Half-Hours with Great Story-Tellers Part 16

THE LEGEND OF THE LITTLE WEAVER.

You see, there was a Waiver lived, wanst upon a time, in Duleek here, hard by the gate, and a very honest, industherous man he was, by all accounts. He had a wife, and of coorse they had childhre, and small blame to them, and plenty of them, so that the poor little Waiver was obleeged to work his fingers to the bone a'most, to get them the bit and the sup; but he did'nt begridge that, for he was an industherous crayther, as I said before, and it was up airly and down late wid him, and the loom was never standin' still. Well, it was one mornin' that his wife called to him, and he sittin' very busy throwin' the shuttle, and, says she, "Come here," says she, "jewel, and ate the breakquest, now that it's ready." But he niver minded her, but went on workin': So in a minit or two more says she, callin' out to him again, 'Arrah! lave off slavin' yourself, my darlin', and ate your bit of breakquest while it is hot."

"Lave me alone," says he, and he dhruv the shuttle faster nor before.

Well, in a little time more, she goes over to him where he sot, and, says she, coaxin' him like, "Thady, dear," says she, "the stirabout will be stone cowld, if you don't give over that weary work and come and ate it at wanst."

"I'm busy with a patthern here that is brakin my heart." says the Waiver, "and intil I complate it, and masther it intirely, I won't quit."

"Oh, think of the illigant stirabout, that'll be spilte intirely."

"To the divil with the stirabout," says he.

"G.o.d forgive you," says she, "for cursing your good breakquest."

"Aye, and you too," says he,

"Troth, you're as cross as two sticks this blessed morning, Thady,"

says the poor wife, "and it's a heavy handful I have of you when you are craked in your temper; but stay there if you like, and let your stirabout grow cowld, and not one o' me'll ax you agin," and with that off she went, and the Waiver, sure enough. was mighty crabbed, and the more the wife spoke to him the worse he got, which, you know, is only nathral.

Well, he left the loom at last, and wint over to the stirabout, and what would you think but when he luked at it, it was as black as a crow; for you see it was the hoighth o' summer, and the flies lit upon it to that degree, that the stirabout was fairly covered with ihem.

"Why then bad luck to your impidence," says the Waiver, "would no place sarve you but that? and is it spiling my breakquest yez are, you dirty bastes?"

And with that, being altogether craked tempered at the time, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish of stirabout, and killed no less than threescore and tin flies at the one blow. It was threescore and tin exactly, for he counted the carca.s.ses one by one, and laid them out on a clane plate, for to view them.

Well, he felt a powerful spirit risin' in him, when he seen the slaughter he done at one blow, and with that he got as consaited as the very d.i.c.kens, and not a stroke more work he'd do that day, but out he wint, and was fractious and impidint to everyone he met, and was squarin' up into their faces and sayin':

"Look at that fist! that's the fist that killed threescore and tin at one blow--whoo!"

With that all the neighbors thought he was cracked, and faith the poor wife herself thought the same, when he kem home in the evenin', after shpendin' every rap he had in dhrink, and swaggering about the place, and lookin' at his hand every minit.

"Indade an' your hand is very dirty, sure enough, Thady jewel," said the poor wife, and thrue for her, for he rowled into a ditch comin'

home, "you'd betther wash it, darlin'." "How dare you say dirty to the greatest hand in Ireland," says he, going to bate her.

"Well, it's not dirty," says she.

"It's throwin' away my time I have been all my life," says he, "livin'

with you at all, and stuck at a loom nothin' but a poor Waiver, whin it's Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two of the sivin champions of Christendom."

"Well, suppose they christened him twice as much," says the wife, "sure, what's that to us?"

"Don't put in your prate." says he, "you ignorant shtrap," says he, "you're vulgar, woman,--you're vulgar--mighty vulgar; but I'll have nothin' more to say to any dirty snakin' trade agin--divil a more waivin' I'll do."

"Oh, Thady dear, and what'll the childre do then!"

"Let them go and play marvels," said he.

"That would be but poor feedin' for them, Thady."

"They shan't want for feedin'," says he, "for it's a rich man I'll be soon, and a great man too."

"Usha, but I'm glad to hear it, darlin'--though I donna how it's to be, but I think you had betther go to bed, Thady."'

"Don't talk to me of any bed, but the bed of glory, woman," says he-- lookin' mortial grand.

"Oh, G.o.d sind we'll all be in glory yet," says the wife, cra.s.sin'

herself, "but go to sleep, Thady, for this present."

"I'll sleep with the brave yit," says he.

"Indeed, and a brave sleep will do you a power o' good, my darlin',"

says she.

"And it's I that will be the knight!" says he.

"All night, if you plaze, Thady," says she.

"None o' your coaxin'," says he, "I'm detarmined on it, and I'll set off immediately, and be a knight arriant."

"A what?" says she.

"A knight arriant, woman."

"Lord be good to me, what's that?" says she.

"A knight arriant is a rale gintleman," says he, "goin' round the world for sport, with a swoord by his side, takin' whatever he plazes for himself, and that's a knight arriant," says he.

Well sure enough, he wint about among his neighbors the next day, and he got an owld kettle from one, and a saucepan from another, and he took them to the tailor, and he sewed him up a suit of tin clothes like any knight arriant, and he borrowed a pot lid, and _that_ he was very partikler about, bekase it was his s.h.i.+eld, and he wint to a friend o' his, a painther and glazier, and made him paint on his s.h.i.+eld in big letters.

"I'M THE MAN OF ALL MIN THAT KILLED THREESCORE AND TIN AT A BLOW."

"When the people sees _that_," says the Waiver to himself, "the sorra one will dar' for to come near me."

And with that he found the wit to scour out the small iron pot for him for says he, "it will make an illigant helmet--and when it was done, he put it on his head, and the wife said, "Oh murther, Thady jewel, is it puttin' a great heavy iron pot on your head you are, by way iv a hat?"

"Sartainly," says he, "for a knight arriant should always have a _weight on his brain_."

"But, Thady dear," said the wife, "there's a hole in it, and it can't keep out the weather."

"It will be the cooler," says he, puttin' it on him,--"besides, if I don't like it, it is aisy to stop it up with a wisht o' straw, or the like o' that."

"The three legs of it looks mighty quare, stickin up," says she.

"Every helmet has a spike stickin' out o' the top of it," says the Waiver, "and if mine has three, it is only the grandther it is"