At that, he swelled out his chist an' took a deep, proud breath till the stomachs of him glowed red like a furnace.
"Oh hasn't he the larning!" cried Sarah. "Why don't ye spake up, Pether Muldowney—haven't ye the face to say that Lanty and Cornalious, thim two bagabones of brothers of yours have more right to sell ye than I have?"
"How d'ye know they were goin' to sell me?" cried poor Pether. "An' I don't know anything about Joseph an' his sivin coats of colors an' his mess of porridge, but I do know that the price of three pounds tin on me head is belittlin' an' insultin' to a Muldowney. Ye shouldn't have taken a penny less nor six pounds for me, so ye shouldn't, he says, turnin' hot on Sarah. You an' your little three pounds tin! Sure, didn't Teddy Nolan only yisterday get foive pound eight for the fractious red cow that used to be jumpin' the hedges an' ateing the cabbages. To think that a Muldowney wouldn't bring as much as an ould cow," he said, halfcryin' with wexation.
While Pether was saying thim things, a new idee came to Sarah, an' it's what she said: "There's rayson in what he says, Sattin. Pether may not be worth six pounds tin, but you might well have guv it."
"He that has all the riches of the say at his disposhiall," chimed in Pether, raysentful.
Sattin stood lookin' from one til the other, his eyes bulgin' and his jaws dhroppin'.
"Thrue for ye, Pether," spoke up Sarah, bridlin'. "I'm beginning to think that the schaymer has chayted us."
"I'll not stir a foot with him," says Pether dayfiant, claspin' his two hands behind his back.
Sarah sidled over to her husband.
"Small blame to ye if ye don't," says she, "afther the way he's thrated us. Will ye give us the six pounds?" says she. "Don't go with him, Pether, if he belittles ye," she says.
"Why," says Sattin, "you owdacious ringleader of a woman!"—an' the eyes of him were blazing with angry astonishment—"ye offered to sell him to me for sixpence. I heard ye well, though I purtended not to."
"I didn't!" shouted Mrs. Muldowney, her two fists on her hips.
"Ye did, ye runnygade!" roared Sattin, an' the breath came puffing out of him in blue smoke.
"Oh, vo! vo! Will ye listen to what he's afther callin' me! Oh, thin, Pether Muldowney," she says, turning bitter on her husband, "aren't ye the foine figure of a man to be standin' there in the middle of the road like a block of wood listening to this sheep-staylin', undherhanded, thin-shanked, antherntarian thrajucing yer own wedded wife, and you not lifting a finger till him! If ye wor worth two knots of sthraw, ye'd break ivery bone in his body!" says she, beginning to shumper.
I know the saying is that to be quick in a quarrel is to be slow in a fight. One who is clever with his fists isn't handy with his tongue. Such a one is like cantankerous little Manus Hannigan, who makes the boast that he has started more fights and fought less himself than any other man in the Province of Munster. But it wasn't that way at all with Pether. Such a rayproach of backwardness never darkened the honor of any of the Muldowneys. The lad was ready with his fists and as proud of them as is the juty of every Tipperary man to be. So at the taunting of his wife, every drop of blood in Pether's body flared up intil his face, and what does he do but rowl up the wristbands of his jacket an' go squaring off at Sattin in the middle of the road.
"Before we begin," says Beelzebub—an' there was an anxious shadow came intil his eyes, for the Muldowneys as far back as anyone can raymimber were renowned gladiathors—"before we attack aich other," says he quick, side-steppin' an' backing away from Pether, "do you bear in mind that she thried to sell ye to me for sixpence."
Sarah hid her face in her apron, an' she wailed, "Oh, murdher asthore, will ye listen to that! I didn't, Pether! An' what's his repitation for voracity agin my repitation?"
At the mintion of his repitation, it was plain to be seen that Sattin winched.
"Will ye guv me back me three pounds tin, ye robber of the worruld?" says he, thrimbling with anger.
"Tut tut!" cried Sarah, tossin' her head. "We hear ducks talkin'. Didn't I kape me part of the bargain?" says she. "Isn't Pether there in the road ferninst ye? Why don't ye take him?" Beelzebub had no time for rayply, bekase Pether, with his two big fists flying around and round aich other, was dancing forward and back, and circling from the right to the left, and this way and that, whichever way Sattin twisted himself, an' all the time makin' false lunges at the middle of the black lad's chist.
"Howld still, Pether Muldowney, unfortunate man!" cried Sattin, all out of breath. "Do ye see Father Delaney comin' down the road behind ye?"
At that, Pether and Sarah turned to look, and as they did, crack! they heard the ground open, an' before they could twist their heads round again, Sattin was gone.
The two hayros stood a minute, gaping at the spot where the inimy of mankind had disappeared. Sarah was the first to speak, an' it's what she said, taking hould of Pether by the arrum: 'Come on home, avic! Did ye see how the conniving villyun thried to chate us? Oh, but ye're the brave lad! Give me yerself yit!"
With that, the two of them, arrum in arrum, as loving as a couple of turtledoves, wint down the road together, an' they never sthopped till they came to the big, flat stone by O'Hanrahan's spring; thin a sudden fear took the breath out of Sarah.
"I niver counted the shillings whin the ould targer handed thim to me," she says, "and how do I know whether he counted thim right? It'd be just loike one of his thricks not to."
"We'll sit right down here on the rock, an' we'll reckon thim together before we go a step furder," says Pether, anxious.
And so they did. And Sarah made a wide lap to hould the money, but with her hand over her pocket, she hesitated a moment, for her mind misgave her that something was wrong. An' sure enough, the two poor crachures got a bad turn, for whin Sarah pulled out a handful of the money, it wasn't money at all, at all, that was in it, but only a fistful of bits of broken glass. An' whin she had her pocket emptied, the sorra thing was there but a lap full of broken bottles.
