said Tomás, “how did any ship carry
all that?”
“By God, it passes understanding.”
Soon we were in sight of Lóchar Rock where the ship
struck. The two masts and the funnel were still above
water.
“There is no doubt she was big enough, Tomás. Look
at the bay of sea between the masts!”
The old women of the village were sitting on their
haunches on the cliffs edge looking out, a curragh com-
ing to the quay with a load and another leaving, the
coves ringing with the sound of blows on the boxes out
to sea. Every curragh had an ax, and when they found
a box too big to bring ashore they split it open on the
spot, and when a seal would put up his head to take the
air he would only have his snout out of water when he
would hear the blows and down he would dive again in
alarm.
Before long we saw a curragh rounding the bottom of
Well Point, followed by a boat in which were two sailors.
We all made for the quay. When they came ashore, the
King spoke to them in English. One of them answered.
Glancing into the boat I saw another man stretched out
on his face without a stir. “Oh, Lord, Tomás, look at the
sailor dead in the boat!”
Tomás O’Carna and Shaun Tomás went down and
lifted him out. He was alive, but could not stand. They
helped him up to the house of Mickil Nell.
“It appears,” said the King to the sailor beside him,
“that the man above is very weak. How did the ship
happen to go in there last night?”
“I am the captain and this is the mate, and the man
above is a seaman. We left New York with a cargo of all
sorts for London. On our journey we got a message that a
submarine was on our route before us.”
"I understand you well,” said the King, shaking his
head.
“What I did then,” said the captain, “was to change
my route and turn north-east. Then the mist fell and I
didn’t know where in the world I was. I was blind out.”
“It is no wonder,” said the King, shaking his head
again.
“I turned the ship south-east then and that is how she
struck in there. And, would you believe it, half an hour
before she struck she grazed on a rock?”
“I believe you well,” said the King, “for you couldn’t
help striking Tail Rock in the direction you came.”
“It was about three o'clock in the morning. I ordered
the crew to take to the boats. We left her safely, three
boats in all, but I don’t know where the other two are
gone.”
“Oh, upon my word, they are alive, for they were seen
going up the Bay of Dingle today.”
“That is good,” said the captain. “I thought then,” he
went on, “that it might be possible to go ashore where
the ship struck. The seaman who is after going up told
me to make fast a rope round his waist and out he leapt.”
“Oh, Lord,” said the King, “and I dare say it was dark
at the time?”
“You wouldn’t see a finger put into your eyes.”
“Well, well,” said the King, shutting his eyes in pity
for them.
“He swam in, we holding the rope. But after half an
hour in the water he had found no place where it was
possible to get ashore, and there was a great sweeping
swell on the rocks. We thought then that it was some
backward country with no one alive in it. But, upon my
word,” said he, glancing around, “you are here—fine, well-
favoured people, mannerly, intelligent, generous, and
hospitable.”
“Indeed,” said the King, “we are very thankful to you
for the praise, But I promise you, since the war began, it
is many a sailor has been saved here from the sea. And as
for attending them well, they get what we have. But you
must be cold and wet standing there. Come up into the
village.”
The sailors spent two or three hours with us. When
they had eaten and rested, they said farewell to the
people of the Island and departed for the mainland.
From that out there was plenty and abundance in the
Island—food of all sorts, clothes from head to heel, every
man, woman, and child with a watch in their pockets;
not a penny leaving home; everything a mouth could ask
for coming in with the tide from day to day—all except
the sugar which melted as soon as it touched water.
A week later there came a heavy storm from the north-
west and every sea-bank began to break and sweep foam
up on the green grass, the waves thundering on the
Strand, dogs howling at night on account of the gale, as
is their habit, a whirlwind whistling through every alley
the way you would think it would snatch the roof from
the house. Everyone was waiting in expectancy, for there
was no telling what might come out of the ship if the
storm broke it up. They took little sleep, but spent their
time keeping a watch on the strands and the coves and
going into the hill to look down at the ship.
It was a Monday. Tomás and I were talking at the
bottom of the lane with no thought of school but of the
wreckage.
“What would you say to going west to Shingle Strand,”
said I, “to see if there is anything thrown in?”
“Your soul to the devil, come on,” said he eagerly.
The gale was shrieking across the Pass of the Hill-
Slope from the west. When we reached the Sandhills we
had to cling fast to each other to keep our feet. We went
down towards the Strand. The din was terrible. An enor-
mous wave would break in and sweep the shingle up to
the foot of the cliffs. Then it would churn up the stones as
it receded. We had to put our fingers in our ears to stop
the noise.
“Oh, Lord, Tomás, Let us not go down. We'd be
drowned surely!”
“Do you know where we'll go? Out on to the Spit of
Seals’ Cove to see the wreck in the Sorrowful Cliff.”
We made our way in the teeth of the howling wind,
each with a drowning man’s grip of the other. From time
to time a gust would throw us to the ground. "I think,”
said Tomás, “we had better not trust ourselves out on
the Spit.”
The words were not out of his mouth when we were
both covered in a spurt of foam which soaked us from
head to heel and sent us sprawling on the grass. We lay
there for several minutes before either of us could speak.
“Where are you, Tomás?” I cried in the height of my
head.
"I am here,” he shouted.
I rubbed my eyes.
As I got up it seemed as if there were a ton weight in
my body with the water. “Get up, Tomás,” I cried, “be-
fore we get the same again. It is lucky we were not to go
any farther for we would surely have been thrown from
the cliff.”
We walked up to Donlevy Spit. The sun was strong in
the sky, so we stripped off every shred we had on, wrung
the water out of our clothes and spread them out in the
sunshine. Our teeth were chattering with the cold.
It was five o'clock when we turned our faces back to
the village. We were aching with the hunger. From every
house came the smell of flesh roasting. When I reached
home I looked on the floor. It was covered with leather,
long strips of it and big cowhides.
“Oh, King of Virtues, where did you get it?” said I to
my father, who was eating at the table.
“Aren’t all the strands in the north full of it?” said he.
Every man and woman was now keeping watch for the
low neap-tide, leaving home at the chirp of the sparrow,
searching every cave, cove, cliff, and crevice, and coming
home in the evening with big bundles of leather, rain-
coats, shirts, strips of cloth, and caps in plenty. Whenever
you looked out to the Pass of the Hill-Slope, or to the
top of the road, or to the road west, you would be sure to
see someone returning home with a bundle on his back.
A week and a month passed with no school nor any
thought of it, and, as the proverb says, that which is long
absent grows cold. The ship’s cargo was at an end now
and nothing to be had on the sea, but everyone was mak-
ing for the strands and coves to gather in the cloth and
the leather. Tomás and I were too young and weak to go
to the strands in the north, but even so we were not be-
hind with the plunder, though we were only searching
Blind Cove, Boat Cove and the Shingle Strand.
The next Sunday evening my grandfather and I were
sitting by the fire. My father and my brother Shaun were
gone since morning to Mass, and my sisters were walking
through the village as is the habit of the girls on Sunday
when the weather is fine.
My grandfather was telling me stories of old times.
While we were talking, my father and Shaun returned
and a stranger with them they had brought from Dun-
quin. My grandfather got up to welcome the stranger and
gave him a chair beside the hearth.
He was a short sturdy man, well-favoured, shy-looking,
with the length of my hand of moustache. He sat staring
straight into the middle of the fire as if his thoughts were
elsewhere. After a while he took an old pipe, as black as
soot, from his pocket and thrust it into the ashes. He had
not a word to say but as we would question him.
When Eileen had the tea ready: “Now, stranger,” said
my father, “come over to the table. Do not be backward
but make yourself at home as long as you are here.”
“Thank you,” said he.
“If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from,
stranger?” said my grandfather, when we were all sit-
ting in.
“I was born in Cúl-na-gapóg on the east side of Dingle,”
said he when he had swallowed down the mouthful he
was eating.
“And where are you spending your life since?”
“Musha, I have walked the world twice over, good
people.”
“Faith, that’s good news,” said my grandfather, “for he
who travels has tales to tell.”
When he had eaten his fill (and he seemed in need of
it) we moved back to the fire, a fine red fire which it was
the wont of my grandfather to make up at the fall of
night. Maura and Eileen went out again to stroll from
cottage to cottage. I decided to stay at home in the hope
of hearing stories from the stranger. My father lit the
lamp. The stranger was puffing at his pipe, my father and
grandfather the same.
“Isn't this a fine, nice place,” said he at last, a look of
contentment coming on his face.
“Hm,” said my father with a laugh, “it looks all right
now but you would not say the same if you were here in
the winter.”
“I suppose so,” said he, spitting after the pipe.
“I dare say,” said my grandfather, “it is many wonders
you have seen on your travels?”
“Musha, I assure you it is many a savage dog and a bad
housewife the likes of me comes across, and I have passed
through many hardships since I gave my heels to the
road.”
“Ah, musha, that’s a true saying,” said my grandfather,
looking at him with compassion.
“But so far as my own experiences go, I will tell you all
to pass the night.”
“Very good,” said my grandfather, settling himself to
listen.
“As I have said already, I was born in Cul-na-gapóg.
I had two brothers but, if so, death soon carried them off.”
“Ah, that is the way of the world.”
“We had a fine piece of land, but, as folly strikes many,
I sold it out when my father and mother died and I
turned my breast to the great world. I went to America.
And the strangest thing I ever saw, it is there I saw it.
“A Clare man and myself were lodging for three years
in the one house in the city of Springfield, and were
working in the same employment. When the day’s work
was over we would wash and clean ourselves and take a
stroll into the city. Well, one Saturday evening we wan-
dered out into the street without a trouble or a care in
the world.”
“I suppose so,” said my grandfather, uncrossing his
knees and recrossing them the other way.
“We were not far down the street when the Clare man
gave a leap and shouted, ‘What the devil is that dog
doing between us all the night?’ I looked and, sure
enough, there was a big black dog walking along with us.
We began trying to drive it away but it would not stir.
‘Wait,’ said the Clare man, picking up a stone, ‘I will
soon make him scamper.’ ‘Stop,’ said I. ‘Don’t touch
him.’
“Well, old man,” said the stranger, turning to my
grandfather with a piercing look, “would you believe it,
I was lifted clean off the street, and how it happened I
do not know but I awoke inside a graveyard the like of
which I had never seen before.”
“By my baptism,” said my father, “that was a queer
thing.”
“No doubt of it,” said my grandfather.
“I got up and looked round me,” continued the
stranger. ““There was not a house nor any dwelling to be
seen. I rubbed my eyes. Great God of Virtues, I cried,
where am I? Am I dreaming? Where is the Clare man?
I swear by the book I was like a man who would be out
of his senses.”
“On my soul, it was no wonder for you,” said my
grandfather, eagerly listening. As for myself, my heart
was leaping with delight, the way it seemed I was there
myself at that moment.
“Well, men,” he continued, “I was trembling hand and
foot. ‘Twelve attempts I made to get out of the graveyard,
up to my hip in grass and shrubs. At last I succeeded, but
I was as blind as ever as to where I was—a great green
meadow all round me and not a light from God above.
I was walking on and on, a small, narrow path out before
me, until at last I saw in the distance many lights. My
heart opened. Faith, said I to myself, that is the city,
wherever I may be at present. I went towards it and soon
I saw it was a big, beautiful castle. If it is no better let it
be no worse, said I, but where am I going? What was
troubling me most was the man who had been with me
the evening before and the strange black dog. What were
the delusions which had come over me and how on the
earth of the world had I parted from them?”
“Upon my word, it would confuse anyone,” said my
grandfather.
“No doubt of it,” said my father.
“Well, I made towards the light, for I said to myself
that wherever I was the people of the house would di-
rect me. It was approached by the most beautiful path
sinner’s eye ever beheld, a nice stairway up to the door
and flowers of all hues bordering it on every side. The
lights of the castle were dazzling me. Before long I ran
straight into a tree and was thrown backwards. “The
devil, you are a queer tree,’ said I, looking up at it. I
continued on my way along the path. By now I was get-
ting a sweet smell and could hear the sound of meat
roasting.
"I went up the stairs. There was a man before me
standing outside the door, his two hands under his arm-
pits, his sleeves turned up. I tried to speak with him but
all he did was to bend his head, like this.” (The
stranger got up, put his two hands under his arm-pits
and bent his head.)
“I swear by the devil, when I saw what he was doing
I felt very queer and a chill came into my blood. I
looked in through the door. There was a room before
my face. At the far end I saw a fine handsome girl
sharpening knives and talking rapidly. I put a listening
ear on myself and it seemed to me she was Irish. On
my left was a big table laden with riches, six men seated
at it, everyone with a knife and fork, eating and con-
versing together. But as soon as they saw me they stopped,
put their hands under their arm-pits and bowed their
heads. And as sure as I am here tonight, old man,” said
the stranger, striking his fist on my grandfather's knee,
“I recognized every one of them, all of them dead for
years before.”
A cold spasm ran up through my body.
“Well, well,” said my grandfather, “it is a wonder the
soul did not fall out of you.”
“The devil it is,” said my father.
“Indeed,” said the stranger, “I had my courage then
as well as I have it now, but I felt very queer when I
recognized the six. I wanted to speak to them but my
tongue would not let me.”
“No wonder for you,” said my grandfather.
“He made a good stand,” said my father, relighting
his pipe.
“Go on, stranger,”’ said I, for I seemed to be seeing
the six men with their heads bent down and I did not
want the story interrupted.
“Well,” continued the stranger, “when I got no heed,
I wandered out again. The man at the door was still
there and in the same posture. I took no notice of him
but walked past for I thought he was of the other
world.
“I was walking on and on again with no sight of the
city of Springfield yet nor any tidings of it to be had.
On I wandered, not knowing east from west, until at
last I turned into a lane no wider than myself—a big
wall of cement ten feet high on either side. I was walk-
ing along the lane for half an hour when I heard a bell
ringing behind me. Looking back I saw a bicycle com-
ing towards me like the wind. I could not get out of the
way. It was impossible. God save my soul, said I, he will
split me. I looked back again. He was nearer now, a big
lamp of light on the bicycle and no slackening speed. I
looked up at the wall to see if I could climb it. But at
that moment the bicycle passed me like a whirlwind.
That was the strangest thing of all. I did not feel him and
the lane no broader than myself. Musha, said I, may the
great King of Glory guide me aright. Where am I go-
ing? Or is this the path of eternity? I walked on very
slowly.”
"I should think so,” said my grandfather, his hand
under his chin, “especially since you thought you were
on the path of eternity. Musha, God help us all on the
day of judgment,” said he, lifting his hat and putting
it on again.
“I was going on for an hour when I seemed to hear
the sound of talk behind me; I looked back. It was still
a long way off. I was rambling on till it came nearer. I
looked back again, and, by God, it seemed to me it was
the milkman.”
“Begging pardon for interrupting your story,” said
my grandfather, “but what is a milkman?”
“A man who goes round with milk from house to
house each morning,” said the stranger. “And we knew
each other well. I stopped. Sure enough it was he. I
greeted him.
“Devil take you, Donal,’ said he, ‘what ails you to
be out so early in the morning?’
“What time is it?’ said I.
“It is not four o'clock yet. I suppose you were out
drinking all night?’
“‘Arra, man,’ said I, ‘let me alone. God alone knows
about that.’”
“Praise be to Him on high,” said my grandfather,
baring his head again.
“What place is this?’ said I to the milkman.
“He laughed aloud. ‘Do you mean to say you don’t
know where you are?’
“I looked round and my two eyes opened. I was stand-
ing in the middle of the street where the moment before
was the path of eternity. I knew the street well. Why
wouldn’t I when I was only a hundred yards from my
own house! I was left without a word, thinking at once
of the Good People, that it was they who had deceived
me.
“Get into the cart,’ said the milkman.
“When I reached home the woman of the house looked
at me compassionately. ‘Oh, Dónal, what did you do
with your companion last night? He is upstairs in bed
and cannot live,’ said she.
“The Clare man was stretched out, every bit of him
as black as coal. He could not speak to me and so I went
for the priest. ‘Is he in danger of death, father?’ said I.
‘He is indeed, and it is not a natural death either.’ So I
told him all that had happened. ‘I believe you well, said
he, ‘and it was that big castle and the six men you knew
in it who saved you from the black dog.’”
“Well, well,” said my grandfather, drawing a few sods
of turf from the corner and putting them on the fire,
“it is wonderful the distress you have suffered!”
“God forbid I should ever go through the like again,”
said the stranger, putting his hand in his pocket to find
his pipe.
“Amen, O Lord,” said my grandfather.
“Amen,” repeated my father. “Apparently,” said he,
when he had his own pipe going as he wished, “they
have a good time of it in the other world.”
The three of them were now sending smoke through
the house, myself listening and hoping for another story.
My heart was snatching at just such another from his
mouth. When he had smoked his fill: “Here, take a pull
out of that,” said he, handing the pipe to my grandfather.
He stretched back in his chair, stroking his mouth with
his hand.
“On my soul, old man, I have passed through hard
times since I was born, but do you know the place that
killed me entirely? The red army of England!”
“Upon my word, I should say that is a bad place!”
said my father.
“It is indeed,” said the stranger, spitting. “A couple
of years before the war with the Boers I was so vexed
with the world that I left America and went to England.
And what did I do there but enlist in the red army
though I soon wished I had not.”
“Ah, wisdom comes after action,” said my grandfather.
“True,” said the stranger; “for wherever the yellow
devil may be it is there he was surely. After three weeks
of drilling I swear by the book my bones were sore from
my little toe to the roots of my hair!”
“Upon my word I often heard people saying the same,”
said my grandfather.
“Oh, my sorrow, it is I who know it. If you did any-
thing wrong there was nothing for it but a beating with-
out pity or remorse.”
“I suppose so, my son.”
“But, by God, I thought of a shift—-to take my half-
pound of soap and swallow every bit of it until I was
as sick as a dog. The doctor came and ordered me to
the hospital.”
“No wonder!” said my father with a laugh.
“I suppose you were not in danger of death?” said my
grandfather.
“Not at all, my son. Well, off I went, glad to have
that much peace, but, I tell you, as soon as I would begin
to recover I was to go back again at once. For two days
I lay stretched on my back and while I was there I be-
came acquainted with an old man who was stretched in
the bed next to my own. Like any two who became ac-
quainted in a strange place, we had great confiding in
each other so that we had a long talk every day together
on the ways of the world. In the end I held my own affair
to the old fellow, and he gave a fine, mirthful laugh when
he knew all.”
“He would indeed,” said my father.
“ Faith,’ said he as soon as he had stopped laughing,
‘dirty Dónal is a brother to tattered Tigue!’
“Why do you say that?’ said I.
“ ‘Because I myself spent a bit of my life in that army
and I had the trouble of the world trying to get out
of it.’
“‘Musha, what shift did you think of to be rid of
them?’
“If the shift I thought of will do you any good I
will do my best to help you, for I know your affliction
well and so I have great pity for you.’”
“Upon my word,” said my grandfather, “he was a
nice, good-natured man.”
“It seems so, indeed,” said my father.
“Well,” continued the stranger, “the old man gave me
his advice. ‘When I was like you,’ said he, ‘I was vexed
and tormented with the world, and my curse on drink—
that was the cause of it.’ ‘Ah, you are not the only one
drink made a slave of,’ said I. ‘I know it,’ said he, ‘Anyway
I enlisted in the red army like yourself and I need not
tell you the way it is with the rookie at first. There was
a rub here and a rub there and, by God, in the end I
would rather have been drowned. I got the advice of
an old soldier to eat the soap and I ate it. But as soon
as I was well they took me in again the way I was as
bad as ever. So, do you know, Donal, what was the shift
I planned but to let on I was as deaf as a stone and gone
queer in the head and, faith, they had to let me go in
the end. But if you play the same trick have no fear but
they will give you enough to do. They will try this on
you and they will try that on you. But don’t yield. By
your ear, don’t yield.’”
“Faith,” said my father, “it was a great shift.”
“It was indeed,” said my grandfather.
“Well, three days after that I left the hospital and
the first morning I went out drilling I put a big hump
on my back and every queer look on myself. ‘Straighten
your back!’ shouted the officer angrily, but I took no
notice. Arra, my love among friends, at that he made at
me with the butt of his gun in the small of my back and
took a good shake out of my limbs. I leapt up as if he
had taken me by surprise. ‘I beg pardon, sir,’ said I, ‘J
did not hear you! ‘What's that you say?’ said he, scowl-
ing.”
“How would it have been with you then,” interrupted
my grandfather, “if you had gone up to him nicely and
struck him on the bridge of the nose?”
“Mo léir, if I had done that they would have torn me
to pieces, my son.”
“By God, I would have done it,” said my grandfather
with an impudent look on his face.
“Upon my word you wouldn't,” said my father; “that’s
only fireside talk, my boy.”
“Well, I straightened myself up until the officer gave
another command. ‘’Shun!’ he cried, but I did not stir.
Over he came, looking like the devil, God forgive me for
saying it. “What ails you?’ said he. Not a word out of me.
‘What ails you?’ he shouted, giving me a push. I jumped.
‘I am deaf, sir,’ said I. He pulled me out of the ranks.
Soon he brought along another officer taller than him-
self. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I did not answer. The
two officers stood talking. Then a man came up behind
my back and another before my face. But I had learnt
my lesson well from the old soldier and knew what was
to come. The man behind fired a shot over my head but
I remained as firm as a post.”
“By God, you made a great stand,” said my father.
“They kept me there for a couple of days trying every
trick on me. I cannot help laughing when I think of the
other dodge they tried. I was told one day to go for a
walk. I went out through a narrow passage where on
either side were storehouses. But, if so, I knew it was
not for my good they gave me leave to go walking. What
happened then, astór, but some of the officers were inside
the houses and now and again one of them would throw
out a penny to see if I would turn for it. I walked on and
the money ringing in my ears after me, but that is all
the heed I gave to it. To make a long story short, they
had to let me go in the end, and that is how I got out
of the red army.”
“Musha, may you be better a year from today*,” said
my grandfather, looking at the clock. “How pleasantly
you have shortened the night for us!”
* A blessing.
“Ah, there is no limit to the man who travels,” said
my father.
“It is true,” said I, making my voice heard as well as
the others.
The next morning as soon as I lifted the cloth from the
window, the sunbeams poured in, dazzling my eyes. I
was not long looking out when school came into my
thoughts and scattered the fairness of the morning for
me. Oh, Lord, said I to myself, isn’t it quick and care-
free I would go into the red army rather than to school!
When I was washed and cleaned I sat down to break-
fast. My grandfather was already there, the stranger be-
side him.
“Faith, Maurice, there is nothing better you could do
today,” said my grandfather, “than to take the ass and
bring home a load of turf from the mountain.”
My heart rose to my mouth with delight. “I will do
so,” said I, my lips trembling with happiness.
I did not eat half my fill but went out and west to
the Sandhills leaping like a goat. Back at the gardens of
the Storm I met Shaun Fada with his two asses.
"I wonder, Shaun, did you see my ass back towards
the Sandhills?”
He stopped and looked at me, then out over the
Sound. “My soul from the devil, I saw him with the tide
through the Sound to the north and a sea-gull on his
back.”
