Humours of Irish Life Part 25

Shawn Gow was evidently relapsing into his savage mood.

"Well," said his wife, after some hesitation, "'twas a blackbird. Will that plase you?"

"An' you'll never say 'twas a thrish agin?"

"Never. An' sure, on'y for the speckles on the breast, I'd never say 'twas a thrish; but sure, you ought to know betther than me--an'--an'--'twas a blackbird," she exclaimed, with a desperate effort.

Shawn Gow swung the bottle round his head and flung it with all his strength against the hob. The whole fireplace was for a moment one blaze of light.

"The Divil was in id," says the smith, smiling grimly; "an' there he's off in a flash of fire. I'm done wid him, any way."

"Well, I wish you a happy Christmas, Nancy," said Sally.

"I wish you the same, Sally, an' a great many av 'em. I suppose you're goin' to first Ma.s.s? Shawn and me'll wait for second."

Sally took her leave of this remarkable couple, and proceeded on her way to the village. She met Tim Croak and his wife, Betty, who were also going to Ma.s.s. After the usual interchange of greetings, Betty surveyed Sally from head to foot with a look of delighted wonder.

"Look at her, Tim," she exclaimed, "an' isn't she as young an' as hearty as ever? Bad cess to me but you're the same Sally that danced wid the master at my weddin', next Thursday fortnight'll be eleven years."

"Begob, you're a great woman," says Tim.

Sally Cavanagh changed the subject by describing the scene she had witnessed at the blacksmith's.

"But, Tim," said she, after finis.h.i.+ng the story, "how did the dispute about the blackbird come first? I heard something about it, but I forget it."

"I'll tell you that, then," said Tim. "Begob, ay," he exclaimed abruptly, after thinking for a moment; "'twas this day seven years, for all the world--the year o' the hard frost. Shawn Gow set a crib in his haggard the evenin' afore, and when he went out in the mornin' he had a hen blackbird. He put the _goulogue_[1] on her nick, and tuk her in his hand; and wud' one _smulluck_ av his finger knocked the life out av her; he walked in an' threw the blackbird on the table.

"'Oh, Shawn,' siz Nancy, 'you're afther ketchin' a fine thrish.' Nancy tuk the bird in her hand an' began rubbin' the feathers on her breast.

'A fine thrish,' siz Nancy.

"''Tisn't a thrish, but a blackbird,' siz Shawn.

"'Wisha, in throth, Shawn,' siz Nancy, ''tis a thrish; do you want to take the sight o' my eyes from me?'

"'I tell you 'tis a blackbird," siz he.

"'Indeed, then, it isn't, but a thrish,' siz she.

"Anyway, one word borrowed another, an' the end av it was, Shawn flailed at her an' gev her the father av a batin'.

"The Christmas Day afther, Nancy opened the door an' looked out.

"'G.o.d be wud this day twelve months,' siz she, 'do you remimber the fine thrish you caught in the crib?'

"''Twas a blackbird,' siz Shawn.

"'Och,' siz Nancy, beginnin' to laugh, 'that was a quare blackbird.'

"'Whisht, now, Nancy, 'twas a blackbird,' siz Shawn.

"'Och,' siz Nancy, beginnin' to laugh, 'that was the quare blackbird.'

"Wud that, one word borrowed another, an' Shawn stood up an' gev her the father av a batin'.

"The third Christmas Day kem, an' they wor in the best o' good humour afther the tay, an' Shawn, puttin' on his ridin'-coat to go to Ma.s.s.

"'Well, Shawn,' siz Nancy, I'm thinkin' av what an unhappy Christmas mornin' we had this day twelve months, all on account of the thrish you caught in the crib, bad cess to her.'

"''Twas a blackbird,' siz Shawn.

"'Wisha, good luck to you, an' don't be talkin' foolish,' siz Nancy; 'an' you're betther not get into a pa.s.sion agin, on account av an ould thrish. My heavy curse on the same thrish,' siz Nancy.

"'I tell you 'twas a blackbird,' siz Shawn.

"'An' I tell you 'twas a thrish,' siz Nancy.

"'Wud that, Shawn took a _bunnaun_ he had _saisonin'_ in the chimley, and whaled at Nancy, an' gev her the father av a batin'. An' every Christmas morning from that day to this 'twas the same story, for as sure as the sun, Nancy'd draw down the thrish. But do you tell me, Sally, she's afther givin' in it was a blackbird?"

"She is," replied Sally.

"Begob," said Tim Croak, after a minute's serious reflection, "it ought to be put in the papers. I never h'ard afore av a wrong notion bein' got out av a woman's head. But Shawn Gow is no joke to dale wud, and it took him seven years to do id."

FOOTNOTE:

[1] A forked stick

Their Last Race.

_From "At the Rising of the Moon."_

BY FRANK MATHEW (1865--).

I.--THE FACTION FIGHT.

In the heart of the Connemara Highlands, Carrala Valley hides in a triangle of mountains. Carrala Village lies in the corner of it towards Loch Ina, and Aughavanna in the corner nearest Kylemore. Aughavanna is a wreck now: if you were to look for it you would see only a cl.u.s.ter of walls grown over by ferns and nettles; but in those remote times, before the Great Famine, when no English was spoken in the Valley, there was no place more renowned for wild fun and fighting; and when its men were to be at a fair, every able-bodied man in the countryside took his kippeen--his cudgel--from its place in the chimney, and went out to do battle with a good heart.

Long Mat Murnane was the king of Aughavanna. There was no grander sight than Mat smas.h.i.+ng his way through a forest of kippeens, with his enemies staggering back to the right and left of him; there was no sweeter sound than his voice, clear as a bell, full of triumph and gladness, shouting, "Hurroo! whoop! Aughavanna for ever!" Where his kippeen flickered in the air his followers charged after, and the enemy rushed to meet him, for it was an honour to take a broken head from him.

But Carrala Fair was the black day for him. That day Carrala swarmed with men--fishers from the near coast, dwellers in lonely huts by the black lakes, or in tiny, ragged villages under the shadow of the mountains, or in cabins on the hill-sides--every little town for miles, by river or sea-sh.o.r.e or mountain built, was emptied. The fame of the Aughavanna men was their ruin, for they were known to fight so well that every one was dying to fight them. The Joyces sided against them; Black Michael Joyce had a farm in the third corner of the valley, just where the road through the bog from Aughavanna (the road with the cross by it) meets the high-road to Leenane, so his kin mustered in force. Now Black Michael, "Meehul Dhu," was long Mat's rival; though smaller, he was near as deadly in fight, and in dancing no man could touch him, for it was said he could jump a yard into the air and kick himself behind with his heels in doing it.

The business of the Fair had been hurried so as to leave the more time for pleasure, and by five of the afternoon every man was mad for the battle. Why, you could scarcely have moved in Callanan's Field out beyond the churchyard at the end of the village, it was so packed with men--more than five hundred were there, and you could not have heard yourself speak, for they were jumping and dancing, tossing their caubeens, and shouting themselves hoa.r.s.e and deaf--"Hurroo for Carrala!"

"Whoop for Aughavanna!"