“Long sea-gull on yourself,” said I, going west to the
Sandhills where I found my ass back on the Point of
Seal Cove. I leapt on his back and we were not long,
I and my little black ass, when we came up with Shaun
through the Great Glen to the east.
“Faith, you have found him since,” said he, taking an
echo out of the glen.
“Get out of my way,” I shouted, my ass at full gallop,
I lashing away at him as we overtook Shaun.
“The devil take you!” he cried, and I going past him
like the wind, “what is the haste or do you want to kill
all before you on the road?”
I did not answer him but gave another lash to the ass
and away I went in delight.
When I had him harnessed I went into the house to
get my stick. “Maybe you would like to see the hill of
the Island?” said I to the stranger.
“Faith, it is not well for me to stay in the house,” said
he, getting up.
We went up the Causeway. The village children were
on their way to school, Tomás Owen Vaun among them,
his bag of books under his arm. When I saw how glum
he looked I smiled.
“It is fine for you to be going into the hill,” said he,
but that was all he said for he was shy before the stranger.
“May the day prosper with you, Tomás,” giving a
lash to the ass and departing up the road.
“Is that Iveragh?” said the stranger, pointing his finger
to the south.
“It is.”
“On my soul it is a fine wide prospect.”
“Oh, it is a great sight when the sky does be clear.”
We went on as far as Fearee-a-Dúna. There we sat down.
“What is the name of that great rock in the north-
west?”
“The Teeracht, where the lighthouse is.”
“Is that the Teeracht now? It is a long time since I
heard a man in New York singing a song about it and
when he had finished he cried out, ‘My thousand sor-
rows,’ said he, ‘that I am not near it today.’”
“It seems he knew it well.”
“He did indeed. Wait now, I think I remember it,
the verse I got from him that day.” And the stranger be-
gan to sing:
“On a fine fair day and I plying the sea to the west
I came upon the Teeracht far out into the bay,
Where was music of birds flying over the green grass
And little fish in hundreds frolicking in the nets,
“I think it is a verse from “The Little Heather Hill.”
From the day I heard it, it remained in my memory.”
“I understand that, for it is very beautiful and espe-
cially to hear it in a foreign land from a man of your
own race.”
“The devil a lie you have spoken,” said he, drawing
out his pipe and lighting it.
I was delighted to see the pipe for I was very fond of
smoking now, as much as any old man. And so I began a
great talk—not a hill or mountain, cove or cliff, rock or
strand did I leave without giving its name to him, hoping
he would give me a smoke. When he heard the name
“Bay of Dingle,” he gave a laugh. “Musha,” said he, “do
you know what happened to me after leaving the red
army? It is the Bay of Dingle put me in mind of it. When
I came home I had not a house nor a dwelling but a
night here and a night there and not a ha’penny in my
pocket.”
“It was very hard on you,” said I, my eye on the pipe.
“Well, I came into Dingle one market day and I paid
a visit to the quay. There was a steamboat stretched
alongside and the devil if the captain wasn’t short of a
man. ‘Is there any man there, said he, ‘would work
his passage to England?’ I cocked my ears and walked
towards him. ‘I will.’ ‘Very well. Come aboard now, for
the boat is due to leave.’
“The work I had to do was to keep up the coal in
the boiler, and that place was the devil itself for heat.
Every half-hour I had to throw off my shoes to let the
sweat out of them.”
“Oh, Lord, and how long would you be at the task?”
“Four hours at a stretch.”
“Och, it was too long,” said I, looking again at the
pipe. It was out and he seemed to have no inclination
to give me a smoke. So I was not too well satisfied. I
tried to ask him for it, but I had not the courage. At
last I thought of a plan. I took out of my pocket an old
clay pipe and struck it on my palm. “Faith,” said I, feel-
ing in my pocket, “I have forgotten my tobacco. I must
have left it at home.” (I had no such thing at home, but
I wanted to show the stranger that I was fond of a
smoke.)
“Oh, don’t have that to say, my boy, there is plenty of
it here,” and he drew out a big lump of it. “Help your-
self to that.”
“Thank you,” said I, as pleased as a duke, “Well, go
on with your story.”
“I promise you,” he continued, “when I had made my
way across and set my feet on English soil, I left the ship
and the captain and took myself off. I spent a couple of
days there, loitering. The intention I had was to escape
to America in one of the liners from Liverpool.
“One evening as I was rambling along the quay and
I in old rags the way nobody would notice me, I saw
three liners alongside ready to leave. One thing only was
troubling me—I did not know where they were going and
I did not like to creep into any of them for fear it was
not to America she would go. I spoke to a man who was
standing near, without letting anything on, you under-
stand?”
"I understand well,” said I with a dog’s life at the
pipe.*
* i.e enjoying himself.
“I spoke to him nice and gently. “Those are three fine
ships,’ said I.
“They are good ships without a doubt” said he looking at me keenly.
“I suppose they are all going to America?’
“They are not, only the middle one.’
“I suppose she will be leaving at once?’ said I, putting
the question nice and innocently.
“ ‘She is due to go at six in the morning.’
“Well, when I had got all my information I slipped
aside, and when night came I slid down on the quay
again, a bag of bread under my arm and I like a mouse
ready to creep aboard. I kept an eye on every nook and
corner till at last I got an opportunity to slip on board
unknown to the sailors.”
“And in what part of the ship did you hide?”
“Arra, man, I went aforeships into a big dirty pipe.
But I did not mind so long as I would get across. Well,
I was in there, without sight of day or night, but it did
not matter. Everything went well till I came to the end
of my provisions. It was then I lost heart.”
“It was no wonder for you.”
“It was not,” said he with a shake of the head, filling
his pipe again. “Well, that was where the trouble was,
hunger coming over me and not a bite to be had. I lost
patience. I had to find something or be starved to death.
So I was thinking and reflecting, and the end of it was
that I remembered the boats above to be full of biscuits
as was usual. So it was my intention to creep up at night-
fall and get into one of them for I would never be seen
inside, since those boats do be always covered in canvas.
“When night came I rose up cautiously and looked
around. All was still save only the whistling of the pulleys
and the sound of the waves alongside the ship. I crept
out sideways and stood up, and, if so,” said he, striking
his palms on his knees, “I could scarcely stand upright
on my feet, my legs were so weak beneath me. There
was no one alive on deck at the time and I was from
step to step until I went up into one of the boats. I raised
the canvas and crept in and sat down comfortably be-
tween two thwarts. But the devil take it, Maurice,” said
he, striking his hand on my shoulder and making me
jump, “when I opened the box it was empty!”
“Och, God be with us, wasn’t that bad luck for you!”
“Don’t speak of it, and God send that such a mis-
fortune may never overtake me again. It was all one to
me then whether I lived or died. I was spent with the
hunger and making no headway.”
“Were you far from land at that time?”
“Arra, man, wasn’t she stretched alongside the quays
of New York the following morning?”
“Oh, man dear,” said I, smoking away to my heart’s
content.
“Well, now was my trouble how to get ashore. It was
now my heart was a-flutter with fear and a shiver going
through my body when I heard the sailors talking and
walking round and thinking every minute they would
lift the cover from the boat. That day seemed a year to
me, and what wonder with ne’er a bite nor a sup had
gone into my guts for two days before! Night came at
last. I had some knowledge of the officers’ duties, so I
knew there do be five minutes with no one at all on the
deck. But what good was that to me when I was not
carrying the time? So all I could do was to make a guess
and there’s no doubt but it was hard for me. Well, at
about two o'clock in the morning I fancied the time
had come, for it is then they do take a rest. Carefully I
lifted the cover and put out my head. I glanced round.
No one alive was to be seen, but lights in plenty and a
fine view of the quay. I said to myself that it was the
time of the rest surely. I arose and put out a foot very
carefully, for it was nailed boots I had on. When I was
out of the boat I did not leave an inch of the deck with-
out examining it minutely. Not a soul nor a sinner was
to be seen. But the worst of it was there was an iron
staircase down to the lower deck and I had to get down
that staircase however I managed it. Twelve rungs it
had, and you would need to be strong, agile and nimble
to climb down them.”
“I suppose so,” said I, “and you, yourself, were not so
at that time.”
“You may say so,” said he, shaking his head. “Well,
said I to myself, God guide me aright, will I make the
attempt? My courage came to me then and I moved to
the head of the stairs. I started down from rung to rung,
But when I had passed the seventh, the devil if I didn’t
slip and fall down in a heap on the deck and take a
ringing echo out of the ship!”
“Och, man, wasn't that a great pity, and wasn’t it
strange you didn’t think of taking off your nailed boots?”
“It is true,” said he pitifully, ‘but wisdom comes after
action. Well, I tried to get up, but I was too weak, and
the flutter of the world was on me for fear I would be
seen.
“I was not long there when I heard the walk of
shoes towards me. I knew I was caught. God save my
soul, said I. The words were not out of my mouth when
the officer was standing before me. He looked at me,
caught me by the shoulder. ‘What brought you here?’
said he angrily. ‘Musha, I am one of the sailors.’ ‘And
what brought you here?’ said he again. ‘Musha, I was
seized with sickness in bed and I came up on deck to take
the air.’
“He stopped for a while, looking at me keenly, and
my heart leaping with the hope that he would leave me.
At last: ‘Come along,’ said he.
“He brought me out into the light and, my sorrow,
it was easy for him then to see what sort I was. I was
foul and dirty and my clothes all awry. He turned me
this way and that. ‘I guess you are a stowaway. Come
onl’”
“Oh, man, wasn’t it a thousand pities and you along-
side the quays of New York?”
“Oh, you don’t know half, since you were not in my
shoes,” said he, his tears falling.
“It is true, and you in the place where your heart was.”
“Isn’t it that which was killing me entirely, but there
was no help for it. They kept me in prison for twelve
days until the ship was due to leave again. When she re-
turned to England they let me go and I am wandering
here and there ever since.”
“Long life to you,” said I, “you have shortened the
morning well, You can wait here now till I return, That
is my heap of turf to the west,” said I, pointing towards it.
It did not take me long to fill the load. When I came
back the stranger was stretched his full length on the
grass.
“Isn’t it fine and healthy air on the top of this hill?”
“You may well say so.”
We reached home very hungry the way every morsel
went to our satisfaction.
As I have said already, I had let school drop for some
time on account of the wreck. I was growing up now
without a care or a trouble in the world. I had no home
lessons at night to sicken me, nor did I spend Sunday
night waiting fearfully for Monday morning. I was free
from the oppression of the master.
In the month of May 1919 my father came to me. “T
wonder, Maurice, would you be loath to do a lobster
season with us this year?”
“Indeed I would not,” I cried eagerly.
He laughed, a laugh which seemed as if he were saying
in his heart, Upon my word, you will be loath yet, my
lad.
How happy I was now, a grown man fishing lobsters
with my father! I longed for the month of June, to be
out on the sea. Soon we began making the pots out in
the booly, stripped to the shirt, working away at them
while my grandfather sat on the green grass putting tops
on the twigs for us.
“I dare say, daddo,” said I, “it is many a day since you
made your first pot.”
“It must be near twoscore years ago now.”
“Is that all?” said I in surprise.
“That's all indeed, for we hadn’t the knowledge be-
fore then.”
“How did you get the knowledge?”
“I will tell you,” said he, throwing aside the twig he
had finished topping,
“It was some Englishmen who came to Beg-inish,”
and he looked out to Beg-inish as he spoke. “They had
a big boat and they used to spend the week there fishing.
That is why the old ruin is to be seen on the island still.
Well, Maurice, one day we were going out to Mass—
the King, Shaun Fada, and I—and we were rowing at
our ease past Beg-inish to the north when my oar caught
in a rope. ‘Draw it in,’ said Shaun, ‘to seewhat is the
meaning of it at all.’ I began drawing it up, and faith,
on every fathom of it was a cork. I thought that very
strange and before long I felt a big weight on the rope.
I was drawing and drawing till I had it up to the gun-
wale. What was it but a pot with a big red crayfish inside,
though none of us knew what a crayfish was at the
time.
‘My heart from the devil,’ cried Shaun Fada, ‘it is
the devil himself is in it. Throw it out quickly!’
“Don’t throw it out,’ said the King, ‘but we will take
it to the English people for I dare say this is the fish
they are hunting for, whatever it may be.’
“Well, the trouble now was to get it out of the pot,
for whenever I put in my hand to catch hold of it, it
would give a leap and make a great clatter inside.
“Your soul to the devil,’ shouted Shaun again, ‘throw
it out, pot and all, for it is the old fellow surely that’s
in it.’
“Don’t throw it out,” said the King.
“I was playing it, ever and ever, till at last I got it out
and now it was crawling backwards and clattering about
in the curragh. It crawled under Shaun’s feet. ‘My heart
and body from the devil,’ said he with another shout, ‘it
will do harm,’ and he leapt up from the thwart.
“'Take it easy,’ said the King, ‘it won’t kill you.’
““Musha, upon my soul you don’t know what it would
do with the devilish haste it is in. Don’t ye see all the
spikes and horns on it?’
“'Take it easy,’ said the King again, ‘till we row in
to Beg-inish and then we will learn what it is.’
“We went in and two of the Englishmen were before
us on the shingle. They greeted us and we greeted them,
one of them with Irish as fine and fluent as our own.
“Where did you get the crayfish?’ said he.
“Faith, said Shaun Fada, ‘that’s a name we never
heard before, my good sir.’
“We told them how we found it and the wonder we
were making of the pots, and we spent the day in their
company till in the end they told us how to make them
and the people of the Island are fishing lobster ever
since.”
“Faith, daddo, I never heard you tell that before.”
“That is how it happened,” said he, taking up another
twig.
When June came, it was very fine. It would gladden
your heart to look out to sea, the sea-raven standing on
the rock with his wings outspread, the ring-plover and
sea-pie foraging among the stones, the sea-gulls picking
the limpets, the limpet itself relaxing its grip and the
periwinkle the same, the crab and the rock-pool trout
coming out of their holes in the stillness of the sea to
take a draught of the sweet-smelling air. So that it was
no wonder for the sinner to feel a happiness of heart
as he travelled the road.
When we had the pots ready we turned our faces west
to Inish-na-Bró—my father, my uncle, and myself. It was
a great change of life for me, doing a man’s hunting
now. We laid a pot in every crack in the rocks along
the north coast of Inish-na-Bró. It was a wild backward
place, great dizzy cliffs above my head in which hundreds
and thousands of birds were nesting, the guillemot, whip-
peen, common puffin, red puffin, black-backed gull,
petrel, sea-raven, breeding together in the wild cliffs;
seals in couples here and there sunning themselves on
the rocks, each bird with its own cry and the seals with
their moan, a dead calm on the sea but for the little
ripples moving in and making a glug-glag up through
the crevices of the rocks.
I was sitting in the middle of the curragh, taking heed
of all around me, as happy as any mother’s son. Now
and then I saw a puffin coming in from the sea with a
bundle of sprats across its bill, and I began to reflect
on the life of the birds, what great wisdom they have
to provide for their young. What was the difference be-
tween the nature of man, the nature of the birds and of
the seals? We were fishing lobster to nourish ourselves,
the puffin providing for its chick, and the seal stretched
out on the rock above after its labours. How strange is
the way of the world!
When we had the pots laid in the sea, we went ashore
on the island. It was a delight to be in it, the stones ready
to burst with the heat, clumps of thrift on every inch
of the ground, and bright flowers blooming. I sat down,
the sea-birds settled round me, many more flying through
the air with a great clamour as they came in from the
sea, a haze floating across each hill and hanging at the
foot of every cliff, a path of gold stretching out before
me as far as Bray Head and every ripple glistening in the
sunshine.
I got up and looked round. My father and uncle were
nowhere to be seen. I turned my face straight north
through the White Furrow. Rabbits fled before me on
every side. I went to the top of Sailors’ Strand, hundreds
of feet high. I saw the birds nesting in the black cliff,
others coming in towards me from the sea. It seemed
as if they were playing tricks on me. They would make
straight towards me, then curve out to sea, then, by the
same curve, in again. I looked down at the shore far
below and saw the seals stretched out on every rocky
ledge. I stayed a while watching and listening to the cries
of the birds, the moaning of the seals, and the murmur
of the waves. Then I turned up towards the Gaps, the
highest hill in the island, soft clumps of thrift under
my feet, and a wide open view southward to Iveragh and
the Skelligs, where the gannet nests, and so eastward to
the Bay of Dingle and Kerry Head. I was sitting on a
fine soft clump of thrift, sinking right back into it, think-
ing and ever thinking of the creation of the world, when
I heard a whistle. I raised my head and looked round,
but no one was to be seen. Then I glanced far down to
the landing-place where we had moored the curragh and
saw my father, cap in hand, beckoning me. They were
going out to draw the pots. I ran down the slope of the
hillside, leaping from clump to clump. Halfway down
I got a start, for I heard a sharp scream under my feet.
I had leapt on the back of a rabbit which had been sit-
ting on its haunches at the mouth of its burrow. I took
it up, but the life was crushed out of it. I ran on, very
proud to have caught a rabbit without dog or trap, a
thing Cos-fé-Chrios* could not have done in his prime.
I made no stop nor stay till I reached the landing-place.
* Foot-under-Girdle. Name of a legendary hero who was so swift a
runner that with one foot tucked under his girdle he could out-race
all other men.
We turned west through the Narrow Sound. Not a
stir of swell on the rocks, a heron standing on the shore
before me with his neck straight out as if watching a
fish, a ring-plover and a sea-pie by his side; and you
would think the heron was a giant beside them but it’s
little fear they had of him. We were drawing the pots
one after another till we had drawn the last and had a
nice load of lobsters after the day.
I had now spent a month on the sea, as happy as a
prince returning home in the evening and setting out
with the chirp of the sparrow. But one day when we
were out as usual, I noticed a difference. The fine view
was not to be seen, there was no gladness in my heart,
the birds were not singing nor the seal sunning himself
on the ledge, no heron, ring-plover, nor sea-pie was at
the water's edge picking the limpets, no path of gold
in the Bay of Dingle nor ripples glittering in the sun-
shine, no sultry haze in the bosom of the hills, no rabbits
to be seen seated with ears cocked on the clumps of thrift.
A gale was blowing from the south, and, where the water
lapped before, the waves were now hurling themselves
with a roar against the rocks, not a bird’s cry to be heard
but all of them cowering in their holes, big clouds sweep-
ing across the sky ready to burst with the weight of the
rain, the wind howling through the coves, the bright
flowers above me twisted together in the storm, and no
delight in my heart but cold and distress.
“I think the day means ill,” said my father, “and we
had better make for home.”
We rowed straight out to Skellit Head to get above
the wind in order to raise the sail. I was in the middle,
holding the jib-sheet, jets of foam flying aboard, the sea
heaving out from her bows, the waves thundering around
us, a white path of foam behind, the pulley at the mast-
head whistling in the wind, and the rain falling heavily.
Oh, Lord, how she darted through that sea! As each
squall caught her, she heeled over so far that she shipped
a great flood of foam. I was anything but easy in my
mind now, the water leaping into the air and the storm
blowing, ever and ever, till we came in to the quay.
It is little desire I had to be telling my grandfather
of the beauty of the place that night.
“Well, Mirrisheen, you have had your first day of the
struggle of the world.”
“I think, daddo, there is nothing so bad as fishing.”
“You may be sure of it, my bright love.”
It is many a rumour and old wives’ tale does be going
around in the run of Lent, by fireside, in lane, in field,
on strand and hill-top. You would see paying visits from
house to house old women you would never see at any
other time of the year. Many will agree with me in this,
for I have not spoken without authority. I have seen them
myself, suffering from rheumatics throughout the year,
but as sure as there is a cross on the ass they would stretch
out their old bones at the beginning of Lent and go
from house to house in quest of news, seat themselves
beside the fire, hand round the old clay pipe, and gossip.
Walking the road, you would see them in twos and
threes sitting on their haunches here and there talking
of this boy’s match and that girl’s match, not one of them
true. But that did not matter. They would believe the
leprechauns themselves for the happiness of mind it
gives them to be talking in such a way.
One fine day in Lent I wandered west to the house
of old Nell. She was sitting alone in the corner with her
pipe in her mouth.
“God save all here,” said I, putting my head through
the door.
“A blessing from God on you, bright love,’
“Sit up to the fire; the day is a little bit cold.”
I sat on the fireside chair which was well polished
with age.
“Musha, is there any news from outside?” said she.
“There’s not, musha, Nell, unless you have any your-
self.”
“Yé, my sorrow and the sins of my life, I don’t know
where would I get news sitting here from day to day.”
“But the old women who come in to you have great
mouths on them for gossip, Nell.”
“Musha, it is little heed I give to them. It is the tobacco
mostly that brings them here, and they do be inclined
to talk when they get it.”
“But I dare say if they didn’t get the tobacco they
would be no good.”
“Ah, bad luck to them, if they had anything better to
do it is not to me they would come.”
“Musha, Nell, company is a fine thing, you know.”
“Oh, I agree,” said she, pulling back the shawl which
was falling over her eyes and taking up the tongs to poke
the fire. “But let us throw the old women aside. Did you
hear of anyone going to marry?”
“The devil I did, Nell.”
“What about Shaun-na-Tay?” said she, lowering her
voice as if afraid of being overheard. “Isn't it time for
that lad to settle himself?”
“Indeed his teeth are well worn by now.”
Maura O’Dála came in. ‘‘God save all here,” said she.
“God and Mary save you,” said Nell, settling herself
in her corner with a smile as if she knew that Maura
would have plenty of gossip. Maura sat on her heels be-
side Nell, who was not long in handing her the pipe, to
set her talking.
“Well, Maura, I suppose you didn’t hear any news
on your wanderings?”
Maura did not answer at once for she was nearly being
choked with all the smoke she was getting out of the
pipe.
“Faith,” said she at last, looking into the middle of
the fire, “a match has been made since last night for the
man from the mainland.”
“Musha, what match is that?” said Nell, shaking her-
self and drawing in her skirt round her feet.
“Shaun Fitzgerald,” said Maura, nodding at Nell.
“Musha, dear God bless the souls of your dead,” said
Nell, stretching her back and drawing a sigh.
“Indeed it has been settled,” said Maura, spitting into
the fire.
“Musha, who is the girl who has the good fortune?”
said Nell slowly and softly.
“Shevaun Liam, upon my word,” said Maura with
another puff at the pipe.
“Musha, the blessing of God with you,” said Nell,
laying her hand on Maura’s shoulder. “And do you think
it is true?” she asked, taking the pipe from her.
“It’s as true as you are sitting there,” said Maura.
Nell began to fill the pipe again.
“Wait till I tell you,” said Maura, passing her hand
through her hair and settling herself for talk. “About
one o'clock last night, when we were all asleep . . .”
“Just so, faith!” said Nell, making ready to listen.
“There came a knock at the door. Tigue got up in the
bed. ‘Who's there,’ he cried. ‘I am,’ answered the voice.
Tigue got out and opened the door, Who was it but
Shaun Fitzgerald and Maurice Owen Vaun! They came
inside and I pricked up my ears.”
“No doubt,” said Nell, putting a live ash in the pipe.
Maura turned to me. “I dare say you have heard this?”
said she.
“I have not, indeed.”
“Go on,” said Nell.
“Well, I stayed there sitting on my heels, pierced with
the cold and listening intently. I thought at once there
must be a match on hand.”
“Especially at the time of year,” said Nell.
“Well, my dear,” said Maura with a cough to sharpen
her voice, “before long I heard the cork taken out of a
bottle and a glass being filled for Tigue. ‘Then Maurice
Owen Vaun came down to the door of the room. “Are
you asleep, Maura?’ said he. ‘I am not, Maurice.’ ‘Come
up to the hearth, so.’ ‘Arra, what’s going on?’ said I.
“Come up,’ said he.
“I put on my clothes and went up.
“A blessing from God on ye,” said I.
“God and Mary save you,” said they all together.
“I sat on the stool by the fire. ‘Musha, if there was a
young girl in this house,’ said I, “I would say there was
a match being made.’
“‘There is, too,’ said Maurice.
“‘Maybe it’s Shaun?’
‘He is thinking of it.’
“‘Musha, may it prosper with him, so,’ said I.
“A glass was poured out for me. I refused it, but
Maurice kept on pressing me until at last I had to drink
half it.”
“Ah, Maurice is good at it,” said Nell, pulling at the
pipe.
“No doubt of it,” said Maura, taking a box of snuff
from her pocket, putting it under her nose and then
passing it on to Nell.
Maura began to sneeze.
“By God, Nell,” said I, “if Maura goes on that way,
we'll have to postpone the story.”
“Musha,” said she, looking at me with a laugh, “we
would like nothing better than for her to spend the day
with it.”
“Go ahead, Maura,” said I.
“Bad cess to it for snuff,” said Maura, “it has me
suffocated. Well, I have no need to make a long story
of it. When I had drunk the half-glass, Maurice spoke
to me: “Would you be loath, Maura, to go with us to
the house of Liam Peg in order to make the match, for I
think you are a good hand at it?”
“‘Musha, Maurice, I wouldn’t refuse you if you think
I can do any good.’
“They all agreed I must accompany them and we went
down the lane to the house of Liam Peg.
“I knocked on the window.
“Who's there?” called Bridget within.
“Open, Bridget,” said I.
“Arra, is that you, Maura? There must be some great
haste on you,” said she.
“Musha, there is not then, but I am perished with
the cold.”
“Oh, musha, long cold on you, wouldn’t you give me
time to put on my old rags?”
“After a while she opened the door.
“Great God of Virtues,” cried Bridget when she saw
the three men with me, ‘what is the matter?’
“I winked my eye at her,” said Maura with a nod at
Neil, “and she understood at once what was going on.
“She gave each of us a chair and put down a big red
fire, smiling to herself as she bustled round.
“Where is Liam, Bridget?’ said Maurice Owen Vaun;
‘he must be sleeping like a corncrake.’
““Musha, he is always so,’ said Bridget, going up to
the room to wake him.
“Well now, Nell,” said Maura, tapping her on the
knee and glancing across at me, “the man who is seeking
a woman does be always in a terrible fright.”
“Musha there’s no doubt of it,” said Nell, clapping
her hands and laughing.
"I wonder, Nell,” said I, “does the woman be the same?”
“The same!” said she with a frown. “She does be far
and away worse than the man. Do you know the night
my own match was made, I would rather have been
drowned in the mouth of the White Strand.” .
“Ha, ha,” said Maura, “don’t believe her, she was in
a flutter of delight that night the same as myself.”
“I have no doubt of it, Maura,” said I.
“Well, no more of that; but, anyway, Liam came up
from the room. ‘A blessing from God on ye,’ said he
in his soft quiet way, ‘God and Mary save you,’ said
Maurice Owen Vaun, getting up, and he had a good drop
taken by that time.”
“It is his father’s nature in him,” said Nell.
“And it’s he is the fine contented man when he has
it taken,” said I.
“Ah, you may say so, indeed.”
“Before long Maurice opened the bottle. He poured
out a glass for Bridget. She drank it sweetly. Then he
filled one for Liam and another for me and I drank the
half of it.
“Oh, musha, hoarseness on you,’ cried Maurice. ‘Why
wouldn’t you drink it off?’
“Musha, dear God bless the souls of your dead, I am
not able,” said I, handing it to Bridget, and she swallowed
it tastily. Then he filled another for Shaun Fitzgerald.
“‘Och,’ said Shaun, ‘I am very sorry I am not able to
drink it for I don’t drink at all.’”
“Oh, musha,” cried Nell with a burst of laughter, “that
good-for-nothing who would drink the sup from the
saddle!”
“Musha, you took the word out of my mouth,” said
Maura, “but if you had seen him last night you would
think by the pious look on him he was the soberest man
on the earth, sitting without a word, though his eyes
were starting out of his head at it.”
“Oh, Lord!” said Nell, taking out the pipe again and
lighting it from the fire.
“Well, in the far end of the night, everyone was pretty
merry, the soft word and the hard word coming together.
Before long Bridget put a whisper in my ear: ‘Musha,
Maura, is it Shevaun that Shaun wants?’
“It is she,’ said I, ‘and if so she will have a man.’
“Faith, said Bridget, ‘I wouldn’t gainsay you. It is
said he has a coffer full of money.’
“'Be sure of it, and there’s another thing, Bridget.
Suppose Shevaun went to America. Maybe you would
never see her again, and neither you nor she would know
what sort of ragged rascal she might come across over
there, for I heard Maura Pats who came home the other
day saying that you wouldn’t know what sort the fellow
was till you had married him, and that it’s then the
women find themselves in the slough of adversity.’
“Oh I believe you well, Maura,’ said she. ‘And an-
other thing, wouldn’t it be nice to have your daughter
married at your own threshold?’
“Ah, you may say so, Bridget,’ said I.”
“I am thinking,” said Neil, “that you had her warmed
by that time.”
"I had,” said Maura, “and so I said to myself, if Liam
were as warmed as she, Shaun would have the victory.
The four of them were in the corner, and whatever they
were talking of, they stopped suddenly and so did we.
Maurice got up and, taking the bottle, made another
round with it.
“ Well!’ said he, sitting on the chair and taking Liam
by the hand, ‘may God preserve your throat and let you
strike up “The Red Man’s Wife"!’
“My sorrow for the dayl’ said Liam, ‘that I can no
longer sing it as I could twenty years ago, Maurice.’
‘Lift up your heart, man,’ said Bridget, ‘and let the
entertainment flow.’
“Liam coughed once or twice to clear his throat. Then
he struck up “The Red Man’s Wife,’ and upon my soul,
Nell, you would go anywhere to listen to him.”
“If he had not lost the voice he had once he must have
been a great wonder.”
“Well, astór, we sat without a word listening to the
song, and there’s no doubt but he sang it well.”
“Above all,” said Nell, “in the stillness of the night.”
“It is true for you, Nell,” said I, “for, for my own
part, I know nothing so delightful, as to listen to a good
singer in the dead of night.”
“You are right,” said she; “it would gladden your
heart.”
“And indeed,” said Maura, “when he had sung the
song, there was a coat of sweat on him.”
“Likely enough, for he is very old now.”
“He is, and what's more,” said I, “he is weak.”
“Maurice Owen Vaun spoke to him then. ‘Musha,
faith,’ said he, ‘it’s a fine sweet voice you have still.’
“'Yé, musha, I’m not half as good as I was,’ said Liam,
‘except for the little drop I have taken which gave me
help and courage.’
“Well, what about yourself now, Bridget?’ said
Maurice.
“'Yé don’t mind a cock like me,’ said she; ‘it would
be far better for ye to be listening to the gander than
to give ear to me.’
““Ah, come now, give us “The Pretty Milkmaid.”’
“He did not have to speak another word before she
struck up the song.”
“Oh, musha, bad cess to her!” cried Nell, “herself and
her goat’s throat!”
Maura and I burst into laughter.
“Indeed, by the book, you are right entirely, Nell,”
said I.
“Well,” said Maura, “when Bridget had sung her song,
and indeed it seemed long to us, Maurice made another
round with the bottle, and faith, if so, everyone was well
warmed by now.
“Maurice got up. “Well now, Bridget and Liam,’ said
he, ‘I have always had a great affection for the two of
you, and so I would greatly like you both to be con-
tented and comfortable. Do you see that man?’ (pointing
a finger at Shaun Fitzgerald). “There’s a man as man-
nerly, well-bred, and steady as any there is in the village.’
“‘No doubt of it,’ said Liam.
“'And don’t you think it is a good match he would
make for Shevaun?’ said he.
“Well, Nell, I looked across at Shaun, and he was so
bashful you would think he was an angel. He would look
first at Liam and then at Bridget.”
"I dare say it was fear that he would get a refusal,”
said Nell with a laugh.
“Well,” said Maura, “Liam began to cough and gave
a glance at Bridget. Bridget was smiling and poor Shaun
in a cold sweat with anxiety. Then Liam stirred in his
chair and gave another glance at Bridget.
‘By the book, Liam,’ said Bridget, ‘it is a good chance
for Shevaun.”
‘No doubt of it,’ said he. ‘He has plenty of land and
the best of land, hundreds of sheep on the hills, to say
nothing of all the money he has saved.’
“‘And, Liam, where would she get a man as good?’
said Maurice Owen Vaun.
“Liam gets up from his chair. "Give me your hand,
Shaun,’ says he. Shaun stretches out his hand. ‘I have
always had respect for you, Shaun,’ says he, still holding
his hand, ‘for your manners and good breeding, and, if
so, Shaun, it is your father’s nature in you. And I promise
you, as far as my own word goes, I am satisfied to let you
have Shevaun and very glad to have you for a son-in-law.
What about you, Bridget?’ says he.
““The very same word!’ cried Bridget, jumping up
and going across to Shaun and taking his hand. ‘Upon
my soul, Shaun, there is not a man from the eastern world
to the western world who would get her but yourself
alone.’ ”
“Well, well, faith,” said Nell, ‘that must have en-
couraged him.”
“Ah, you may say so,” said Maura.
Nell handed me a lump of tobacco to cut and to fill
the pipe. That gladdened my heart, for I was as fond of
it as anyone. I began cutting away, and when I got on her
blind side I cut a good pipeful and slipped it into my
pocket. Then I filled up the pipe and handed it back
to her.
“Put a spark in it and take a smoke yourself,” said she.
“Well, Maura, what about Shevaun?”
“The devil if Bridget did not go down and call her and
before long she came up from the room with a sleepy
look on her.
“'A blessing from God on ye,’ said she.
“‘God and Mary save you,’ said we all together.
"I looked at Shaun and I tell you, Nell, a blush came
into his face and a start into his eyes.”
“I am sure of it when he saw the fair maid standing in
the doorway, and I would not say but he had loved her
always,”
“Oh, I have no doubt but he had loved her secretly
and, do you know, the same blush was in her face.”
“I dare say,” said I, “she knew before she came up
from the room that the match was made.”
“Yé, mo léir, she did, my son. She sat down beside
Shaun, astór, and it is they were the comfortable, smil-
ing pair.”
“Don’t you think the two will do well together?"
whispered Bridget in my ear.
‘I do indeed.’
“Well, half an hour after that everything was settled.”
"I wonder,” said Nell, “what was the dowry he got
with her?”
“Oh, don’t ask me, my dear, but I heard today he got
fourscore.”
“Enough for him.”
“On my oath, he was worth it. Don’t you see the fine
spacious lands he has, the finest and fruitfullest land
from Dingle west?”
“Yé, not minding the land, wouldn’t they live happily
on all the sheep he has?”
I stood up,
“Is it going home you are?” said Nell.
“I am thinking of it.”
“By God,” said Maura, getting up too, "I left a loaf
on the fire when I came out and it is likely burnt to a
cinder by this time.”
We gave a farewell and a blessing to old Nell and
turned our faces homeward, Maura to the west and I
to the east.
On the following evening a curragh came in from Dun-
quin with an invitation to the people of the Island to be
present at Ballyferriter next day, Shrove Tuesday, for
the marriage of Shaun Fitzgerald.
It was a fine evening. I was sitting on a rock over-
looking the sea. There was a light breeze from the east,
frost on the ground, hooded crows flying across the fields
with a caw-caw, thrushes, blackbirds, and starlings sing-
ing sweetly in the meadows; and if you turned your
eyes seaward, herring-gulls and black-backed gulls diving
into the water and a sea-raven among them pursuing
small fish. Out before me were Mount Brandon, Mount
Eagle, and the Macgillycuddy Reeks, clear of all vapour
and mist.
It was a lovely sight, praise on high to God who made
heaven and earth, and I fell thinking of all the happy
days I had spent in the view of those hills and recalled
the words of my grandfather: Twenty years a-growing,
twenty years in bloom, twenty years a-stooping, and
twenty years declining. I looked down over the cliff
where a seal was moaning softly. I wonder, said I to my-
self, are the same thoughts troubling you? Maybe you are
keening mournfully for your fair child which the sea-
swell snatched from you out of your cave, or some such
moan.
Night was falling. I walked up from the cliff’s edge
a little way and sat down. As I looked out again to
Mount Eagle I saw a sickle of gold climbing up behind
the hill. The moon was rising. She ascends very slowly
and sheds a golden light over the shadowy glens. I seem
to hear the meads and valleys utter a cry of joy as if to
welcome her and she smiling down on them with a greet-
ing to Corcagueeny. I seem to see before me, full of
bright laughter, all the boys and girls who were with me
when I was a child. I see them running down the lanes
and hiding themselves—the game we used to play in the
moonlight~and I hear old Paddy crying in the distance
“Caught!” ...I arise and walk slowly towards the
house.
When I came home, Maura and Eileen were busy
ironing.
“Faith,” said my grandfather, “you will have a great
day in Ballyferriter tomorrow, for there will be a dead
calm on the sea to judge by the look of the night.”
I ate my supper and went off to the house of Shaun
O'Shea, where the boys and girls used to gather together.
They were there before me, talking of nothing but the
wedding. I sat next to Mauraid Buckley, a handsome
blue-eyed girl with curly black hair, I felt very happy. I
could not understand it. It seemed to me that night that
Mauraid was the loveliest girl in the Island. I would
never have tired talking to her though we had often been
together before and she had never pleased me so well.
“Mauraid,” said I at last, “I am very happy entirely
talking to you tonight.”
A blush came into her face. “Why do you say that?”
said she with her eyes on the ground.
“Because I love you, I suppose.”
She did not answer me for a while.
“I love you, anyway, whether you are in earnest or
only mocking me,” said she at last.
My heart leapt for joy. How great is the power of the
god of Love. He destroyed the city of Troy, the way
thousands of men were slain for the sake of one woman,
and so it is no wonder he found it easy that night to
subdue me who was young and foolish. Every word that
came from the mouth of Mauraid was as sweet to me as
the song of the lark. How greatly I was deceived by
Cupid!
“Are you going to the wedding tomorrow?”
"I am. Are your”
"I am,” said she, her eyes shining.
We stayed talking together till eleven o'clock and
indeed I would have felt no sleep nor weariness if I had
remained till morning.
After a while the man of the house, Shaun O'Shea, got
up, shook his shoulders and opened the door.
“Off with you all now,” said he, “it is time for you
to be going to the white gable.”
“Oh, musha, Shaun,” said Michael Pad, “isn’t it
strange the sleep never left you? There should be no
haste on the likes of you. Did you never hear it said: A
man without wife or children a man without heed for
anyone?”
“Faith,” said he with a shrug, “you haven't found one
yourself yet.”
“If so, I have not walked the parishes yet in quest of
her as you have done. Come home,” said Michael.
We were up at six, Maura, Eileen, Shaun, and I. It was
a beautiful morning, a streak of light across Cnoc-a-
comma in the east and life coming into everything. The
sheep which had been sitting in the furrow in the run
of the night, arose and stretched itself. The folded leaf
was opening. The hen which had hidden her head under
her wings was crying gob-gob-gob to be let out into the
fields. Bird, beast, and man were awaking to pay homage
to the sun. A moment before not a sound was to be
heard, but now the birds were singing, the cow, the sheep,
and even man himself throwing up their snatches of
song.
We were washed and cleaned and ready for the road,
delight and gladness in our hearts, every minute seem-
ing as long as an hour in our haste to go out to the wed-
ding. How gay is youth, without a trouble or a care in
the world, always full of fun and laughter! Even in the
sight of two hens fighting a cause for merriment!
We went down to the landing-place. We had hardly
reached the top of the cliff when the youths and maidens
were coming down, laughing, from all directions to the
quay. As I think of that morning I move back along the
paths of thought. I see them now. I hear Red Shevaun
bursting into laughter, the idle talk and the nonsense.
. . . Alas, we are as far from each other today as is the
star from Spain.
We put out the curraghs and rowed, stripped to the
shirt, across the Sound till we were approaching Great
Cliff in Dunquin. There must be some magic connected
with the sea, it filled me with such delight that morning,
It was low tide, without a stir in the water; red weed
and wrack-weed lying still on the sand; rocks all around
us warming their pates in the sun; barnacles and peri-
winkles loosening their hold on the stones and creeping
around at their leisure; little groups of crabs coming out
of their holes, a sea-raven and a diver standing on a
reef with their wings outspread to seaward and their
necks craned watching us.
The tide was too low to take the curragh up to the
quay. Everyone was shouting at once what it was best
to do. One suggested we should take off our shoes, wade
ashore, and walk up. One agreed and twelve did not.
At last Shaun Tomás spoke out: “Don’t you know what
is best? Let us go up to Hurdle Cliff.”
It is a calm, handy cove with a little shingle strand
at the head. We jumped out, moored the curraghs and
turned joyfully up into the mainland as is the wont of
the Islander when he gets his liberty. Mauraid was along
with me step by step up the road to the north and I did
not know was I walking on air or earth with the delight
that was in my heart.
When we reached Maum-na-Caroona I stopped and
looked around. The Blasket was stretched straight west
over the sea like a great ship cleaving the waves on both
sides of her, the white houses packed together and smoke
rising up from them, the little Blaskets around like a sow
with her brood behind her.
“Faith, Mauraid,” said I, “if you look into the matter,
it’s wonderful how we are torn out from the mainland,
and I believe, if I spent three days out here, I would
never go in again.”
“I don’t know in the world,” said she, “but it is sor-
row mostly that comes on me when I leave it.”
“The day will come yet when that sorrow will be on
you.”
“Oh, whist, don’t say it; how do you know I won't
marry in it?”
“That is a thing you will never do, Mauraid, for the
times are gone when a man and woman could marry
there.”
“Oh, Lord, Maurice, you are like a prophet.”
“Don’t you see it yourself? The most important liveli-
hood—that’s the fishing—is gone under foot, and when
the fishing is gone under foot the Blasket is gone under
foot, for all the boys and girls who have any vigour in
them will go over the sea; and take the tip off my ear,
Mauraid, if that day is far hence.”
“And what will our parents do when they grow old?”
“It’s my opinion that they will have to do without us.”
“Ah, Maurice, that will be hard if it ever comes to
pass.”
“Suppose now that we stayed at home to care for them,
maybe we would be threescore years of age before we
would lay the last clod on them in Ventry churchyard,
and then we would be too old to go anywhere and who
would lay the clod on ourselves?”
“Ah, that talk is true, but God is strong, Maurice.”
“No doubt, but did you never hear that God ordered
us to help ourselves?
“Who is that coming down the road?” said I after a
while.
“Isn't it like Liam Beg?”
“So it is, though I did not think that man was able to
walk up Maum-na-Caroona.”
Liam came up to us, a thin worn man, nothing but
skin and bones but as healthy as a herring. The front
of his shirt was wide open as was the habit with him.
“My love among friends, the people of the Island!”
he cried. ‘““Have you any news from the west?”
“Indeed we have not, Liam,” said I, “unless you have
some yourself.”
“I have not, my lad. I dare say it’s going to the wed-
ding you are?”
“We are, Liam. Is there any great gathering in the
east there?”
“Musha, I don’t know, but I saw a power of people
passing me up the road. And listen here, boy from the
Island, I met a fellow just now who hadn’t a word of
Irish—a poor, ragged wanderer with his bag under his
arm.”
“It is strange he didn’t understand you so,” said
Mauraid, “for it looks as if he is used to the Gaeltacht.”
“Yé, my pity for you, that wouldn’t be enough.* Wait
now till I tell you a story about the Irish. I saw times
—but you did not see them, for you were not in the world
nor any thought of you—when I was at school,” cocking
his head on one side, ‘and if the master heard a word
of Irish coming from your lips, I tell you, you would
be singing Dónal-na-Gréine by the end of the day. Would
you believe it, I had a little board tied behind my back
with these words written on it: ‘If you speak a word of
Irish you will be beaten on back and on flank.’ ”
* i.e, the fact that he is ragged doesn't prove a man knows Irish.
“Musha, Liam, wasn’t it a great wrong?”
“Ah,” said he, twisting his lips then baring his head,
“but praise and thanks be to God above, it is not so
today. And if so,” he added quickly, “do you know who
we ought to thank for it? The Soupers.2”
“Why is that?”
“Because when they were here in Bally-na-Raha with
their big Irish Bibles, giving half a crown to every man
who would come and read a line or two, without lie or
mockery there wasn’t a man in the parish but used to
be going to them every night, until they were all able to
read Irish fluently. And so it is they who revived it and
preserved it and raised it up—and good day to you!”
And he walked off briskly down the road to the west.
Soon we had a view of Ferriter’s Parish, Mórach Parish,
and the Parish of Kill, the land spread out before us and
2 Protestant missionaries of the Famine period, who sought to in-
duce the peasantry to change their religion by providing them with
soup.
Smerwick Cove running up into it; Crauach Maurhin,
Mount Eagle, and Mount Brandon thousands of feet
above and not a wisp of fog on their summits; hundreds
of houses with their lime-washed walls dotted here and
there; cocks crowing and answering one another, dogs
barking and mares neighing in the meadows below, the
yellow furze blooms shining in the sun and the same
light glittering on the roofs of the houses.
“Oh, Maurice,” cried Mauraid, “isn’t there a great
heart-lift in that view!’
“There is indeed,” said I, looking into her eyes.
“Do you see those two houses by themselves over there
to the north?” she asked, pointing to them, “what is the
name of that place?”
“Which place?” said I, moving closer to her and fol-
lowing her finger with my eyes.
“As far as you can see, far far away to the north.”
“Oh, I see them now; that’s the place they call Black
Bosom.”
“Musha, it’s no lie the name they gave it and the way
it lies in the bosom of the hills,” said she with a laugh,
a laugh sweeter to me than the music of the birds.
We were now within a quarter of a mile of Bally-
ferriter, great crowds of people from east and from west,
for there were to be six marriages on the one day—young
and old, rich and poor, beggars and tinkers, one man
without a word gazing at the crowd, another merry, an-
other mad with drink, a man here arguing, another
shouting, young lads wrestling in the street, the public-
houses full to the brim, Mauraid and myself beaten and
bruised by the crowd, trying to find our companions.
“Take hold of my coat-tail, Mauraid, and don’t let
go of it, for if you do I might as well be looking for a
needle in a field of wheat.”
We pushed ahead very slowly, for with each step for-
ward I was thrust a step back by the swaying crowd.
There was a terrible noise and shouting, for most of
them were staggering with drink the way they could not
put a rein on their tongues. I pressed on, pushed ahead
by Mauraid, till at last we reached the public-house of
Shamus Kane. But we were going from bad to worse, for
we could not put our noses across the threshold. Nothing
but shouting and disputing and drink flying in the air.
“Wait here, Mauraid,” said I, “until I get in somehow,
and if our companions are inside I will come out for
you.”
I went in, pushing and pushing till at last the cap
fell from my head. I bent down to find it, but, if so, I
could not get up again. I was groping around till at last
I got it, but my trouble now was to stretch myself up,
for the weight from above was too heavy on me. A big
man was standing beside me. I asked him to let me get
up. But all he did was to go on shouting. As he gave
me no heed I got angry, so that when I found on the
floor a pin sharply pointed, I thrust it into his thigh. He
lifted his leg from the ground so suddenly that he kicked
the man in front of him, who had a pint of porter in
his hand, and sent both the man and the porter sprawling
on the floor. It is then was the rushing, wrestling, and
gnashing of teeth, for when the other fellow got up he
didn’t saw a word but struck on the bridge of the nose
the man who had kicked him. I struggled to my feet at
last and made my way into the kitchen. But none of my
own people were to be found there. When I came out
again, what a sight was before me! Blood flying to the
rafters and some foolish fellow encouraging the man
from whom it was flowing. “Your soul to the devil, don’t
let down City-cow-titty! Remember your ancestors! Strike
the bostoon!”
I reached the door somehow, but Mauraid was not to
be seen, God be with me for ever, I am alone in the end,
said I. I went down the road and before long I found her
standing shyly under the wall of the house of Liam de
Lóndra.
The poor woman was delighted to see me. “Oh, Lord,”
said she, “I thought you would never come out again.
What delayed you at all?”
“It was like this, Mauraid,” said I.
“Ah, it is well I know that fighting. I thought they
would trample me under their feet!”
“By the book, Mauraid, if they had, they would leave
Ballyferriter dead!”
She gave a laugh which gladdened my heart.
Then we heard the sound of a melodium in the house
of Liam de Lóndra.
“As sure as I'm here, Mauraid, it is in there they are.”
“Come in, dear,” said she.
When I heard her say “dear” I started up like a cat
you would call to its milk. I knew now that she loved me.
We went in, and it is there was the ree-raa, the merry-
making and good fellowship, dancing, singing, and di-
version, all the others from the Island before us, merry
with drink. Mauraid and I danced together that day
in great happiness.
The two of us were sitting now, a good coat of sweat
on us, a couple of sets being danced on the floor. A short,
sharp-eyed, hardy block of a lad came in through the
doorway. He stopped and looked round. Everyone was
watching him till the dances were over. Then he ran
across to the musician, put a whisper in his ear, and took
a goat’s-leap back into the middle of the floor. The
musician struck up a horn-pipe and the dancer beat it
out faultlessly. It is wonderful feet he had, not a note
of the music did he miss, as straight as a candle, not a
stir of his body except down from his knees. The whole
company sat watching him, without a word. You could
hear them drawing their breath. He gave the last kick,
looked around, and cried out:
“I am the broom from the top of Maurhan,
And where is the man who will beat out a step with me?”
No one answered. When he saw no one was rising
to accept his invitation to beat out a step with him, he
disappeared through the doorway.
The day was almost spent now, the sun taking to his
bed, the cow coming back to her byre, even the boy and
girl tired after all the revelry, and the merrymaking grow-
ing cold. My friends and I came together to settle about
going home.
We set out along the road to the west, talking gaily
and contentedly of the affairs of the day, Mauraid and I
keeping company all the way back to Hurdle Cliff in
Dunquin where we had moored the curraghs.
The Blasket was stretched out before us in the west
under a veil of mist, sheep-shearings in the sky, and
thousands of points of light glittering on the sea beneath
the moon. We did not take long to unmoor the curraghs.
Each man took his place and we moved slowly out.
When we were out in Mid-Bay we ran into the heaviest
mist that ever fell. The talking and singing ceased. We
lost sight of the other curraghs; we lost sight of land.
We could see nothing but a little ring of sea around us.
We did not know east from west. There was not a breath
in the sky and the bank of fog lying upon us without a
stir. We were like blind men.
Then we heard a whistle, and another. I whistled in
answer. We were all whistling to each other now, but it
was no help. Mauraid was weeping and crying out that
we were lost for ever, I singing a snatch of a song to give
her courage. But as soon as I stopped she would be as
bad as ever. I was like a mother petting her child, and
indeed for all my fondness for her she had me tormented
at last.
Then I heard a sound like this: “Ding-dong, coo-hoo!
ding-dong, coo-hoo, tee-tee!”
“Listen!” I cried with a hand to my ear.
“What ails you?” said Shaun ‘Tomás.
"Do ye hear anything?”
Everyone in the curragh began to listen. Soon all
could hear it—like irons being struck together.
“By God,” said Paddy Tim, “we are approaching some
crity
“Great thanks to God,” said Mauraid, “that we have
reached some place.”
“I don’t know what we had better do. Shall we stop
rowing, or row ahead?”
“Faith, the best thing we can do is to make for that
sound,” said Paddy Tim.
“If we can do it at all,” said I.
“That is the knot, how to make for it,” said Shaun
Tomás, “for where is it coming from?”
“I think,” said Paddy Tim, “it’s coming from the
north.”
“Indeed it is not. Isn’t it south it is?” said Tigue
O’Shea.
“It is my opinion,” said Shaun Tomás, “that it is back
behind us.”
“Wait now and listen again,” said I; “maybe we could
make it out.”
“Ding-dong, coo-hoo, tee-tee! ding-dong!”
“It’s out before us as sure as I live,” said I.
“Arra, man, don’t I hear it in the north?” said Paddy
Tim.
“It is not,” said Mauraid, “it’s out before us.”
“You are right, Mauraid,” said I.
“Och,” said Paddy, “have you never heard that Maurice
and Kate are one*?”
* Proverbial expression for lovers.
I sat down on the thwart again and put out my oars.
“Row straight ahead, and I promise you we will soon
make land.”
Before long Mauraid, who was seated in the stern, gave
a joyful cry: “Oh, look at all the lights out before us!”
We all looked round. Thousands of lights could be
seen through the fog, and the ding-dong, ding-dong
clearer than ever.
“Your soul to the devil, it’s Cahirciveen!” cried Shaun
Tomás.
“Isn't it Dingle?” said Paddy Tim.
“It’s the Land of the Young,” said Tigue O’Shea softly.
“Faith, wherever it is,” said I, “let us close in before
we lose sight of it.”
We rowed till we were within ten yards of the lights.
It was a big ship at anchor, the biggest I ever saw. “We
must be in some harbour,” said Tigue.
Just then the siren was blown and took an echo out
of the ship. The oars fell from our hands. I thought
Mauraid would faint with the start it took out of her.
“Easy, Mauraid, isn't that the siren she’s blowing to tell
any other ships on the line to stand clear?”
We drew alongside.
“What is the English for rope?” said Tigue to Paddy
Tim.
“Faith, I don’t know,” said Paddy.
“Rope,” said Shaun Tomás.
“Throw down a rope!” cried Tigue at the top of his
voice.
We heard the captain shouting, and in a moment a
sailor came to the gunwale and threw out a big stout
one. The captain was looking down at us. “Will you
come aboard?” said he.
They let down a ladder by the side of the ship. We
all climbed up, I supporting Mauraid for fear she would
fall. Hundreds of lights were to be seen on this side and
that, sailors standing here and there staring at us, some
black and others white, big pipes in their mouths and
they chatting together.
The captain took us down to a nice room. We seated
ourselves. As soon as Tigue sat down he cried: “Glory
be to God on high that we have found this place.” He
looked around. “Great King of Virtues,” said he, looking
at the captain, “isn’t it a fine life he has?”
The captain opened two bottles and poured out a
glass of whisky for each of us and a glass of wine for
Mauraid.
“Your health, captain!” said Tigue, tossing it off.
“Good luck,” replied the captain.
Tigue was talking away to the captain in bad English.
He could hardly understand him and we were bursting
our sides with laughter.
After a while Mauraid and I went up on deck. With
my first glance to the west what did I see but the Blasket,
the fog scattered and the stars shining bright in the sky.
I ran down to the cabin. “By God, men, the night has
cleared.”
“The blessing of God with you,’ said Tigue, getting
up.
We got back into the curragh, left a farewell and a
blessing with the sailors, and moved away.
“Well,” said Maura one day while she was washing the
plates.
The rest of us were sitting round the fire. We turned
round.
“What is the ‘well’?” asked my brother Shaun.
She turned back to the table again, smiling. Then
taking up a cup she turned round again. “The ‘well’
is,” said she, “that I have a great mind to go to America.”
“Oh, you have, musha, you foolish girl?” said
Michael.
“What put that into your head?” said my father, his
face flushing.
“I have indeed,” said Maura, beginning to cry, “for
Kate Peg is going and I have no need to stay here when
all the girls are departing.”
“Do what you will,” said my father, “no one is stop-
ping you.”
“She won’t go,” said Eileen, her lips trembling, “or
if she does I will go too.”
“Arra, fly away at once!” cried my father, waving his
hands in the air, “away with you over the sea and you
will find the gold on the streets!”
Next day Maura wrote to her aunt for the passage
money.
Kate Peg was constantly coming to the house now
and she and Maura talking of nothing but America.
They would run across to the wall where pictures from
Springfield were hanging. “Oh,” Kate would say, “we
will go into that big building the first day, Maura.” Then
the two of them would run out on the floor dancing for
joy. “You will send home pretty things to me?’ said
Eileen. “We will, of course,” said Maura indifferently.
Then Eileen too would dance over the floor.
Three weeks later the passage money came.
She was changed that evening, crying bitterly with the
letter in her hands.
“What is the good of crying so, you foolish girl?” said
my father, who was sitting in his chair with a mournful
look on him. Kate Peg came in, her eyes as red as the
rose from weeping.
“Well, Kate,” said my father, “what news have your”
"I have none, save that the passage money came for
me today. I hear Maura has hers too.”
“She has,” said my father, “and she has been distracted
ever since.”
“Why are you crying so, Maura?” said Kate, raising
her head. “Didn’t you see Nora Pats go with no kinsfolk
at all over there, the poor girl? And isn’t it over there
all your own people are?”
I noticed his cap far down over my father’s eyes that
evening as I had never seen it before. Eileen was in the
far corner crying to herself.
“Faith, it is a fine prospect in store for you,” said my
father with a long sigh, bending over the fire to put a
live cinder in his pipe.
After a while Maura stopped crying, only a sob com-
ing now and then as she put the kettle on the fire.
“Had the King any news when he came in, Kate?”
asked my father, crossing his knees.
“I did not hear any except of the crowds that are
going across to America this week.”
“God help the old people, there will be none to bury
them with the haste that is on the world.”
“There’s no doubt but there is a great change in the
times.”
“Upon my soul, Kate, I remember when there was no
thought of America any more than the chair I am sitting
on, and they were fine happy days.”
Maura was crying every day now. “Musha, I don’t
know in the world,” she would say when she washed the
plates, “will the day ever come when I will be washing
these again.”
It was the same when she would be sweeping the floor.
She would look at the broom and the tears would fall.
Then she would run across to my dog Rose and catch
her up in her arms. “Musha, Roseen, isn’t it many a day
the two of us were west on the White Strand, I throwing
stones into the water and you swimming out after them!”
and Rose would wag her tail and bark for joy for Maura
to be playing with her.
Time was passing and the appointed day approaching.
A mournful look was coming over the very walls of the
house. The hill above the village which sheltered the
houses seemed to be changing colour like a big, stately
man who would bend his head in sorrow. The talk
throughout the village was all of Maura and Kate going
away.
On the last night young and old were gathered together
in the house, and though music and songs, dancing and
mirth were flying in the air, there was a mournful look
on all within. No wonder, for they were like children of
the one mother, the people of the Island, no more than
twenty yards between any two houses, the boys and girls
every moonlight night dancing on the Sandhills or sit-
ting together and listening to the sound of the waves
from Shingle Strand; and when the moon would wane,
gathered together talking and conversing in the house of
old Nell.
The dust was flying from the floor under the heels of
the sturdy young men and girls. I went out to the grassy
bank. The moon was high in the sky and the Milky Way
stretched out to the south-east. I heard the lonely mur-
mur of the waves breaking on the White Strand. It made
me mournful.
Maura came out to me. “Oh, Mirrisheen,” she cried,
throwing herself into my arms and bursting into tears,
“what shall I do without you?”
“Be easy. Don’t you see everyone is going now, and
soon you will see me beyond like the rest of them. Hush
now, let us go in and dance.”
She let go of me and sat down on the bank.
“Lift up your heart,” said I again. “Come in with me
now and the two of us will dance a set.”
When we went in: “Musha, my love for ever, Maura,”
cried Peg Oweneen, embracing her and bursting into
tears, “my life will not be long after you.”
“Strike up a tune, Shaun,” said I to Shaun Pats, who
had the melodium. He began to play. Four of us arose
and I called my sister for the dance.
The day was brightening in the east. We washed our-
selves and made ready for the road to Dingle to give
Maura a last farewell. The sun was rising in splendour
and the cocks crowing all over the village. When nine
o'clock came all the old men and old women were com-
ing down towards the house. All was confusion.
We moved down to the quay, Maura and Kate Peg
in front of us and the whole village following.
The old women were crying aloud. “Musha, love of
my heart, Maura, isn’t it a pity for ever for you to be
going from us.”
“Oh, musha, Maura, how shall I live after you when
the long winter’s night will be here and you not coming
to the door nor your laughter to be heard!”
We got free of them at last. We were out in Mid-Bay,
looking back at the people of the village waving their
hands and their shawls.
We spent the night in Dingle. Next morning we went
down to the station and gave them farewell and our
blessing with sorrow and tears.
The train whistled. In a moment they were out of
sight.
It was a fine sunny day in the year 1923. I was looking
after a sheep on the hillside above, the sun yellowing in
the west and a lark singing above. I raised my head and
listened. Indeed, little bird, small as you are you have
me beguiled, said I to myself. Just then the earth shook
beneath me. I looked up and saw five or six lambs gam-
bolling together. I heard a clatter. I heard it again, like
shingle being thrown into the sea. I looked down over
the edge of the cliff and saw a shoal of mackerel breaking
water with a great noise below.
A spring came into my blood and I leapt up. What ails
me at all? The darkness is falling and I haven't found my
black sheep yet. I walked west along the ditch, whistling
softly to myself. I had gone about twenty yards when I
thought I saw a man approaching me, a man whose like
was not in the Blasket. I stopped, looking intently. By
God, said I to myself, you are there sure enough, and if it
is from the other world you have come you seem to me
not to be poor. Now is the time for me to stand my
ground, for maybe I will get riches out of this; that is,
if you have as much power as the leprechauns in olden
times. I thought I saw a smile on his face. Faith, there is
no bad look on you, anyway.
He was now only forty yards away, a man neither too
tall nor too short, with knee-breeches and a shoulder-
cloak, his head bare and a shock of dark brown hair
gathered straight back on it. I was growing afraid. There
was not his like in the Island. Where had he come from
and he approaching me now from the top of the hill in
the darkening of the day? I leant my back against the
bank of the ditch. I drew out my pipe and lit it. Then I
turned my gaze out to the south-east, thinking no doubt
he would pass me by on his way, so that I could take his
measure and say I had seen a leprechaun.
I heard a voice behind me. “God save you,” it said.
I looked round. He was smiling.
“God and Mary save you, noble person,” said I.
He sat down on a stone beside me and drew out a box
of cigarettes. “Will you have one?” said he in English.
“I will not, thank you,” said I in Irish.
I was taking his measure well as we spoke and he look-
ing out to Iveragh. We both remained silent for a long
time. Then he tried to say something in Irish, but failed.
So he turned again to the English.
“What do you call that place over there?” said he in a
very hard accent.
“They call it Valencia Island,” said I in English.
“And how would you say that in Irish?”
I told him. He took from his pocket a little book and
a pencil and wrote down quickly what I had said. Faith,
my lad, said I to myself, this is not the first time you
wrote Irish anyway. When he had finished I spoke to him.
“Where are you from, may I ask?”
“Repeat that, please.”
“Where are you from?” I repeated very slowly.
He bent his head for a moment, muttering the words
under his teeth. Then he answered in English. “I am
from London, and I came to the Blasket today,” said he
with a laugh. (The laugh of an Englishman, said I to my-
self, isn’t it often I was told to beware of it!)
He asked my name. I told him.
“Mine is George Thomson,” said he in Irish.
“I'm thinking you have Irish too,” said I.
“A little,” said he with another laugh.
It was growing dark and we moved east towards the
village. He was questioning me about this word and that
word in Irish, and I giving him their meaning. When we
came to the top of the boreen: “Where are you staying?”
said I.
He stopped for a moment to think: “I am in the house
of Michael Guheen. Is that right?”
“It is,” said I, “and as I said before, you will soon im-
prove in the language.”
There is no doubt but youth has great ability. George
and I spent the next six weeks walking together on
strand, hill, and mountain, and after spending that time
in my company he had fluent Irish. If everyone in Ire-
land were as eager as he for the language, the people of
old Ireland would be Gaels again without much delay.
But, alas, it is not so; for if one is eager there are twelve
who are not, though there is a kind of awakening in the
language now, great thanks to God.
One fine morning my father and I were at breakfast.
A sunbeam was pouring through the window, the mur-
mur of bees all around, the cat on the window-ledge
making dabs with her paw at a bee which was walking
up the window-pane. I noticed a spider's web between the
side of the window and the wall and himself sound asleep
in the middle of it. It happened that the bee touched the
web. When the spider felt it he awoke from his sleep
and made a dart for the bee. The cat cocked her ears
watching the two of them, as if greatly amused. Then she
pounced and killed both the bee and the spider. And that
was the end of the fun.
“Faith,” said my father, “it would be a good day to
bring home those two sheep that are west on Red Ridge.”
As we walked up the Causeway we met George coming
down.
“Where are you going today?” said he.
“I am going into the hill with my father to bring home
two sheep.”
“I will come with you.”
“Ah, you won't, for you would fall from the cliffs.”
"I will not,” said he, turning on his heel and accom-
panying us.
The day was fine and sultry and we had stripped off
our coats. We walked into the hill, as happy as children,
talking and conversing, giving words of Irish to George
till we reached Red Ridge. We sat down to rest, looking
south to the Skelligs.
“Isn't this place very different from the city of Lon-
don?” said my father.
“It is indeed,” said George, passing his fingers through
his hair.
“It is a pity I am not in the city of London now,” said
I, “for it is a fine view I would have.”
“What’s that?” said George, turning to me with a frown
of surprise. “Indeed you would not, but the heat killing
you and your health failing for want of air. And as for
the view, you would be looking at the same thing always
—people walking the streets with nothing in them but
only the breath, and believe me if one of them could see
this view out before me now, he would give his riches
for it.”
“You are right,” said my father, getting up. “Faith,
George, maybe you are getting hungry to be fasting so
long.”
“Musha, words do not fatten the friars,” said he.
“By God,” said I, “you are as well worded now as any
old man in the village. The two of you had better wait
here now until I go north to Halberd Hollow after the
old ewe.”
“Very well,” said my father.
I went north through the Scórnach and down through
the fern, up to my waist in heather and wild flowers, a
dizzy ravine above and beneath me and the sea far below
dashing against the rocks. Many sheep were around me
here and there, but my own old ewe was not among them.
She was easy to recognize for she had not been shorn,
She was a good climber, so I made my way to the cliffs.
There was nothing beneath my feet but the blue sea,
and the slightest stumble would have sent me headlong
as sauce for the crabs below. I stopped again to watch
the flocks of sea-birds nesting in the cliff, some flying
around and others on the surface of the waves. By God,
George, said I in my own mind, if you were here now and
saw this view, you would never go back to England again.
Suddenly I felt the earth shaking beneath my feet.
Looking up, I saw the sky blackened by a big black mass
of turf. God save my soul, I cried, it will strike me surely.
I leapt aside. Each time it struck the cliff it rebounded
into the air like a football. It rushed past me with a
terrible whirl. I watched it hurtling down the cliff till
at last it struck the water. A spurt of foam leapt into the
air and fell down again with a splash which made the
whole cliff ring. In a moment the birds were in a tumult,
darting with wild cries out to sea and chattering excitedly
like any nation of men fleeing for their lives from an
earthquake.
I moved west across Fern Bottom, glancing from side
to side, till I reached Bun-a-Doiteain. There I saw my old
shred of a ewe down on the lowest ledge. I went down
towards her, and I climbed down to places that day which
I would not have the courage even to look at now. When
I was twenty yards from her I stopped and shouted. She
lifted her head slowly, but that was all the heed she gave
me. I shouted again and again, but it was no use. I took
a stone and threw it at her. It whistled down through the
air and struck her in the middle of the back. Away she
ran up the cliff. I followed breathlessly after her. She was
wild with fright, and what wonder! —a sheep which had
not been caught for three years and had spent all that
time among the ravines, only fit for the birds of the sea.
I kept her in sight till at last she tripped up and came
tumbling head over heels like a snowball. Oh, I cried,
she will go over! She landed in a furrow of fern. Ah, it is
ever said, I cried joyfully, that an inch is as good as all
Ireland.
I went up to her. Her four feet were in the air kicking
wildly. Faith, you look very uncomfortable, said I, catch-
ing her and lifting her up. She gave a leap but I kept my
grip, though it was a dangerous one to try to keep on the
side of the cliff.
I was between two minds now. Would I keep her or let
her go? If I keep her, I said to myself at last, both she and
I will be thrown into the sea. So I let her follow her nose
through the cliff, I running behind her. She made for the
Fearee. But I was as quick as herself to reach the top.
Then she made off to the east, I following, coated with
sweat and blinded with fern. I shouted hard but it was of
no avail. She was drifting down again, as is the way of
sheep when they are weak, and this one was weak indeed
on account of her age, for you could hear the crack of her
old bones as she ran. Again I started off after her. Birds,
sheep and rabbits fled in terror to see the madman shout-
ing through the fern. At last I ran her down. She stopped.
I stopped too. We looked at each other. She fixed her eyes
on me like a beaten man as if to say, Won't you let me go?
I threw a stone. “Up with you,” said I.
Off she went again, I throwing stones on each side of
her. Now and then she stopped and looked back at me
pitifully with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. She
was tiring. She moved slowly on through the ravine till
she reached the top. By now she was so exhausted she
could hardly put one leg before another.
Musha, how my heart opened when I got a draught
of the fine sweet air which was flowing across the summit
from the Skelligs! I took the fill of my belly of it and
sat down on a clump of grass, tired out.
I looked round for my father and George, but I could
not see them. I put a finger in my mouth and whistled.
Then I saw George getting up out of the fern, smiling as
usual. He came up to me.
“Oh,” said he, stretching himself, “the sun has me
killed,” and he threw himself into the fern beside me.
“It is very sultry,” said I, “but what about the man
who has been running ever since, up and down the cliff
after his sheep?”
“I dare say you are accustomed to it,” said he, taking
out his pipe and tobacco.
I did the same and we sat there smoking and discussing
the world together, I with an odd glance at the old ewe
for fear she would make for the cliff again. But she stood
very quietly, though she was still too frightened to take
grass,
As I turned my head I saw my father down at the
Yellow Banks after the other sheep. I leapt up.
“Listen,” said I to George; “don’t stir out of that, and
whatever you do don’t let that old ewe north again.”
He got up in surprise. “Where are you going?”
“Don’t you see my father? He’s finding that sheep too
much for him and I am going to help him. We'll be up
here in a moment. But, devil, don’t let that old ewe
north.”
I went down the hill towards the Palm. I ran the sheep
down and the two of us drove it east as far as the White
Stones. When we had taken a rest: “I wonder,” said I,
“could you keep her here till I go and bring the other
from the north?”
“Very well,” said my father.
I went back to the place where I had left George and
the old ewe. When I came in sight of the Scórnach, what
did I see but George, coat in hand, running as fast as he
could after about two hundred sheep across Red Ridge.
I stopped and looked at him. Wasn’t it a great and won-
derful work he had in hand to bring those two hundred
together! I scratched my head in amazement. Oh, Lord,
said I, the ewe I am after bringing from the north is
among those as sure as I live, and that is why he is pur-
suing them.
I looked up to the place where I had left the ewe, and
there she was still! I was lost in wonder. What in the
world possessed him to run after those? I whistled and
whistled again, but he gave no heed. I kept on whistling,
but he was running after them still with no thought of
stopping. As sure as I live and there’s a cross on the ass,
said I, it is over the cliff you will go, I shouted in the
height of my head. Just then I saw him throwing his
coat after them. Then he went head over heels into the
heather.
My heart leapt. “You must be hurt,” said I, running
towards him. When I was within twenty yards of him
he got up and looked around. When he saw me he gave a
fine hearty laugh.
“Is there any injury on you?” said I, my heart beating.
“There is not, faith,” said he, looking away towards
the sheep.
“Upon my soul, George, you are the man who slew a
hundred.”
“Oh, Maurice, I had to let them go.”
“Arra, man, what came over you or what order did
you get to keep a watch on those shorn sheep?”
“Didn't you tell me yourself?” he asked in wonder.
"I did not. I told you to watch the ewe I brought from
the north.”
“Oh, I see, and where is that ewe now?”
“There in the same place still.”
“That's all right, so, but I thought those sheep were
all yours and that you wanted to bring them in.”
“I dare say but for the fall you got you would be run-
ning after them still, and observe that it is not the smooth
pavements of England you have here, my boy.”
“Oh, Maurice,” said he with a laugh, “observe yourself
how I compelled the earth here to kiss me.”
“Musha, it was the earth compelled you to kiss it, but
come now till we drive the wild ewe east, for my father
is waiting for us at the Scythe Rocks with the other one.”
We got the two sheep together, Then we sat on the top
of a rock looking out over the Bay of Dingle at the traw-
lers fishing and the sea-birds flying around in search of
fish.
I arose and looked up at the sheep. “I dare say it is
time for us to be making our way to the east before night
comes on.”
We set out, up to our knees in fern and rushes, I above,
my father below, George between us, and the dog on the
top above me. When either of the sheep would take a
step astray Rose would be at her hind legs and put her
straight again. We shortened our road with talk, walking
on at our ease till at last we reached Shingle Strand where
the sheep do be rounded up. Rose was out before us,
barking furiously, till she had driven the two into the
Cave of Shevaun de Londra.
I told George to stand at the mouth and, if either of the
sheep tried to escape, to seize it.
“Very well,” said he, stretching out his arms to each
side of the cave.
I made a dash for the sheep. I caught one and threw
it, but the other got away. I looked round and saw it
making for the sea with George clinging to its tail.
“Your soul to the devil,” I shouted, “let her go or she
will drown you!”
He let go of her at last. Rose swam out and rounded
her in. When I returned after getting her into the cave
again, George was sitting under a rock. He had taken
off his shoes and was wringing the water from his stock-
ings.
When we had the sheep shorn: “Well, George,” said
my father, “you must be hungry now.”
“I was never so hungry in my life.”
“Isn't it hard work we have here after the sheep?”
said I.
“No doubt of it, and it is a great wonder no one falls
from the cliffs after them.”
A great change was coming on the Island. Since the
fishing was gone under foot all the young people were
departing across to America, five or six of them together
every year. Maura was not gone a couple of years when
the passage money was sent across to Shaun. A year after
that Eileen went. Tomás Owen Vaun was gone already
for some time and he writing to me from over there. My
brother Michael was working for a tailor in Dingle and
there was nobody left now in the house but my grand-
father, my father, and myself. George used to be visiting
us every summer and the two of us always together.
I remember well a fine airy morning in the year 1926
when I went out on to the ditch. White streaks of foam
were passing up through the Sound to the north and they
nicely gathered together on the surface of the sea. Then
they would turn in on each other till not a trace of them
was to be seen. There was a wonderful stillness. The
mountains were clear before me, nodding their heads
above in the sky. Isn’t it they that are proud to have
power to be higher than the rest, thought I. But if so,
that height is nothing to boast of in the dark days of
winter when they have to stand up boldly before the
storms of the sky.
I looked around at the little wisps of smoke arising
from the houses and the air without strength to scatter
them, but the blue sky, of a hue that could not be painted,
sucking them upwards. I looked at the reflection of the
rocks which was clearly visible in the sea, and when a
sea-raven would dip himself he would send little ripples
spreading out in a circle ever and ever till they were lost
from sight.
Soon a steamship rounded the Gob from the south,
steering close to the shore. She let out a shriek which
sent the village dogs wild with barking and aroused the
sea which till then had been calm and still. She rent it on
every side, sending big ripples inshore till they made a
glug-glag up through the crevices of the rocks. Then the
sea calmed again the way you would think it had never
stirred.
Meanwhile my father and my uncle were making them-
selves ready for the Inish. I put my head in across the
threshold.
“Do you know, dad,” said I, “what I have planned to
do but for myself and George to go with you to Inish-
vick-ilaun?”
“It is not good for you to be in,” said he, “if George
will go.”
“Very well. I will go up now to see if he has any desire
for it.”
When I went up to the Smith’s House (which is the
name given to the house where George always stayed)
he was eating his breakfast.
“God save all here,” said I.
“God and Mary save you,” they replied with one voice.
I sat down on the settle.
“Would there be any desire on you today?” said I to
George after a while.
“What for?”
“Would you like to make a journey to Inish-vick-
ilaun?”
“It is what the woman of the house was saying to me
before you came in that it would make a fine day back
in the islands, and so I have a great desire to go, for it is
said to be a fine and airy place.”
“It is well for me to make up food for the journey for
you so,” said the woman of the house.
“Do so,” said I, “for it is a place will give him the
appetite of a quaybach.”
When we had everything in order we moved down the
path. We saw my father below on the quay beckoning
us to hurry. Before long we were away, passing alongside
the Island to the west, George and I rowing, the sea dead
calm and a great heat on it; and when I looked south-
east between me and Slea Head there was nothing but a
path of sparkling light from the sun which shone without
spot in the sky.
We were well back at the Palm now, seals stretched
in pairs above on the reefs and they crying and keen-
ing.
“Aren’t those very like people in on the stone?” said
George.
“On my oath,” said my father, “it is said here that many
people were put under magic long ago and perhaps those
are some of them. Some years ago a man went from here
hunting seals, about the month of Samhain it seems, be-
cause the young seal was born. It was back in Bird Cove
it happened.”
“Where is that cove?”
“It is on the south side of the Inish,” said my father.
“When he came out of the boat he saw a young seal up in
the head of the cove. He went up after it, stick in hand
as was their wont when they went seal-hunting,”
“I understand,” said George.
“Well, as I said, up he went with the stick, but, if so,
the cow-seal leapt straight at him with open mouth,
snarling. But he succeeded in clambering up on to a
ledge on the side of the cove, and when he had reached
it, would you believe it, George, the cow-seal spoke out
to him. ‘If you are in luck,’ said she, ‘you will leave this
cove in haste, for be it known to you that you will not
easily kill my mackeen,’* and she went back again to her
young one. The man was trembling hand and foot. ‘For
the sake of the world,’ he cried out to the man in the
boat, ‘back her in as quick as you can.’ And from that
day, George, till the day he died,” said my father, “that
man never saw a day's health.”
* Young son.
“Faith,” said George, “that is a story I never heard.”
“Upon my word,” said my father, “there is many a
story you would hear in these islands you would never
hear tell of in the cities.”
We rowed ahead. I gave a glance to the north when
we were half-way across the Great Sound to the west.
What did I see but some animal giving a tailor’s leap out
of the water into the sky! “Oh, Lord,” said I, “do you
see what is there to the north?” We all looked northward.
When it fell down again it sent the water high into the
air.
"I do, my boy,” said my father. “Did you ever hear tell
of the sturgeon?”
“I often heard of it,” said George.
“Well, there it is for you now, and the place where it
leaps like that there do be many more below.”
Before long we reached the strand of the Inish and the
two of us turned our faces up into the island. The sky
was cloudless, the sea calm, sea-birds and land-birds sing-
ing sweetly. The sight of my eyes set me thinking. I
looked west to the edge of the sky and I seemed to see
clearly the Land of the Young—many-coloured flowers in
the gardens; fine, bright houses sparkling in the sunshine;
stately, comely-faced, fair-haired maidens walking through
the meadows gathering flowers. Oh, isn’t it a pity Niav
of the Golden Hair would not come here now, thought I,
for it is readily I would go with her across the top of the
waves.
I was not long in those thoughts when I heard George
calling. He had thrown off his jacket and was sitting on
the top of the rock looking down at me.
“What do you see in the west?” said he.
“Upon my word, George, it was at the Land of the
Young I have been looking.”
“Faith, you are like Oweneen of the Birds.”
I climbed up on to the rock and we sat together with-
out a word, looking out over the great sea—the Skellig out
to the south and white foam around it, the Teeracht to
the north-west and the high road up to the lighthouse
clearly to be seen, the Foze straight to the west below the
edge of the sky and nothing beyond them but air and
water.
“Would you believe it, Maurice,” said George after
a while, “that I am lonesome to be going tomorrow.”
“I believe it well, and it is myself will be lonesome after
you.”
He looked at me between the two eyes and after a while
he spoke gravely:
“Well, now, there is no one but the two of us on this
Lonely island and so I hope you will put courage in my
heart.”
“I will do it if it is in my power. Let you put the
question.”
I knew well what was the question he had to put
to me.
“The question is, have you cast America out of your
head?”
I got up without speaking a word. It was often before
that George was urging me not to go across to America
but to stay in Ireland and enter the Civic Guard. But there
was the reluctance of the world on me to do as he said,
and I was trying to put off the matter always. But the
last day was come now and both of us knew that if I did
not agree with him that day I would be gathered away
before the summer was come again.
I looked west at the edge of the sky where America
should be lying, and I slipped back on the paths of
thought. It seemed to me now that the New Island* was
before me with its fine streets and great high houses, some
of them so tall that they scratched the sky; gold and
silver out on the ditches and nothing to do but to gather
it. I see the boys and girls who were once my companions
walking the street, laughing brightly and well contented.
I see my brother Shaun and my sisters Maura and Eileen
walking along with them and they talking together of me.
The tears were rising in my eyes but I did not shed them.
As the old saying goes, “Bitter the tears that fall but
more bitter the tears that fall not.”
* America.
I was too long in that silent thought without giving an
answer to my friend. What answer would I give him?
Would I tell him that it would be more to my liking to
go among my companions beyond than to set out for the
capital city of Ireland along with him?
I turned to him. He was looking south-east towards
Iveragh the way I could only see his cheek.
“George,” said I after a while.
“What is it?” said he, turning towards me.
“What is your advice?”
“My advice to you is that it is not on the streets of
America you will get money, as many think.”
I looked out over the sea again.
It seemed to me now that Maura was raising her fist to
me and saying aloud, “Don’t mind him, but come out
here where your own people are, for if you go to Dublin
you will never see any of your kinsfolk again.”
I looked at George.
“Many entirely are the thoughts which are passing
through your mind. But listen here,” said he with a
gesture of his hand; “if you want the history of America
look at the Yank who comes home; think of the appear-
ance of him. Not a drop of blood in his body but he has
left it beyond. Look at the girl who goes over with her
fine comely face! When she comes home there does be a
colourless look on her and the skin furrowed on her
brow. If you noticed that, Maurice, you would never go
to that place.”
We were talking that way until I agreed with him at
last and said I would go to Dublin. “But if so, I will not
be with you tomorrow anyway.”
“You have plenty of time yet. But do not go to the
place beyond. That is my advice to you.”
When we had everything talked over we moved down
towards the Strand where the curragh was awaiting us.
“The devil take you,” said my uncle, “the night has
fallen. Where were you since? I would say you had the
island walked four times over.”
“Ah, here a while and there a while,” said I, leaping
into the boat, and away we moved slowly, tired and
reluctant after the journey of the day.
I gave a glance to the east across the Bay.
“Oh, Lord, isn’t it many the stroke of the oar is before
us yet before we reach the house?”
“It is ever said,” said my father, “that however long
the road there comes a turning.”
We reached the quay.
“Well, George,’ said I on our way up, “you will be
leaving us tomorrow, and I suppose it is as well for us
to spend the last night pleasantly.”
“Faith, it is, and let you bring up your fiddle.”
“Oh, little fear,” said I as I turned back from the
boreen and George going up to his own dwelling.
When I had eaten my supper I took the fiddle down
from the loft.
“It seems there will be dancing up in the top of the
village tonight?” said my grandfather when he saw the
fiddle in my hands.
“By my book, daddo,” said I, “if I were in need of a
priest I would go up tonight.”
“Why so?”
“Won't George be going tomorrow?”
“Achvan, if that is so it is well for you to spend the
night joyfully together, in the name of God.”
When I went into George’s house he was seated on the
little stool, his two hands under his chin, staring into
the fire.
I struck my palm on his shoulder.
“You are in love, my boy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I have ever heard that he who looks that
way into the middle of the fire does be heavily in love.”
“Don’t mind Tigue’s nonsense,” said he, “but put the
fiddle in tune.”
I had to laugh when I heard the answer he gave me,
“Musha, George, it’s the fine, rich Irish you have now.”
“And if it is, it is you should be thanked, for isn’t it
from yourself I learned all I have?”
Soon the strains of the music were reaching the young
men who were outside, and before long they were lightly
dancing on the floor, George stripped to the shirt like
themselves for the night was soft. It would delight you
to see the boys and girls at that time, joy and mirth in
every step they took, and even the old women who had
any vigour in them gathered in, in pursuit of the music.
About ten o'clock George and I walked out a short
distance of the road talking together.
“Well now, Maurice, I shall be leaving tomorrow and,
if so, I shall be expecting you every day from this out.
Don’t forget when you reach Tralee to send me a tele-
gram and I will be before you at the station in Dublin.”
“Very well,” said I with a heavy heart and the re-
luctance of the world, thinking of the long road which
lay before me. While George was describing the journey
to Dublin, my own thoughts were of the fine days I had
spent hunting on the top of the hill and fishing on the
sea. I seemed to see a rabbit out before me and Rose after
it. Ah, how would I ever leave the Blasket?
George touched me with his elbow. “Wake up,” said he.
“Ah, there is great mourning on me, George, to leave
this place. I cannot help it. The parting is too hard.”
“Look at me who left England and came to Ireland
without acquaintance of anyone alive.”
“You and I are not the same, for I was never yet be-
yond Dingle to the east.”
We went back to the dancing. It was in full swing now,
music going into the air and we spent the rest of the
night in gaiety.
On the morrow it was sharp and cold from the north.
I went out and looked around. The day had a threaten-
ing look, swell on the stones, showers falling on the edge
of the sky, and the Bank of the Black Rock breaking and
tearing from the north. Faith, said I to myself, the
Paorach will have another day.
The word was but out of my mouth when I saw com-
ing down the Causeway towards me George and the
King and others after them. My soul from the devil, said
I, he is going out.
I noticed now a thing I had never seen before. I did
not see the smile on George’s mouth. It was enough. He
had his fill of sorrow and my own heart blackened like-
wise.
He came down to me and went into the house to say
good-bye to my grandfather. When he came out again,
we walked down together to the quay where the curragh
was afloat, waiting for him.
“Bestir yourself, George,” said Shaun-a-Ree,* putting
out the oars.
*Shaun, son of the King.
We looked at each other and shook hands without a
word. Then he smiled and he looked at me between the
eyes.
“Farewell for a while,” said he.
“May your journey prosper.”
A few days afterwards a letter came from my friend with
nothing from beginning to end in it but talk of the fun
we would have in the capital city of Ireland—to keep up
my courage of course.
A day passed and two days. Then I wrote to him to
let him know I had made up my mind to take on myself
a different way of life. But, if so, my reluctance was grow-
ing, for it was a great change for a young man who had
been cut off from the great world with no knowledge of
its affairs.
One day when I was in beside the fire and nothing to
trouble me in the rainy world but the long unknown
journey which lay in front of me: “Well, father,” said I,
and he on the other side of the fire reading a letter which
had come that day from America, “what is your opinion
of the great, long journey that is now before me?”
“What journey is that?” said he quickly, raising his
head and looking at me over his glasses.
“It is not long now until you will see the Guards’
uniform on me.”
He looked into the fire, thinking. At last he looked up.
“Are you in earnest?”
"I am indeed.”
“When will you be going?” said he with a sigh.
“Tomorrow.”
“Well, I give you my blessing, for so far as this place
is concerned there is no doubt but it is gone to ruin.”
“It is, long since; and even if it were not, what is there
in it but fishing, hunting, and fowling, and according to
the old saying they are the three most unprofitable pur-
suits going.”
“It is true,” said he sadly, and he returned to his read-
ing.
The next morning was fine and soft. It was a Tuesday
—the 15th of March 1927. I got myself ready early, for it
was the day for the King to go out to bring in the post,
so I was in the yard watching out for him for fear he
would go unknown to me. There was everything in readi-
ness with me, my mind at rest, my holiday clothes on, and
no one knowing my destination but only my own people.
After a while I saw Shaun Fada approaching. He
stopped and looked me over from top to toe without
speaking a word.
“I see there is some intention in your head today, son
of O'Sullivan,” said he at last.
“I am for taking the leap.”
“Whither are you travelling?”
“Yé, where would it be, Shaun, but to spend a week in
the town of Dingle. Amn’t I tired of this place?”
“My heart from the devil, you are right, for when I
was young I used to be spending half my life in that place.
Yerra, the devil take it, there are young people here and
without lie or mockery there is the look of the cinders
on them.”
At that moment I saw the King coming down the
Causeway. “Faith, Shaun,” said I, “here is the King going
out. It is as well for me to be moving.”
“It is as well for you,” said he, going east.
The King soon came up with me on the top of the
quay.
“Are you going out?”
“I am resolved on it.”
“If so,” said he, looking at me, “it seems to me that you
will not be coming back.”
“Ah, maybe I would spend a week on my wanderings,”
said I.
Soon we were on our way out from the pool, my back
to the Island of my birth and my face to the mainland.
I heard barking behind me. I knew well what it was.
Looking back I saw Rose out on the bank howling as she
saw me departing from her. I crushed down the distress
that was putting a cloud upon my heart.
We reached Dunquin at last. I walked slowly and
heavily up the path. I stopped. I stretched myself and
looked back at the Island. Little I thought once of for-
saking it, but, my sorrow, that day was come at last. I
looked around. There was nothing to be heard, only the
sound of the waves below. I was thinking and pondering
and no one to heed me but the God of Glory in Whom
I trusted to guide me on the right road to the capital
city. I looked south at the Slea Head road and then north
at the Ceann Sraha road, then again at the Clasach road;
and I thought of a story I had read a while before of a
widow's son who turned his breast to the great world and
the cross-roads confounding him.
I heard a voice behind me: ‘‘Are you there still?”
I looked back and saw the King. “Faith, I am,” said I,
shaking myself. “There is no great hurry on me.”
"I suppose you will be going to Dingle tonight?”
"I will. Is the road to the north the shortest?”
“Without doubt it is.”
We said good-bye and parted. I set out on my road,
and the King on his way up towards Bally-na-Raha.
I was alone now, groping my way to the north and a
wet mist over the road. When I came to the top of the
Carhoo I stopped again and sat down to take a rest. I lit
my pipe seeing I had no other comfort. I looked again at
the Island. It was the last sight I would get of it back from
Maum-na-Carhoona. The first spot that struck my eyes
was the summit of the Cró, the highest hill in it, and this
verse came into my head:
Thou art there, beautiful Cró
With thine ancient heather summit,
And he who once raced on thee
Looking back on thee in sorrow.
Well, said I, getting up, however long the journey is
before me, I have no cause to let the night catch me here.
I stepped out, ever and ever, until I came down into
Ballyferriter, It was necessary for me to get a certificate
from the priest there and I made my way to his house. A
girl came to the door. “Is the priest inside, if you please?”
said I. She did not answer but looked wonderingly at me
between the eyes. “Have you Irish?” said I. Again no
reply from her, so I spoke to her in English.
“Oh, he is. Come in here a while.”
I went into a little room with many books and papers
in it. Well, thought I, isn’t it a strange thing to meet
already a girl without Irish!
I was looking round at the pictures on the walls but,
if so, no one was coming and the day passing. It is fine
for me, said I to myself, and the long journey I have be-
fore me into Dingle.
At that moment I heard striding footsteps coming
towards the room. The parish priest came in. I bowed
to him and he greeted me courteously. He asked me my
name and my business. When he had given me the certi-
ficate, I gave him a farewell and a blessing and went on
my way.
I was going on and going on when a thought came into
my mind—the road before me seemed to go very far up
into the hill. I took out my pipe and lit it. There was not
a trace of the Island to be seen now. God help me, said I,
where am I? Will there be an end to this road tonight?
I got up and looked round me. There was a by-road
turning east and a by-road turning west. Soon I saw an
old man in tatters coming down towards me across the
hill, an old yellow pipe between his teeth, a couple of
cows before him. He was making towards me and calling
Sho amach! sho amach! to the cows.
When he came down to the road I greeted him. He re-
turned my greeting in fine Irish.
“Listen here, good man, is this the right road for
Dingle?”
“It appears you are a stranger in this place?” said he.
“I am, good sir.”
“Oh, have no fear. Do you see those telegraph poles?
Follow them and they will lead you into the town.”
“A thousand thanks to you.”
“You are welcome,” said he, shaking my hand and go-
ing down the road to the west.
I started forward again. The evening was now well
spent, the cow lowing as is her wont when she makes her
way to the byre, the bird, the sheep, and the horse re-
turning contentedly each to its own dwelling.
Soon I saw ahead of me big high houses packed to-
gether and many trees growing in their midst. It is likely
this is Dingle, I thought, if I live alive. My heart was
lifted with joy. Eagerly I made my way forward. I saw
coming towards me a swell of a gentleman with a chain
across his belly, a hard hat on his head, and an umbrella
in his hand.
I greeted him.
“Is that Dingle to the east?” said I, pointing towards it.
He stopped and looked at me, looked to the east, then
looked at me again. “Have you any English?’ said he.
"I have,” said I in English, “but I want to know am I
far from Dingle still?”
“Oh yes, yes,” said he, taking out a little handkerchief
and wiping his brow, for I think he was sweating with
the walk, “that’s it over there among the trees.”
“Thank you very much,” said I, going east.
I looked back at him and, by God, he put me in mind
of my grandfather the day he wore the tail coat, for it was
a coat of almost the same make the gentleman was wear-
ing now.
After that I made neither stop nor stay till I reached
the house of Martin Kane in the town, myself and the
star together.
I strolled into the kitchen and my heart full of delight
to have accomplished the journey of the day. Martin rose
from the chair.
“Where did you come from?” said he, “or who are you
at all?”
I was surprised when I saw he did not know me though
indeed it was long since I had been in Dingle. I went
up and gave my two heels to the fire.
“Faith,” said I, “I am no Irishman anyway.”
“You are not” said Martin in astonishment.
"I am not indeed, though I have Irish blood in me.”
Both he and his wife were now looking at me intently.
“When did you come to Ireland, so?”
“Today.”
“And how the devil then did you pick up the fine
Irish?”
“Arra, my dear sir, isn’t it we who have the best Irish?”
“It seems so,” said he, looking at me between the eyes,
“but if you are not an Irishman what are you?”
“I am a Blasket man, my boy,” said I.
Martin laughed. “I swear by the devil that is an answer
I never heard before and it is many come to me. By God,
you may well say it and it is well I recognize you now.”
When I had eaten my supper I questioned him about
the train and especially the time it was to leave in the
morning.
“Do you mind me asking you, where is your destina-
tion?”
“Ah, to take a week in the capital city.”
“Faith, I knew you had the spirit in you.”
“But don’t let the yellow devil keep you from calling
me in the morning,” said I, going up the stairs.
“Have no fear.”
I did not sleep much that night, ever pondering over the
difficult journey which lay before me. I was soon in a
nightmare. Railway tracks are running across one an-
other, I see the people like ants and myself among them.
In comes the train and my heart is seized with panic.
Soon it begins to move. I leap in. I slip. A man cried out,
“Oh, he is dead!”
I awoke with great comfort and contentment of heart
to find myself stretched in the warm bed. Three nights
I lived in that night.
About six in the morning there was a knock at the
door. “Get up,” said Martin, “or you will be late.”
I was not long making myself ready. When I had eaten
my breakfast, I said farewell to Martin and his wife and
set out for the train.
I looked down the street and up, people in plenty pass-
ing me in every direction and everyone seeming to have
his eye on me.
I looked back and noticed an old man hurrying breath-
lessly behind me. Faith, said I to myself, maybe you too
are making for the train.
I waited for him.
“God save you, sir,” said I.
“God and Mary save you,” said he in Irish.
“Will you tell me, please, where is the railway station
here?”
“Follow me, my good lad. I am going there myself.
From where do you come?”
“From the Blasket.”
“For America, I suppose?”
“Not so, but for Dublin.”
“And you were never there before?”
“I was not, and likely it is a pretty difficult journey?”
“No doubt for him who is unaccustomed to it. You
would need to keep your eyes open.”
We were soon at the station.
“It is as well for you now to go into the office and get
your ticket,” said he; “the train will soon be leaving.”
I went in. There were many before me. I waited. By
God, said I to myself, to judge by the progress I am mak-
ing, the train will go without me. I ran out on to the
platform and met a man with a horn-peaked cap on his
head. I saw that he had something to do with the train.
“If you please,” said I, “is it long till the train will be
going?”
He took out a watch. “In ten minutes more,” said he.
I leapt back into the office. The others were now ready
and I got my ticket and came out again.
I stopped, looking all round me. Oh, Lord, where did
the people come from? A man catching a bag, a woman
running, another woman after her, chatter and con-
fusion everywhere. They seize hold of a handle on the
outside of the train to open a door, but the door does
not come, They run to another door, men and women
running together.
Well, said I in my own mind, it is not the windy day
is the day for scallops. If I don’t make a better show than
this I will find myself on a stranded rock. I caught up my
bag and away with me. I had only gone a few steps when
an echo came back from the whole town of Dingle with
the whistle the train threw out, and as for myself I was
lifted clean from the ground. I looked round to see if
anyone had noticed the start it took out of me, but no-
body had. Everyone was inside the train but myself.
Off I ran, but I could not get an opening anywhere.
As I was fumbling with it, I heard a voice at my back.
I looked over my shoulder. It was the old man again. He
opened a door.
“Go in there, and remember you have only two changes
to make, one in Tralee and one in Mallow. Good-bye
now.” And he shut the door behind me.
I sat down on the seat and soon the train began to
move. There was no one in the compartment but myself,
I was gazing out through the window—fine green fields
and trees everywhere, houses in every glen and ravine,
the Blasket Island and the wild sea far out of sight. They
were gone now and I a lonely wanderer, and as the old
saying goes, “Bare is the companionless shoulder.”
After a while a jolt was taken out of me and the train
stopped. I looked out through the window and saw many
people leaving the train. We are in Tralee, said I to my-
self, taking up my bag and stepping out. I ran straight
into a horn-capped lad pushing a truck with a box on it.
“I beg your pardon, but is this Tralee?”
He stopped and looked at me. “Arra, man, you are only
in Annascaul yet. About twelve o’clock you will be there.”
“A thousand thanks to you,” said I, and in I went
again.
I sat down, What good luck I had to come across that
man! I began looking out of the window again, but before
long I had a twist in my neck so I stretched myself at full
length on the seat, feeling thankful to the man of the
horn cap. How vexed and tormented I would have been
if the train had gone on without me! Would I have tried
to walk back to Dingle? Alas, I would not have walked
it tonight. It was so I was turning over the thoughts in
my mind and I stretched contentedly on the flat of my
back.
The train stopped again. Again I looked out. And
again many were leaving. As they leapt out they would
stop to look back at the train, and, faith, it seemed that
every one of them was putting his eyes through me and
saying to each other, “Why isn’t that fellow coming out?”
I slunk back and caught up my bag. It is likely, said
I, the train will go no farther, and that worthless lout I
met on the station just now was mocking me. I got out
and looked round. Musha, if this is Tralee, said I, the
devil if it is much of a place to look at. I saw another
man like the one I met before. I went up to him. “When
shall we be in Tralee?”
“In another hour,” said he, leaving me in haste.
I got back into the carriage more than ever pleased to
find I was going right. Drawing out my pipe, I took a
good smoke from it. It did me good, and why wouldn’t
it with the long journey I was making which had been
tormenting my mind for a week with the mere thought
of it.
Well, when the time came I was landed at Tralee. The
train stopped. I got out and again I spoke to one of the
horn-peaked caps. “I suppose this will be Tralee,” said I.
“It is,” said he. At the same time I felt he was a nice
man to talk to, so that I took a liking to him. We fell into
conversation and I picked from him the time the train
was to leave for Dublin. He said good-bye and went his
way.
I had four hours to spend in the city, but, if so, though
I had been told that the train would not start till four
o'clock, I had no intention of leaving the station, for I
had no trust in the train but that it might go at any
time.
I put my bag against the wall and kept my eye on it
always. I was walking up and down at my ease. As I
looked around I saw first one woman, then another, put-
ting their bags in through a window. They were given
some kind of red ticket and then departed. I saw two
men doing the same. Faith, said I, it looks as if that is a
place to keep the parcels. I caught my bag and went up
to the window. Inside was a man working busily at the
bags. He asked me my name and wrote it down quickly
in a book. He put some figures on the bag and handed out
to me a little red ticket. I was well pleased with myself
now, and why wouldn’t I, and every knowledge coming
to me?
I wandered out again on the platform and whatever
way I looked what would I see but “Telegraph Office”
written in big letters over a door. My heart grew as big
as a cow to see it and I went in to send a telegram to my
friend George in Dublin. A girl was sitting on a chair
before me reading a book. I greeted her. She lifted up
her head and looked at me sourly, with a sallow face on
her and an ill-tempered expression. When I told her my
business she got up and handed me a paper, then, sitting
down, she began to read again. Very well, my girl, said
I in my own mind, and I began to write at my leisure.
When I had finished my task I handed in the paper, but,
if so, even yet she did not speak a word.
“There is no fear, my girl, but you are a stiff one,” said
I in Irish, knowing she would not understand me.
“Good-day to you, sir,” said she in English,
Would you believe it, I felt great esteem for myself
when I got that answer from her. It seems, said I to my-
self, I must have the look of a gentleman and she to be
calling me “sir.”
My heart was now rising continually the way I was get-
ting knowledge of everything. Only one thing was trou-
bling me—my poor empty belly. I was considering now
would I make an attempt into the city, for the hunger
was oppressing me and as the proverb says, “When it’s
hard for the hag she must run.” Well, now was the time
to try it.
By God, I will try.
I walked out of the station. But, musha, I was not far
when my courage was failing. Putting up my hand I
scratched my head. There was a cross-road to the east
and a cross-road to the west, another above and another
below. Wherever I looked there was a cross-road. My
soul from the devil, said I, if I go any farther I will be
like a blind man wandering through the city. I will never
find the right road back again. But, God save my soul, I
will be perished as it is, if I go on fasting like this, for
the soul will fall out of me on the road. And then again
if I go up into the city how shall I come back?
Well, I walked ahead, but, if so, the farther I went the
more the cross-roads were confounding me. I stopped.
The devil another step will I go, said I. Whatever I will
do without food, I have no need to send myself astray in
the city.
I turned on my heel and went back to the station. I sat
down on a big, long bench stretched up against the wall.
Two little lads were running past me, up and down,
playing ball. They sent me back on the paths of thought
to the time when I was doing the like on the top of the
sandhills, myself and ‘Tomás Owen Vaun. After a while
another thought struck me. I called them up to me. They
stopped playing, looked at each other, and giggled.
“Would you mind to go up into the city for me?”
“We would not,” said they, looking down at their feet
bashfully.
“Good boys!” And putting my hand in my pocket I
gave them some money. “Here now, keep that for your-
selves, and let you buy me a pound of bread and butter
with this.”
They ran away without another word, and in ten min-
utes they were back again with my food for the journey
done up nicely and little packets for themselves. When I
had thanked them they ran off into a quiet corner and
soon I could see them chewing busily.
When I had eaten I arose contentedly and began walk-
ing up and down the platform again. There was only
another hour to pass before I would be moving off
towards the capital city. In my walk I noticed a young
man and a girl coming on to the platform, carrying a
couple of bags. The woman was about thirty years, so
far as I could tell, and the man about twenty-five. I knew
by the way they cast an eye here and there they were
without knowledge of the way. By my baptism, said I
in my own mind, I think you are a pair of blind travellers
like myself. After a while the young man came over and
greeted me. We soon made acquaintance. He was one of
the O’Connors back from Annascaul. Like myself he was
going into the Civic Guard, but without a word of Irish.
He made me known to the girl, a sister of his, who was
going to Dublin with him.
It was a great comfort to me to have made friends with
the two of them, for now, thought I, I have found good
guides for the journey.
"I suppose it is well you know the way to Dublin?”
said I to the girl.
“Oh, I do so. It’s many the day I made the journey,”
said she boastfully. “Do you know it well yourself?” said
she with a little laugh, the kind of laugh a person makes
on becoming acquainted with you for the first time.
“Indeed, good woman, this is my first time on the plat-
form where I am standing now.”
At that moment a train coming in let out a loud whistle
which took a jump out of me, but I thought of myself
in time. The train stretched up alongside of us.
Oh, Lord, what a din!
“I suppose that is the Dublin train,” said I to the girl.
“I think it is,” said she.
Oh, the confusion on the platform, my head split with
the terrible roar throughout the place, boxes thrown out
of the train without pity or tenderness, big cans, full of
milk as I heard, hurled out on to the hard cement. Very
good, said I to myself, isn’t it often I was complaining of
the fishermen at home making a rush to leave the quay
when there would be a heavy sea, but, indeed, there is
the same rush on them here though there is neither swell
nor breakers. Why all the haste or where is the tide com-
ing on them? Great God of Virtues, the chatter and gabble
of the people! And not a word of Irish to be heard! I don’t
know in the world what brings strangers into the Blasket
to learn Irish, for, so far as I can see, when they come
back to this place after leaving the Island they have it
thrown under foot. Look at myself now! What would I
do if there was not a word of English on my lips? Wouldn't
I be a public show? Where is the man or woman would
give me an answer? Will the day ever come when Irish
will be poured out here as English is poured out today?
I doubt it.
Those are the thoughts which were passing through
my mind; no thought of the train or of Dublin, but
yielding to the sight of my eyes, the rush and the roar,
the chatter and laughter, the welcoming one with an-
other, big fat bucks of men along with lean and lanky
spindleshanks, and the women likewise.
In the midst of my reflections I was struck a blow in
the middle of the back. It was O’Connor. “Hurry!” said
he, “the train will be going now.”
“Is that so?” said I in a flutter.
“Have you no bag?”
“Oh, the devil take it, I forgot.” And I leapt towards
the window where I had put it in. “Hand me out my
bag, please,” said I to the man inside, but in my excite-
ment I spoke to him in Irish.
“What's that?” said he in English.
When I repeated my words in English to him: “Where
is your ticket?” said he.
I began searching my pockets but it was not to be
found. I was now very anxious thinking I would never
get the bag without it. “I am afraid the ticket has gone
astray on me,” said I, “but there is my bag.” And I pointed
my finger towards it.
He went inside and handed it out to me quickly. I
thanked him and ran off, but, if so, my boy and girl were
nowhere to be seen. Everyone was now in the train and
my anxiety was growing. Up I ran and down I ran. No-
where could I get in. ‘hen O’Connor put out his head
through a window: “Come in here,” said he, and in I
went quickly.
It seemed to me that everyone had his eyes on me. My
soul to the devil, said I to myself, sitting down in their
midst, anyone would think there were two heads on my
shoulders the way you are all peering at me.
I turned to the boy again and we began talking.
“I suppose you are pleased to be going into the
Guards?”
“I am surely. I am to be up at the Depot at eight o’clock
in the morning.”
“Ah, God help you, isn’t it hard for your”
“Why so?” said he.
“Arra, man, before you reach Dublin won’t you be
as worn out as an old woman?”
“I don’t care about that if I will only pass. Are you
going into them, too?”
“Not at all. It is to spend a week in Dublin I am going.”
He looked hard at me. “It seems you are a pretty in-
dependent man.”
“Ah, I have enough to do that much for myself.”
He laughed.
“Upon my word,” said I, “you are a queer fellow if
you have all that fondness and affection for money. Arra,
man, while you have it make use of it. What good are you
unless you travel and study the world while you are in it?”
At that moment the man of the horn-peaked cap thrust
his head in through the window. “All tickets ready,
please,” said he, and I could hear him repeating the same
thing as he passed down. Everyone began to search and
take out his ticket, and a shudder seized me for fear I
would not find my own. I was searching and searching
and it was not forthcoming, but as luck would have it I
found it at last in the corner of my pocket. I sat down
again and before long the man entered.
“Tickets, please,” said he, and put a hole in each of
them and departed.
The train began to move and soon she was passing
rapidly across the country to the east. I got up and put
out my head through the open window. There was not
an inch of the sea to be seen now, but fine broad fields
and green leafy woods and birds flying over the trees in
terror of the train, Before long I noticed the train making
the worm’s twist round a turn in the railway. Oh, Lord,
said I to myself, as I saw the length of it, what is drawing
it at all? Is it possible to understand its weight, to say
nothing of all the people in it? I gave another look ahead
and what did I see but it passing under a bridge. When I
came to the bridge myself I had no thought but that my
head had been torn off with the start which was taken out
of me. Quickly I crouched back inside the carriage. I
looked round at the people but, if so, I was not at all
pleased with the way some of them were smiling. I looked
out again to see what had become of the others who were
looking out at the same time. They must have had their
heads torn off, said I, if they were not as quick as myself
in crouching back. But musha, when I looked they were
there still. Before long I saw another bridge, but this time
I drew in quietly, without letting on anything, and I
sat down next to O’Connor and the girl. I had another
spell of talk with them and did not feel the time passing
till the train drew up at the station,
The men of the horn-peaked caps were running up
and down, taking an echo out of the place: “Change for
Dublin! Change for Cork! Change for Dublin!”
O'Connor nudged me. “You are asleep,” said he.
“I am near it. Is this Mallow?”
“It is. Let us get out.”
My eyes opened wide to see men and women, their
bags in their hands, walking across a bridge. What a
great work! What hand of man made it? But I let on there
was no wonder on me.
“What shall we do now?” said I to the two.
“Oh, follow me,” said the girl with assurance, walking
on. She led the way up the stairs, across the bridge, and
down the other side. Another train was there before us.
“This is the Dublin train now,” said she, “get inside.”
In we went comfortably, sat down, and away with us
once more.
I was soon deep in thought, looking out through the
window at the fields and valleys which were darting by,
and looking in at the people, wondering who they were,
from where they had come, or what business had taken
them from home to send them rushing through the mid-
dle of Ireland. I sat meditating on the world. Look, it is
many a thought comes to the man who goes alone. With
the power of his mind he brings the great world before his
face, a thing which is not possible for the man who is fond
of company. I believe it is in solitude that every machine
and work of ingenuity was created.
I fell asleep. I do not know how long I was so when I
awoke, the train at a standstill and the ticket man before
me.
“Tickets, please!” said he.
I Showed him mine. He looked at me. He put a whisper
in my ear: “Where are you going?”
“I am going to Dublin.”
“I think you have made a mistake. You are half-way to
Cork.”
He went across to the other two and it was the same
with them. Writing something on our tickets he returned
them to us and went his way.
I looked at the girl who had been so self-confident. She
was lit up to the tip of her ears. I looked at my ticket. The
writing on it was hard to decipher but at last I made it
out. After a while the girl raised her head and asked me
what was written on it. I was unable to crush down the
ill-will I felt towards her.
“Isn’t it a queer thing for yourself to be unable to read
it?” said I, “and you so smart at making your way to
Dublin?”
There came the size of my fist of a snout on her and
she turned away from me without saying a word.
I turned to O’Connor. “Isn’t it a bad matter for you,
who have to be up at the Depot at eight in the morning?”
“It is indeed,” said he in vexation, “but what is to be
done now? We must go ahead. What is that he wrote on
the tickets?”
“Here in error,’ ” said I sourly.
By now I was like milk and water. I couldn’t remain
any longer where I was and to have to be looking at the
two of them. I went out into the corridor, my head bent,
walking up and down, thinking and ever thinking of
what I ought to do. Would I have to spend the night in
Cork? Would I have to pay again for my passage to Dub-
lin? If so, it was a great sin for ever. Och, wouldn't it be a
fine thing to be back in the Blasket now! What prompted
me to leave it at all?
The train was whistling from time to time, and with
every whistle anxiety was growing on me. Through the
windows of the corridor I could see, now and then, noble
gentlemen talking together and laughing merrily. I won-
der, thought I, if you knew there was a poor traveller like
myself gone astray, would you give him any help? I sup-
pose you would not, for as the old saying goes, the fat
does not notice the lean.
The day was now almost spent. Glancing out of the
window I saw lights here and there. One more whistle,
and in a few minutes the train was at a standstill once
more,
Oh, Lord, isn’t it there was the gathering! As soon as
I leapt out, ten hotel-porters began to tear me asunder,
like a swarm of bees you would see humming round a hive
on a fine summer evening. Running up, a man would
make a grab at me. “Come to Buckley’s Hotel! come to
Buckley's Hotel!”
“I am not staying here tonight.”
“Aren't you going to America?”
“I am not. It is to Dublin I am going.”
With that he would leave me, still shouting.
Up came another man and seized me by the shoulder.
“Come to St. Patrick’s Hotel! Come to St. Patrick’s Ho-
tel!” The same reply I gave him and away he went. A
ragged lad ran up, sending his voice out higher than the
rest: “Evening Echo! Examiner! Evening Echo!” There
was yet another man, pushing a truck and my head split-
ting with the din he took out of the place. Two, three,
and four here and there among the crowd and they whis-
tling. Oh, wasn’t I envious of them, without a care or
trouble in the world! Isn’t it a pity I am not an emigrant
now! Isn’t it fine and safe I would be, taken up by the
hotel people!
I looked back again. O'Connor and the girl were no-
where to be seen. My heart leapt. I looked on this side and
on that. But, if so, it would have been as well for me to
seek a needle in an oatstack as look for those two among
the crowd passing by like the dark clouds that come out
of the sky from the east on a winter's day. Oh, God send
me on the right path, said I. What good is it for me to
stand still here like a stock, looking round, ever thinking
and doing nothing. Remember it is not on the top of the
Strand you are now, ready to run along the road to the
east towards your house, but in a place where you must
have an eye in the back of your head as well as the two
that are out before you.
I took up my bag and moved on, putting people from
me on every side. Then I noticed coming down towards
me a man who was got up very fine as for yellow bands on
his sleeves and a horn-peaked cap on his head ornamented
with gold. Faith, thought I, it is likely if I went talking
with you it is yourself would give me every information
about the train.
I went up to him quickly. I showed him my ticket and
told him what was after happening to me since I left
Mallow. “Ah, don’t be troubled,” said he, “that ticket
will take you to Dublin. The train will be leaving in
three hours, at nine o'clock exactly, and it will land you
in Dublin at half-past three tomorrow morning.”
“A thousand thanks to you,” said I leaving him, and
as pleased as any other mother’s son from here to Halifax,
as an Islander would say.
One thing only was troubling me now. There would
not be anyone before me on the station in Dublin. In the
telegram to my friend I had told him I would arrive at
half-past seven. Then as luck was in it, with a glance I
gave to the left I saw “Telegraph Office” written over a
door. I went in rejoicing and wrote another telegram tell-
ing George I had gone astray and to be before me on the
station at half-past three in the morning without fail.
I wandered out and courageously I turned my face
towards the city. I walked down through a great broad
street and my heart filled with delight when I saw on my
right hand hundreds of masts beside the quay. “Oh, your
soul to the devil,” cried I aloud for joy. Recollecting my-
self I looked round at once to see if anyone were listening.
There was no one. But what did I see but a man standing
up in a corner with a very strange appearance on him—a
big stick in his hand which he moved from side to side as
if he were feeling the place with it, his face turned up-
wards, some kind of board hanging down his breast and
he muttering to himself. Now and then he would take
off his cap and make the sign of the cross. People in
plenty were passing by, but they took no notice of him.
By my baptism, said I to myself, you are a strange one
and it is a great wonder you get no heed from the people
who are passing. After a while I walked over to him. I
could see now what was written on the board: “Have a
heart and help the blind!”
Oh, thought I, woe to him who would complain! Oh,
God, give help to this poor blind man here.
“In the name of God,” said I, “whatever I will do with-
out money I will spare a small sum to you.”
I put my hand in my pocket and gave him a shilling.
I went down the street to the quay. Putting down my
valise beside me I looked around. The harbour was col-
oured with shipping: steam-ships, sailing ships and
rowing-boats, those far away very small. White gulls in
plenty were flying over the water. As far as I could see
were houses in hundreds of every hue, some of them of
which you would say they were afire from the sun spar-
kling on the panes and it going down in the west. I
thought of the strong lads and comely girls who had left
that quay, and mourning came on me as it had come on
them when they left this place and nothing to be seen
out before them but the edge of the sky.
A voice spoke behind me: “I see there is grief on you,
my boy.”
I looked round, He was standing by my side—a bent
old man well worn with the hardship of the world. There
was a knitted cap on his head, a clay pipe in his mouth,
a grey beard under his chin, and boots up to his knees.
I saw he was a man of the sea.
“You don’t mind my asking, is it beyond you are go-
ing?”
“It is not, but near it.”
“Your girl that is gone before you likely?” said he,
laughing.
“Musha, the cause of my sorrow is every boy and girl
who was once in my company. They have all turned their
backs on this quay, and I am like Usheen left alone after
the Fianna.”
“Ah, that is no fault in you, young man. It was the
same with me.” And he took out a pocket-handkerchief
which had not been washed for a long time by the look
of it. “I tell you I was well off once, a fisherman with a
motor boat owned by myself and my four sons. But my
sharp sorrow, the fishing fell under foot and my heart was
sorely smitten a year ago on the place where the two of
us are standing now, when my four sons said farewell and
turned their backs to me out through the harbour.
“Ah, it is little I thought,” cried he mournfully, “ye
would leave me alone as I am!”
Hunger was oppressing me by this time for I had been
fasting since two o'clock when I had eaten some dry bis-
cuits, only enough to sharpen my appetite. So I said good-
bye to the old man who was still gazing sorrowfully out,
as if he were talking to the great sea. “Musha, my lad, a
thousand blessings go with you,” said he.
I walked on quickly through the street. Before long I
was standing outside a big, high church. God of Virtues,
thought I, isn’t it wonderful the work of men! Who could
believe that any human hand would have the power to
pile those stones one on another! I was gazing up at the
spire, moving backwards to see it better. A gentleman
chanced to be passing and in the confusion I struck him
in the back.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said I, looking over my
shoulder.
He leapt aside and walked on ahead without a word or
even a look at me. Isn't it a wonder the speed there does
be on the people of a city! Upon my word, my lad, said I
looking after him, if you had spent five hours seated on
the thwart of a canoe in a foaming sea you would not be
such a buck for leaping.
I turned on my heel and went into the chapel. I knelt
down to offer up a prayer, though it was not of prayers I
was thinking but of the fine sight before my eyes.
I went out again, and it was a great opening was taken
out of my eyes when I reached the door. Whom would I
meet coming in but O’Connor and the girl?
“We are well met,” said I joyfully. “It is ever said that
men meet again but not so the hills or mountains,”
“Where are you all the evening?” said he.
“Arra, man, where would I be but in the city of Cork.
Did you have anything to eat yet?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Wouldn't it be a good thing for us to get some food.
before we leave for Dublin?”
“It would surely,” said she; but I tell you my heart was
not very bright towards that girl.
We were now walking up the street. I noticed O’Connor
sighing. “The devil, O'Connor, there is a great sighing on
you altogether. What is distressing you?”
“Musha, man, isn’t it a great affliction to have to be up
at the Depot at eight in the morning and without a wink
of sleep this night? No doubt there is nothing troubling
yourself for you can sleep it out.”
“Upon my word, that is not what you will be saying a
week from today when I will see you in the Guard’s uni-
form. It is high on your head the cap will be then.”
At that moment a voice cried out: “Hello! country
cauboons!”
I began to tremble from head to heel, and O’Connor
the same. I looked back but could see no one behind me.
“Where did that voice come from, O'Connor?”
“Begor,” said he, “it is beyond me to make it out.”
After a while I looked back again and I saw a stout
lump of a boy seated above on the top of the wall, his
legs hanging down. When he saw me looking, he cried out
again: “Hello, hello, country cauboons!”
“Musha, it is to the devil I give you if I haven't the
slant on you, you dregs of the city,” said I aloud in Irish.
When I looked at the two they were laughing loudly.
“The devil,” said I, “it is fine and soft are the shells on
the two of you, but take heed of this, if that brat were
before my face I would soon make his ears tingle.”
“I think, Sullivan, it is in a temper you are,” said
O'Connor.
“The cause of my anger is to see the two of you making
fools of yourselves laughing like that. Let us be off before
he makes a public show of us.”
Off we walked and the brat shouting after us: “Hello,
hello, country cauboons!”
My blood was boiling with rage.
“Sure, anyone would know,” said the girl, “that the two
of you come from the country with the stoop on you
walking.”
“Musha, long stoop on yourself,” said I, “there is a fine
hump on your own back if you could see it.”
I looked at O’Connor. “I swear on my oath, O’Connor,
there is a great stoop on the two of us, the way the people
of the city know we are countrymen. Raise your head,
man,” said I, stretching myself up and walking as light as
a bird. And by God, when I looked at O’Connor again, he
had his snout turned up like a seal you would see when
bad weather would be coming. “Oh, man,” said I, “don't
take too much of the sky.”
I had no sooner spoken than I saw the word “Hotel”
written over a door.
I went in, the two following me. You would think at
that moment I knew the city as well as the mayor, A
middle-aged woman came out to us, her head as grey as
a hedgehog and pearls hanging from her ears. She ad-
dressed the girl. Look, said I in my own mind, how one
goose knows another.
She directed us upstairs. We went up and into the
eating-room where were many tables laid under bright
cloths, an odd person or two here and there, eating. We
sat down together at a table; knives, forks and spoons in
plenty upon it, and as for the bottles, they took my senses
from me. As sure as I am alive, said I to myself, I am in a
periwinkle shell now, for it is likely those bottles will
work the wrong way with me. I cast an eye here and an
eye there to watch the people around how they were
working the bottles. Knife or fork I did not touch yet but
talking hard, letting on I was in no hurry to begin. I
glanced at O’Connor and the girl, and, by God, I saw they
were country people like myself, for they had the same
reluctance to try them.
Well, I was making a Tigue’s tale of my talk*, and
watching everyone around till I had learned at last how
to work the knife, the fork, and the bottle.
* Proverbial expression for making a short story long.
“The devil,” said I, seizing hold of the knife and fork,
“isn’t it reluctant ye are before the table?”
I had no sooner done it than the other two did the
same and they with a mouse’s eye on myself. When I
would take up one of the bottles I would hardly have put
it down again before the other two would snap it up, so
that if I had taken the salt-jar and emptied it into my tea-
cup, they would have done the same.
It was now half-past eight. It was time for us to hurry
for the train. We left the hotel and walked straight on our
way till we reached the station.
Lights in hundreds here and there, the same ragged lad
walking up and down with the same cry selling papers.
In a short time the train gave out a whistle. One jerk
and away with us.
I stretched back on the sofa and was soon sound asleep.
I do not know how long I passed in that slumber till the
whistle of the train awoke me. I leapt up. O’Connor and
the girl were still sleeping. A cold shiver struck me. My
soul from the devil, said I, it is often I would complain
while stretched on the thwart of a curragh back beyond
Carrig Valach at such a time, and it is little I thought
that if I were in a train the same cold shiver would strike
me.
I thrust my head out through the window. The night
had a lonesome look. It was sharp and cold, nothing to be
heard only the duga-ga-dug, duga-ga-dug of the train and
now and again the fairy music of the wind as it ran in
against the window-panes. It is far away my thoughts
were at that moment—far west in the Blasket. I see the
curraghs back beyond Carrig Valach and hear the glug-
glag of the ripples on their sides. I see others off the strand
of Yellow Island and yet others down to the west of the
Tail, the nets stretched back out of the sterns and phos-
phorescence around them. I see again the old crew—
Shaun Liam, Tigue O'Shea and Tomás O’Carna down at
the Tail, their nets in the sea and they talking. Look how
they strike their arms together to keep themselves warm!
I hear the cág-cág-cág of the black-backed gulls hovering
in the air above the nets and see them swooping down at
the phosphorescence as if it were mackerel. I see a seal
snarling behind the nets and hear Tigue O’Shea throw a
curse at him: “Blindness and darkness on you, we won't
have a fish alive in the nets tonight!” Now I can hear the
grating of the oars as the fishers make for the quay and
not a fish in the bottom of the curragh. I can see them
going in through the pool, not a sound to be heard but
the lonely murmur of the ripples through the clefts of the
rocks in the dead of night, a dog barking in the distance,
and the whole village sound asleep.
Duga-ga-dug, duga-ga-dug, then another whistle from
the train. The other two were still asleep. I shut my eyes
close and soon the village appeared in perfect likeness be-
fore my face, for “with eager desire I was making my full-
est endeavour to see my love,” as the poet said long
ago*. So great is the power of the solitary man.
* Carolan
Now the train was whistling again. I saw through the
window thousands of lights. Going across to where
O'Connor was stretched on the other sofa I looked at the
little watch on his wrist. It was a quarter-past three. I
roused them. O’Connor sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Wake up, my boy,” said I, “we have made land.”
“God help us,” said he, “and if we have it is time
for it.”
“Arra, man, you have slept enough now to go up to the
gates of Paradise.”
He stretched himself as if the same gates were not to
his liking.
“Upon my word, it is little more sleep I will get to-
night,” said he, “for likely I won’t find a house to let
me in.”
My heart was in my mouth now, for it was so late my
friend might likely not be before me. The train was en-
tering the station, my heart beating. It stretched along-
side the platform. There was no one alive to be seen, only
a big fat policeman covered well up under his chin. I
took my bag and stepped out, and I tell you I hated the
thought of that city.
As I leapt out who was before me but George!
“God save you, Maurice, you have brought home your
load at last.”
"I have, George,” said I, shaking him by the hand.
I cannot describe my relief of mind at that moment to
see my friend. My thoughts changed so that I was like a
bird for joy.
“Well, we had better be going,” said he. “The motor
car is waiting for us.”
The other two were standing behind me.
“I wonder, George, could you find a hotel for these two
who were with me?”
“Very good.” And we moved out with him.
The motor was not gone far when it stopped outside a
big house. We got out. George put his finger on a little
button beside the door.
“What is that, George?”
“You have only to press that button and the people
of the house will hear a bell ringing within.”
Cause for laughter from God! said I to myself, if I hap-
pened to be alone and to come to that door, it is the toe
of my boot it would get and, if so, it is likely I would be
arrested for it. Soon we heard strides down the stairs and
the door was opened. We said good-bye to the two and
went back to the motor.
Oh, wasn’t my heart delighted when the car moved out
through the street; wasn’t it a great change of view; wasn’t
it a wonderful prospect in the dead of night! I looked out.
I was blinded by the hundred thousand lights, lights on
every side of me, lights before me, and lights above my
head on the tops of poles. Soon I saw a smail light coming
towards me like a star through the mist. In half a minute
it was gone by. It was another motor. Then came another
after it and yet another, our own making rings round the
corners and blowing the horn without ceasing. I don’t
know if I am in a dream. If not, it is the Land of the
Young without a lie.
“I think you are not contented,” said my friend.
“Oh, it is not that, but that I cannot believe the sight
before my eyes. Great God of Virtues, isn’t it a spacious
city?”
“The place we are going to is the house of a friend of
mine—Furry Park it is called. She has invited the two of
us to stay there for a week.”
“Are we far from it?”
“It is not much farther as we are approaching Kil-
lester now.”
I looked at him in wonder.
“I don’t know how on God’s earth you can make out
where we are and the motor darting hither and thither
like a bird.”
He laughed. “You, too, soon will know it when you will
be accustomed to the city.”
“That will be one of the greatest wonders that ever
happened, if you will see me passing through this city
without guidance from anyone,”
“Upon my word I shall see it, Maurice, and in no long
time.”
Soon the motor stopped outside a big castle, a magnifi-
cent lamp alight above the door, the walls covered in ivy,
up to twenty windows in it and they big and broad.
I stepped back a little way and looked round. Appar-
ently I was in the middle of a wood, for I could see the
stars twinkling in the sky through the trees, and I could
hear the lonely music of the wind in the leaves, a sound
that would put a man deeply into thought,
“Come in here,” said George. “Softly now, for fear we
would wake the people of the house.”
He unlocked the door cautiously and we slipped gently
in. “Sh, sh,” said he, his lips pouting.
I thought at once of robbers, but, mo Iéir, we were
walking like mice, for the floor was covered with big, soft
rugs.
He went up the stairs, I following him.
“Sh, sh,” came from him again, ever and ever, until we
entered a big, richly furnished room, pictures of noble-
men long dead hanging on the walls, ornamental furni-
ture here and there and wonderful curtains hanging down
over the big, long windows.
It was now four o'clock. We were worn out. It was not
long till we were asleep.
About eleven o'clock the next morning the sunbeams
were pouring in through the curtains and the two of us
awake, talking and conversing of the affairs of the Island.
There was a knock at the door. In came a girl, young,
handsome, brightly laughing. I saw she was of the flower
of nobility. She gave me a thousand welcomes, sat down
and began to pour out tea for us. Soon we were talking at
our ease, especially of my journey to the city.
After awhile she went away. “Isn't that a handsome
girl?” said I to George.
“She is, indeed.”
What was my wonder when I heard that she was mar-
ried!
About the middle of the day I walked out among the
trees, where there was comfort and delight for the singing
of birds in the branches above my head, the sun sparkling
through the leaves and the leaves shaking in the little air
of wind was coming from the west. I walked in among
them, and the thrush singing above me fine, soft and
sweet. I looked up at him, He seemed to be singing in or-
der to delight my own heart. He made me think of the
great world, of things I had never understood before. I
could see the city clearly at the edge of the sky, great high
pillars standing here and there and wisps of smoke from
them rising upwards. I was deep in thought considering
the life of men. I looked east towards the castle, covered
in ivy and sparrows quarrelling amongst it. Isn’t it a fine
life is given to some rather than to others! I don’t know
what in the world could trouble the man who lives there,
though I have often heard it is they who are the worst for
discontent. It is a great lie. He would need only to sit
outside his castle listening to the music of the birds for all
sorrow to be lifted from his heart.
I arose again and walked down a pleasant path where
the trees were coming together in close grips above my
head, and a sweet smell from the flowers around me. I
walked through the wood till I came to the east corner,
where the crows were chattering in the branches above.
I stopped and looked up. A sort of shame came on me
when I saw them looking down at me, crying cdg-cag-cag
and. jerking their beaks down towards me as if to drive
home what they were saying. I thought at once of that
brat of a Cork lad who had called us country cauboons.
Was it any wonder for him to guy me when the rooks
themselves are mocking me.
I wandered down to the bottom of the meadow where
three or four cows were lying in the grass, each as big as
an elephant and with a gloss on their hides from the fat
of their bodies. I walked back again in the direction of
the castle. I had been out for three hours, though it had
seemed no more than half an hour to me. There was great
wonder on George and Moya (that was the name of the
woman of the house), for they thought I must have gone
astray through the city.
Late in the evening: “I wonder,” said my friend, “would
you like to pay a visit to the pictures?”
My heart leapt. “No doubt of it,” said I.
We stopped at cross-roads near the castle to wait for a
bus. Oh, King of Virtues, wasn’t the street clean! It would
not harm you to stretch back on it for any dirt you would
have on your clothes. There were many others at the cross-
roads going to the pictures like ourselves, each boy with
his own girl. Isn’t it they have the comfortable life with
nothing to hinder them but the dry road out before them
always. Isn’t it a great pity entirely for the poor lads back
in the Island with nothing for them to see or hear but the
big rollers coming up through the Sound and the rough
noise of the wind blowing from the north-west across the
hills, and often for four weeks without news from the
mainland! Musha, woe to him who travels not, as the old
woman said long ago on her first journey out to Dunquin.
I felt a prod in my shoulder. “The bus is coming,” said
George.
She comes across with a loud grating noise. The crowd
moves towards her, myself and my companion among
them. She moves away rapidly. Soon motors and cars of
all sorts are passing each other like ants, the bus turning
the corners like the wind and a tumult in my head from
the horns blowing to let others know that they are com-
ing. Isn’t it great the intelligence of the drivers to guard
themselves against one another! For myself, I did not
know any moment but I would be splintered,
We reached O’Connell Bridge and got out. Trams and
motors roaring and grating, newspaper-sellers at every
corner shouting in the height of their heads, hundreds of
people passing this way and that without stopping, and
every one of them, men and women, handsomely got-up.
‘The trouble now was to cross the street. A man would
make the attempt, then another, an eye up and an eye
down, a step forward and a step back, until they would
reach the other side.
“Oh, Lord, George, this is worse than to be back off the
quay of the Blasket waiting for a calm moment to run in.”
He laughed. “Here is a calm moment now,” he said sud-
denly. Off we went in a flutter, George gripping my arm;
now forwards, now backwards, until we landed on the op-
posite side.
We walked on and I tell you my eyes grew large when
I saw above me every letter of the “Capitol” alight.
“Great God, George, look at the wonder above your
head!” At that moment it went out, but again every letter
was lit up till the whole “Capitol” was on fire. In defer-
ence to me, George let on he was as greatly astonished,
like a mother petting her little child. Well, well, said I to
myself, I must change and not show my wonder at any-
thing else.
We went in. Such a building for size! Without any non-
sense it took my senses from me. Stars came before my
eyes with the sight—the cleanliness and the splendour of
the place within. It was impossible to comprehend it.
Wonderful is the power of man! We went up a staircase
as twisty as a corkscrew and my delight was so great that
I thought of heaven. If it would be as fine as this, it were
worth fighting and getting sudden death for it. Before
long a girl came to us, dressed in a sailor’s suit as it seemed
to me, a light in her hand. She showed us to a seat and
departed.
Before me now was the fairest sight a sinner’s eye ever
beheld, and strains of music as sweet as fairy music itself.
Two big curtains slowly parted the way I saw a wood and
a wild desert with great hills covered with snow above. A
man comes towards me through the wood, growing bigger
and bigger until he is the size of a giant. He stops—a
bright suit on him and a long black beard under his chin.
He looks out at the assembly and leans his shoulder
against a big tree. Then he opens his mouth and begins a
beautiful song. Oh, Lord, it is he had the sweet, trem-
bling voice. I thought I was in a dream. And what won-
der, with the great change which had come into my life
so suddenly.
No sooner was the singer gone than the curtains opened
again. What would there be but about twenty people with
every kind of music and a man before them with a stick
in his hand. As he raised the stick the music would rise.
When he lowered it the music would fall.
When it ceased the curtains were let down again. A
blaze of light was sent throughout the building so that I
could see all round and the smoke rising up to the rafters
from the hundreds of cigarettes that were alight around
me,
“How did you like the music?” said my friend,
“The way it is with me, if I were here always I think
death could not come near me.”
“You will change yet, Maurice.”
“I suppose you are right,” said I, and he spoke truly.
The curtain rises again and I tell you it was now I was
astonished to see the loveliest girl my eyes ever beheld
seated on an ornamental chair, an old lady in bracelets
and pearls seated beside her. The mother is advising the
girl not to marry this man but that man. The girl is not
content and bursts into tears. Well, there is no need for
me to make a Tigue’s tale of it, but at the end of the story
she escapes with her own fair love, as a woman of the
Island would say.
George stood up. “It is over,” said he.
On the 28th of April I shook my feathers, made ready my
mind, washed and cleaned my body till I had the salt
rubbed out of my skin, and with the sea-tan gone from my
face and the look of the city swell upon me, I set out for
the Depot in Phoenix Park, myself and my friend beside
me.
A peeler was standing at either side of the gate. George
spoke to one of them. He told us to wait till he sent in a
message to the office. While we were waiting, a Guard
passed with a bugle in his hand. He stood some way off, as
straight as a candle, put the bugle to his mouth and took
an echo out of the square. Then we saw a great company
of men in Guards’ uniform coming out, a sergeant walk-
ing before them and shouting: ‘“‘Left, left, left!” The ser-
geant stopped and the men passed him in step together.
The peeler returned. “Come with me now,” said he.
He took us into a big room where three or four Guards
were busy writing and going through papers. Musha, I
don’t know in the world, said I to myself, will the day
ever come when I will be as you are. My friend was talk-
ing to them, and after a while one of them came up to me.
We followed him into another room.
“Take off your coat and shirt till I measure you.”
I did so. He took out his tape.
“He is very thin, only thirty-four inches round the
chest,” said he in English. ~
“And what is the right measurement?” said George.
“Thirty-six.”
I became anxious, thinking he was going to throw me
out for the sake of two inches.
“Ask him,” said I to George in Irish, “if he had been
stooping every morning to lift a big heavy hulk of a cur-
ragh and carrying it on his back to the water, his ribs
rattling and doubling under the weight, would his own
waist be as broad? And tell him further that when I get
the beef and mutton into mine it will soon be as good as
his.”
“Throw off your shoes now till I take your height,” said
the Guard.
“What is the right height?” said I.
“Five feet nine inches.”
He put a sheet of paper on the floor by the wall. I did
not know what was the meaning of it. “Put your heels on
the paper now,” said he.
I obeyed.
“And now stand straight up against the wall.”
I obeyed again, but I thought it as well to raise myself
on my toes to increase my height. He bent down and drew
the paper gently from under my heels. I was caught in the
act.
“That won’t do. You must keep your heels on the
ground.”
I stood up straight again, and, by God, I was five feet
eleven inches.
He told me I could go and to be back at eight o’clock
on the following morning.
Now was the time for me to gather my wits together, to
strengthen my courage, and to cast under foot my foolish
thoughts, to rub the rust from my limbs, to lay aside all
childishness, and to go as far as the eye of the needle.
Next morning at seven o'clock George and I arose and
set out once more for the Park. Some forty young men
were standing inside before me, country boys who had
been called up. They looked worn and distressed, gazing
anxiously around.
“Well, I had better be going now,” said George, “and
leave you in the company of the others.”
He bade me good-bye and departed.
I had my shoulder against a pillar, looking out lone-
somely, the other recruits sitting on a long bench talking
merrily. The Guard with the bugle came out. He stood
at the corner of the barrack and blew. In a moment
Guards in hundreds were gathering from all directions.
There were two sergeants in charge and before long I
heard that terrible word, “ Shun!" You could have heard
it a mile from home. The company crossed the square
and the recruits got up to look at them. They stopped,
bringing their heels together with a kick. At the same
time another company came down towards me carrying
all sorts of music and led by an officer. The officer raised
his stick. The music began. The men marched past, the
merry music filling my ears.
I turned back towards the recruits. Well, said I to my-
self, I had better go and speak with you. I stood watching
them and soon I noticed one wearing the Irish fáinne.* It
must be, I thought, that you are from some backward
place and know the old tongue. I went across to him.
*A badge worn by Irish-speakers.
“God save you,” said I.
He looked at me in surprise. “God and Mary save you,”
said he.
“Where are you from?”
He smiled. “From Donegal. Where are you from your-
self?”
“Musha, I am thinking you never heard mention of the
place, but I will give you Kerry.”
“Oh, I know it well.”
“Did you ever hear mention of the village far west?”
“Where is that?”
“Och, you don’t know Kerry, so.”
The sergeant came up with a sheet of paper in his
hands. He stood before us, looking at it. ‘‘Patrick Feeney,
stand out herel’’ And so on till he had called the last man.
“Squad!” he cried, and immediately afterwards the ter-
rible word “’Shun!” “Form fours! Right turn! Quick
march!”
Then away we marched into the gymnasium.
Each of us was seated at a table by himself, a pen and
plenty of paper before him. I looked at my pen and
laughed. O God above, I thought, am I not a fine gentle-
man at last!
An officer came in with a form for each of us and gave
us sums to do. Then we were told to write a short essay
on tillage. I scratched my head. Musha, I don’t know in
the world, said I to myself, will I do it in Irish? Upon my
word I will. I will let them see I have a respect for the
language.
I seized my pen and attacked the paper vigorously. I
left no stone unturned nor thread unstrung but wrote
down everything. I went down as far as the strand in the
end till I had the crop stored.
When we had finished we were ordered to go into the
city for our dinner, and to be back at three o'clock. We
went out through the gate, the Irish-speaker and myself
together.
“How did you get on in the examination?”
“Musha, upon my word,” said he, “I found it very
hard.”
“Are you in earnest?”
“Indeed I am, and I am much afraid I didn’t pass.”
“Oh, don’t say that, for if you leave me I shall be a
pooka entirely.”
At three o’clock we were sitting in the same place inside
the gate when the same sergeant came down and called
us out as before.
“Squad!” he cried, and then “ "Shun! Form fours! Right
turn! Quick march! Left incline!” and away we went till
he led us into the Dispensary. There we were ordered to
strip off our clothes. We spent an hour waiting for the
doctor in that way, just as we came into the world, our
teeth chattering with the cold.
My own name was called and I went into the room to
the doctor, a very decent man. He took up his instruments
and put one of them into my back: “Say ninety-nine,
please.” “Ninety-nine,” said I. “Again.” “Ninety-nine!” I
said again loudly, for fear he might find any fault with
me.
“Oh, you are as sound as a herring,” said he.
“It no wonder,” said I, “for I was born and bred in
their company.”
He laughed. I put on my clothes and went out.
It was past five o’clock before everyone had been ex-
amined. We were ordered to go into the city and return
at nine the next morning. I said good-bye to the Irish-
speaker for I was going to see George who lived in Leeson
Street.
I leapt on to a tram. Ah, said I to myself when I was
seated inside at my ease, wasn’t it true for George when
he told me the first night that I would soon be travelling
alone through the city without guidance from any man,
I knocked at the door. The woman of the house opened
it and welcomed me, for we were already acquainted.
George was in his own room before me, surrounded with
an ass’s load of papers and books.
“God save you, George,” said I.
“Musha, God and Mary save you, how did you get on?”
“By God, I don’t know at all for the order we got was
to be back again at nine tomorrow.”
“Oh, you have made your white coat,* so.”
* You are settled for life, said of a girl after her match is made.
“It is tomorrow I shall know that,” said I.
We sat down before the hearth talking of the fine
times we had in the Island long ago until the two of us
were struck by the sleep of the corncrake on either side
of the fire. We got up and went to the white gable.
Next morning I made my way back to the gate. The
other recruits greeted me, especially the Irish-speaker.
“Well, what is your opinion today?” said I.
“The devil I know. We shall have it over anyway.”
The sergeant came down, gave us the same commands
and off we marched. We turned in under a big archway
and were ordered to wait there till we were called. We
spent the time walking up and down to keep ourselves
warm, the Irish-speaker and myself talking together.
Before long we heard a voice:
“Michael O’Callaghan, come in here!”
We stopped talking at once. The boy went in. We all
watched the door with beating hearts, waiting for the
news he would bring. Soon he came out with a look of
weeping. He walked up and held out his hand to one
of them.
“Lord God, what’s wrong, Mick?” said the other fellow,
taking his hand.
“I did not pass,” said he with tears in his eyes.
“Ah, what harm, man?” said the other. “It might be
all for luck.”
He shook hands with us all and went his way.
Then another was called in, and he came out in the
same fashion, until twelve had been struck off the books.
Among them was my Gaelic companion. He said fare-
well to me and departed.
Eighteen of us were left. But we said to each other
that the same end was in store for us all, and so we had
given up hope. I heard my own name called. My heart
was in my mouth with the flutter of fright that came
over me, for I had no thought, of course, but that I
would get the same treatment as the rest. I went in.
“Well,” said the Guard who was there before me, “you
have passed, boy. Write your name here.”
“By God,” said I in Irish as I tock up the pen, “I have
made my white coat at last.”
He did not understand what I was saying and looked
at me between the eyes.
“Is that all I have to do now?”
“That is all.”
“How did you get on?’ I was asked when I went out.
“Well,” I replied contentedly.
I took out my pipe and I tell you I sent the smoke
flying. One by one they went in heavy-hearted and came
out rejoicing.
We went off to the sleeping-rooms. Five or six of us
were put in each. My eyes opened wide when I saw about
fourteen small beds along the walls. Ah, it is now I was
in a place where I would have to keep my two eyes well
open. I was acquainted with no one.
The Clare man was there, the Galway man and the
Cork man, the city swell and the country lad—the Blasket
man among them.
I sat down on my bed. The other recruits were talking
to some Guards, inquiring after this person and that.
Whatever happiness I had felt before it all left me now
when I looked at the little iron bed beneath me covered
with two thin blankets. I was tired and weary, without
vigour, pleasure, or mirth. I knew well I was under con-
trol again. It is often I had complained during my school
days and said to myself, if I were a grown man I would
be content. But look at me now without anyone around
me who knows me. I drew out my pipe, filled it and lit
up. But seven times it went out, for I would forget to
keep it alight with all the thoughts which were running
through my mind.
I jumped up, took off my clothes and got into bed.
A fellow here and a fellow there was glancing at me.
“I swear by the devil,” said one of them, “the recruit
above means to get his sleep.”
But I took no heed. I stretched back, turned on this
side and that. But it was no use, for the hard thwart was
piercing my back. I thought of the old soldier in the red
army. No sleep was falling on me. How could it?—a man
here singing a snatch of a song, another laughing, two
more wrestling all over the room and now and then fall-
ing on top of me, a man playing a flute, another a fiddle.
Oh, Lord, said I, it is often I would complain of the roar
of the waves below the house on a rough winter’s night at
home, but upon my word I am in a madhouse now.
After a while a sergeant came in. The noise stopped,
all without a word like mice at sight of a cat.
“Lights out!” he cried,
The lights were put out and everyone groped through
the darkness to his bed. Well, thought I, it was no harm
to give you that much. Maybe you will be a little quieter
for the rest of the night. But indeed it was not so, for
when they were stretched out on their backs they sur-
passed themselves. Not a wink of sleep could I get for
all the chatter and clatter through the room, and from
time to time a train whistling from afar. Not a sound
came to my ears that night but I heard it.
At six o'clock, not a moment before or after, I heard
the bugle blowing. A man leapt from his bed. “Wake
up, lads,” he cried, “remember you are far away from
home now!”
Oh, Lord, wasn’t I vexed and tormented without a
wink of sleep all night. Everyone was getting up, stretch-
ing and yawning, especially the recruits like myself whose
bones were reluctant. It would have been little use for
you to say that morning, “Wait a while, I will be getting
up now.” Ah my sorrow, you would not soon have for-
gotten it.
We went out and made for the wash-house, clamour
and confusion, everyone shaving himself hastily. In ten
minutes we were washed and clean. Then the bugle blew
again,
We went out into the square. The sergeant was stand-
ing there before us, calling the roll. It was there I heard
the first word of Irish. As he called out each name, a
man would answer “Annso!”* and, believe me, there
were many who spoke it with an English accent.
* “Here.”
There were about four hundred of us in the square
now, the adjutant out before us.
“Company!” he shouted,
Everyone was ready waiting until there came the
sickening word, ‘‘’Shun!”
What a wonderful throat that same adjutant had!
“Form fours!” he cried again. “Right turn! Left turn!
Quick march!” and away we went into Phoenix Park.
Discontented though I had been ever since I went into
the Depot, a cloud was rising from my heart now when
I saw the view—the earth white with snow, the foliage on
the trees bending under the burden they were carrying,
the wind whistling shrilly through the wood. Hundreds
of crows were flying from tree to tree, and before long I
saw a couple of deer galloping away from the terrible
host which was approaching. Musha, did I not think at
once of the Fianna, of Oscar and Conan Maol and Goll
mac Morna.
We had marched a couple of miles into the Park when
we were given that strong word, “Halt!” which ran
through the woods like a whirlwind. “Fall out!”
We left the ranks and sat down in rows by the road-
side. I was sitting with my back against the ditch, listen-
ing to a blackbird singing above my head. Musha, isn’t
it many a thing it put me in mind of! The sun was climb-
ing the sky and all the birds greeting it; sounds of all
kinds were passing through my ears—the voice of the
birds, the whistling of the trains, the grating of the
trams, and the lonely sound of the wind in the woods.
Before long I heard a shout which went through the
back of my head: “Fall in!”
I leapt up. Everyone was making for the road and
standing shoulder to shoulder. I took my place among
them, and away we marched again.
On our return to the Depot, we were ordered to go
for our breakfast. We ran like a flock of sheep to the
hall. My eyes opened in wonder to see forty long tables,
twenty on each side of the hall and twelve men at each.
But indeed it was a meagre portion was laid before us.
Looking round I soon saw everyone laying down the
knife and fork on his plate, I thought it very queer but
did the same. Since you are in Rome, said I, it is as well
for you to be a Roman. ‘Then I saw the superintendent
walking down the middle of the hall. He stopped:
“Any complaints?”
“No, sir,” cried a hundred voices together.
It was then I understood that they had stopped eating
out of homage to him.
Well, no sooner were we seated in our own room after
the meal, and cigarettes in our mouths, when the bugle
was blown again. God be with us for ever, said I to my-
self, isn’t it a discontented and vexatious world when a
man wouldn't get time to have his smoke!
We were turned right and turned left till we came out
into the square. “The last batch of recruits, fall out
here!” cried the officer.
We were put in charge of a sergeant, a small, short,
haggard, rough-voiced fellow with a pale face and two
eyes like candles. He stood out before us and began by
giving a lecture on what we had to do, turning right and
left, kicking the square as he brought up the other foot.
Then he gave us a command.
“Squad!” he cried. “’Shun!” and I noticed the sinews
of his neck ready to burst with the strain. “Right turn!”
he shouted again. We turned right. “Quick march!” and
away we marched up the square.
The sergeant remained where he was, and as we moved
away from him he was like a dog barking in the distance,
After half an hour’s hard toil he dismissed us. We re-
turned to our room, running with sweat, worn out, and
weary,
I spent three months drilling in that fashion, until I
was as thin as an eel without a drop of sweat in my body,
One night in the beginning of September, about three
o'clock in the morning, the boy in the bed next my own
let out a scream and told us to call a doctor. Everyone
was awake in a moment and the room in confusion. The
doctor came. He immediately ordered the boy to hospital.
The next day we were all moved to another room that
our own might be disinfected. “And you will be very
lucky,” said the doctor, “if none of you has caught it.”
He was right. I was suddenly struck down myself and
sent off to hospital. I spent a couple of days there, getting
worse. Then they moved me down to the Fever Hospital
in Cork Street, where I lay without wish for food or for
drink, worn out with the world, nothing around me but
white beds, an old man on one side and a boy with his
own complaint on the other, another being brought in
on a stretcher, a smell of drugs and of sickness through-
out the place. How vexed and tormented I was, especially
when I would see every other patient visited by his peo-
ple, for no one was coming to me. My friend was over
in England and the people of the castle on holiday in the
west. As for my own kin they were all on the other side
of the world, and I miserable that I had not followed
them. Och, isn’t health a fine thing! Woe to the man
who would complain so long as he could walk out and
take a draught of the sweet air of heaven. I would often
think of the days gone by when I would be hunting with
a light heart on the summit of the Cró, or fishing on the
top of the waves or playing ball on the White Strand.
Not a man in the Blasket then who could keep up with
me in the race. Often too I would think of the night
when the traveller was telling us beside the fire of the
days he had spent in the red army and the old soldier he
had met in the hospital. Little I thought then that I
myself would be in the same case. How little any man
knows what is before him!
However, I was not thinking of dying yet. I passed
six weeks in hospital, four on the flat of my back and
two walking in the garden. Happily and gaily
and contentedly I spent those two weeks though I had nothing
but the skin to keep my bones together, and indeed there
were tears in my eyes when I was leaving.
It was on the 10th of November. After a good hour’s
drilling in the square, we went into the schoolhouse as
usual to learn points of law. We had just sat down, with
our books open, when the superintendent called my
name.
“Annso!” I answered.
He called another name. “Annso!” was the answer.
And then he called a third. “Annso!”
“Well,” said he, “I have to examine the three of you
for sending you into the country.”
Oh, Lord, I trembled hand and foot. I had made no
preparation for it. How could I, after spending six weeks
in hospital without looking at a law at all? Well, I pulled
myself together. How lucky I would be if I passed today!
“Your soul to the devil,” a lad whispered to me, “isn’t it
fine for you to be leaving this devilish place?”
My heart was in a flutter when I saw the superintend-
ent preparing to begin the examination. He took me
first, and questioned me about at least nine acts. I an-
swered each question. He stopped and raised his head.
“That's not too bad,” said he, “after all the time you
spent in hospital. You will be going to the country any
day now.”
Next day I got instructions from the Commissioner
that I was to leave at five o’clock on the following morn-
ing for Inverin in the county of Galway. I was walking
across the room and I doubt if there was any man in
Ireland at that moment as happy as I.
“Musha, it is a pity I'm not in your shoes now,” said
one of the lads.
“Take it easy, boy,” said I, “your own day will come
yet. But pay attention to your lessons,” I added with a
laugh,
I had nothing to do that day but to pack my belong-
ings for the journey. Again I overheard that angry word,
“’Shun!” and with a glance through the window I saw
the recruits out on the square being cursed by the
sergeant. I gave a fine hearty laugh.
“Don’t be sleepy in the morning, Shaun,” said I to the
lad in the bed next to mine, “till you help me carry my
baggage to the gate.”
“All right,” said he, “and indeed I will perish after
you.”
“Yé, don’t mind that. They can’t keep you here much
longer if they do their worst.”
“Ah, musha, I don’t know, but I would rather than all
I ever saw that I was going with you.”
“There is no doubt but it’s pretty hard here, Shaun.”
I got no answer. “Do you hear me, Shaun?” No an-
swer. “Are you asleep?’ Again no answer. Indeed, you
are in a sound slumber, said I to myself, and I laid my
head back on the pillow.
I remembered no more till I was pulled by the ear.
I opened my eyes and saw the man who was on guard at
the gate, for it was his duty to call me. “Get up,” said
he, “it is five o'clock.”
When I had pulled on my clothes I went over to Shaun.
“Get up,” said I.
I gave a tug at his ear. He opened his eyes, with a wild
look in them. “Are you going?” said he.
“I am.”
He leapt out of bed and put on his trousers and shoes.
Then we took up my trunk, one at each end, and carried
it across the square. We left the trunk at the gate and
went back for my bag. When we returned, the lorry was
waiting for me. I said good-bye to Shaun and was driven
away to Broadstone. I bought my ticket and entered the
train.
I was seated at my ease, thinking and reflecting on the
world, I in Guard’s uniform going out to Connemara to
enforce the laws. Musha, isn’t it little I thought a short
time ago that I would ever go on such a journey!
My fare was paid to Moycullen, wherever that was. I
got up and looked out of the window. The day was
threatening and heavy snow lying on the hills. I listened
to the sound of the train and thought of my first journey
through the middle of Ireland.
After a while we stopped and I heard them shouting,
“Change for Clifden!”
I took up my bag, went out and crossed the bridge,
now as used to that work as any old dog. I went down
on the other side, entered the train which was waiting,
and before long it started out from the station.
‘There were two others in the same compartment, the
queerest two I ever saw, clad in white flannel from head
to heel. Before long one spoke to the other in Irish. My
heart leapt with love of that language, though I found
it hard to understand them, for they were speaking in
the Connacht dialect.
“It looks like rain today, Cole,” said one of them.
“It does indeed,” said the other man.
“How far is it to Moycullen, Cole?”
“Oh, we are not far from it now.”
“I dare say it is after the poteen the peeler is going,”
said the other fellow with a glance at me.
They looked at each other, smiling. I pretended to be
reading a book, as though I did not understand them.
"I dare say they are bad enough back in your place,”
said Cole.
“Oh, musha, my son, the devil is in them all.”
“That peeler doesn’t look too bad,” said Cole with
another glance at me.
“Indeed there is a decent look on him, whoever he is.”
“I suppose he has no knowledge of the Irish?”
“How would he? Who has Irish but the wretches of the
world?”
“Well, we are in at the station now.”
When I heard that I got up.
“I dare say you are from Connemara,” said I to them
in Irish.
“Oh, the devil!” said Cole.
“Oh, the devil!” said the other fellow. “Isn’t it well
we didn’t say anything out-of-the-way? I tell you, Cole,
no one can be trusted these days on road or on path.”
“Oh, the devil a lie in that,” said Cole. “Did you never
hear that a peeler is not to be trusted until he’s seven
years under the clay?”
I leapt from the train and went into the parcels’ office.
“I dare say it is far from here to Inverin?” said I to the
man inside.
“It’s nearly twenty-eight miles.”
“I wonder could I get a car here?”
“That is a thing you could not get,” said he with a
laugh, “but I'll tell you what you will do. It is not far
up to the barracks and the Guards there will help you.”
Just then I heard a voice outside: “Arra, devil, peeler,
peeler!”
Iran out and saw one of the bauneens1 who had been
1 Bauneens: the cream woollen costume of the Connemara peas-
ant. And hence “a bauneen,” a peasant wearing such costume,
with me in the carriage with his head out through the
window and my valise in his hand.
“Throw it out,” I cried.
He did so and I caught it. I waved my hand to them
in farewell and returned to the office.
“I dare say this baggage can wait here till I come back
with the car?”
“Oh, of course.”
“Where is the barracks?”
“Come out here and I will show you. That is it up
there,” said he, pointing towards a building with a red
roof. I thanked him and went off.
I walked on till the road began to climb. I stopped
and looked around. King of Virtues, wasn’t it a wretched
poor place! There was not a hand’s-breadth of lea-soil
to be seen, but everywhere rocks and stones, little un-
tidy, unlimed houses with roofs of rushes dotted here
and there. Before long I saw an old woman in her red
coat coming down the road with a big black dog. She
clapped her hands, crying, in Irish, “There they are be-
low, Cos! Put them out, Cos!”
I looked down where she was pointing and could see
nothing but stones, some of them moss-grown with age.
Then I noticed two calves pulling at a couple of hay-
cocks hardly bigger than my head.
“Oh, oh, musha!” cried the old woman, when the dog
had driven them off, “blindness without light on you if
it isn’t fine the way neither field nor valley would con-
tent you!”
Musha, God help them, said I to myself, I don’t know
where is the field here to nourish them. The old woman
departed. Faith, said I, I am among the Gaels again.
Isn’t it well they are keeping up the old ways—the
costume, the language, and the houses.
I walked on again till I met a little boy, well clad in
sheep's wool and carrying his bag of books. “What is
your name?” said I. He did not answer and tried to slip
away. “What is your name?” said I again.
He was looking into my eyes as if he was going to cry.
At last he said tremulously: “Colum O'Flaherty.”
“Have no fear, boy,” said I, “but tell me where is the
barracks in this place?’
He ran up on to the top of the ditch, and pointed up
the road. “That’s it above.”
“Good boy,” said I, putting a hand in my pocket and
giving him sixpence.
“Thank you,” said he and departed.
I walked up along a wet rough road till I found the
barracks. Three Guards were inside. I told them my
business—to get Inverin on the telephone. I spoke into
the telephone myself. “Hello!” said Inverin. “Hello!”
said I, and I told them to send out a car.
I took dinner with the other Guards and stayed talk-
ing of this and that, especially of the Depot, till at eight
o'clock the car arrived with two Guards along with the
driver. They welcomed me. I said good-bye to the men
of the barracks and we drove to the station where I had
left my baggage; then out to the west, with a stop here
and there, till we reached Inverin late in the evening.
I carried my bag up into the room. I was very happy.
I looked out of the window. The moon was high in the
sky and the night as bright as day. Galway Bay lay
stretched out before me and the coast of Clare lying over
in the south-east. I went down and walked out as far
as the gate. Children were playing up and down the
road, calling to each other in sweet, fluent Irish. I heard
the sound of footsteps approaching. He was within four
yards of me before I saw him, for he was wearing a suit
of bauneens of the same colour as the ground.
“God bless you!” said the old man,
“God and Mary bless you!” said I.
“A fine night,” said he again.
“It is so, God be praised.”
He passed on.
Before long another was approaching.
“God bless you!”
“God and Mary bless you!”
“A fine night.”
“It is a beautiful night, praise be to God on high!”
I stayed a while listening to the sound of the wind in
the trees and watching the glitter of the moonlight on
the sea. Then I turned on my heel and went in.
AFTER two years in Connemara I went home for my holi-
days to the Island.
How full of happiness I was when I reached Dingle!
I went up to Martin’s house. They gave me a bright
welcome and told me all the news: this boy was gone
and that boy, this girl and that girl gathered away to
America.
I took a car to Dunquin and how my heart opened
when I reached Slea Head and saw the Blasket, Inish-
na-Bré and Inish-vick-ilaun stretched out before me in
the sea to the west! I was as gay as a starling as I went
down to Dunquin, and it happened that my father was
before me on the top of the cliff, with two others whom
I did not recognize.
“Musha, God bless your life home again, my son!”
said my father with a light of joy in his face.
I glanced at the other two. They were looking at me,
smiling.
“Who are these?” said I.
“Don’t you know Shauneen Liam and Mirrisheen
Kate?” said my father with a laugh.
“God of Virtues,” said I, looking at them again, “isn’t
there a great change in them, who were only little chil-
dren when I left home and now they are sturdy men?”
When we came into the quay in the Blasket I thought
I would never reach the house.
“Oh, King of Angels,” cried an old woman, “isn’t it a
fine man you have become!”
“Musha, how is every bit of you?” cried another.
“Musha, isn’t it you have the great shell of flesh!”
cried a third till at last I was mad with them. As for the
little children, though I was putting my two eyes through
them, I was unable to recognize most of them.
As I approached the house, I saw my grandfather
standing in the doorway. When he saw me, he remained
there standing, shedding tears of joy.
“Musha, how are you since, daddo?”
He could not speak yet, but embraced me.
“Musha, my heart,” said he at last, laughing, “it’s many
a savage dog and bad housewife you have met since.”
“No doubt of it,” said I, walking in.
Rose was at the fireside before me, greatly changed,
with no thought of fawning on me now. Soon my father
came in. My grandfather poured out the tea.
After tea I wandered out through the village. Every-
one I met on the road stopped to welcome me.
There was a great change in two years—green grass
growing on the paths for lack of walking; five or six
houses shut up and the people gone out to the mainland;
fields which had once had fine stone walls around them
left to ruin; the big red patches on the Sandhills made
by the feet of the boys and girls dancing—there was not
a trace of them now.
When I returned home the lamps were being lit in
the houses. I went in. My father and grandfather were
sitting on either side of the fire, my grandfather smoking
his old pipe.