While the pair of thim, blazin' with anger, sat staring at aich other with faces red as a couple of thrumpeters, far down the road split the wild screech of a laugh.
"D'ye heard him there?" whuspered Sarah. "Oh, the dasayver of the worruld! D'ye think if ye were to slip back, ye might ketch him, Pether?"
Pether shook his head, and a throubled frown wrinkled his forehead.
"I misdoubt it," says he, "an' besides, I was just thinkin' what'll become of us all, at all whin he ketches the both of us on the day of judgment. I hate to be thinkin' of it," he says.
"Oh ho, have no fear, Pether avic," says Sarah, soothin'. "I've hit on a jewel of a schayme that'll break the black heart of him, an' it's this: Do you Pether asthore, lave off the onscrutableness an' answer me back once in a while, an' as for meself, you'll niver hear anither crass worrud out of me two lips till the day I'm buried, onless ye dayserve it. An' now, Mr. Sattin, what d'ye think of that?" says she, shakin' her fist down the road.
Pether gave his knee a thraymendous slap. "Oh, ye phaynix of a woman!" says he. Wid that, he laned over an' guv her a kiss on the lips that might have been heard three fields away.
"That's the first in fufteen years," says he, "but it'll not be the last by any manner of manes; bekase I think the Divil niver comes betwixt a man an' his wife tell they lave off kissin' aich other."
"Arrah, go on, ye rogue!" says Sarah, smilin' an' givin' him a poke wid her elbow. "Come along home now; I'll put on the kettle, an' we'll begin all over again from this day out."
And they riz up thin and started for home, but afther a step or two, Pether turned and shook his fist down the road.
"Oh, aren't ye the outraygeous, chaytin', dispectable villyun!" he shouted. "No, I mane dayspictory," he corrected himself.
"Ye never said 'dayspictable' at all," soothed his wife. "Ye said 'dayspictatory' the first time ye mintioned it," she says.
There's many a couple believe that when they've had a bad quarrel, th
ey're ruined and kilt forever. Only yestherday morning, Bridget Cronin, twistin' up her hair with thremblin' fingers, rushes over to me own wife and she says, savage, "I'm going over to me own mother's house and take the childher. I'll not live another day undher the same roof with Marty," she rages.
"Why, thin, what murthering thransaction has poor Marty done?" asks me wife, wondhersthruck, for Marty is the broth of a lad.
"Why, this avening, the baby was peevish, and by accident, I let the stirabout scorch in the pot and the petatie cake burn a bit in the ashes. An' what do ye think he says to me at last? Why, that he'd betther be bringing his own mother over to tache me how to manage. He said that, Mrs. Murtaugh, an' all I've done for that man! Do ye think I ought to lave two of the childher with him? He's so fond of Eileen, and he'll be that lonesome avenin's," she says, beginning to cry. "I wisht I was dead; thin he'd see," she sobbed.
And Marty stood inside the byre, leaning on his arrums over the stone wall, glooming down intil the road with a face on him as if he wor looking at thim shoveling clay down on his own coffin, whin ould Mordacai Cannon, hobbling up, axed him, "Is there anyone sick in the house, Marty?"
"No, it's a dale worse nor sickness," mourned Marty. "Sickness can be cured," he says, lifting open jaws up to the sky. "Bridget has just tould me she didn't love me, an' would hate the ground I'd walk on till she died. If it warn't for the childher, I wouldn't care a rap what happened to me."
And Mordacai caught him by the sleeve and led him, shamefaced, intil the house and thin hobbled over and led Bridget, crying, intil the house, an' he waited a minute till he saw the two of them standing houlding aich other tight in the middle of the kitchen, and he went down the lane on his shaky legs, chucklin' to himself. "They wor wantin' to die!" he crowed.
Whin Marty, fifteen minutes afther, went out into the fields, light as a skylark, two long tear sthreaks ran, the one on ayther side of his nose, the length of his face.
Sure, isn't it the rain that sweetens the green-growing world, and that's the way it is, yer honor. Sure, afther a quarrel, all the couple nade do is to raymimber that love is worth more than pride. I meself heard a middle-aged, sinsible-looking man sitting in this same jaunting car, boasting that he and his wife never had a cross word in all their lives. "God pity ye," says I.
For I knew it's little happiness two could have living together all their lives who had as little deep feeling one for the other as never to touch a sensitive narve.
So, although the Muldowneys rayformed entirely, still and all they had their fallin's out. Only Sarah never scolded Pether afther that day, except when she thought he dayserved it, and undher them sarcumstances, all sensible wives should do that same, and whin she did begin on her husband, she 'rated him in a hot-tempered, outspoke tongue-lashin' way, as was her natural ordinary jooty.
As for Pether, whether he dayserved the lambasting he got or not, he never again met it with smirks an' smilin's an' shrugs an' onscrutableness, but with beggings off an' excuses an' barefaced daynials, as any level-headed, sinsible, wife-fearing husband is expected to do, and if they didn't live peaceable all the days of their lives afther, at any rate, they lived happy and continted.
Patrick of the Bells
IT'S many's the fine tale concerning the stormy disputes that raged between great Patrick of the Bells and Oisin, the mighty son of Finn MacCumhull, that the learned clerics of Ireland used to be writing down in their thick leather books; and it's many's the account of the wonderful deeds wrought by Patrick that these same ancient clerics used to be putting there, too—for it's given up by every one that Patrick of the Bells was the greatest saint that ever lived in the whole world for the working of miracles.
Wasn't it he that, by the ringing of his bell, drove the seventy-times-seven demons from the bald top of Cruachmaa and put them prisoners in the bottom of the Well of the End of the World? And wasn't it he that banished into the depths of the green, shuddering ocean the writhing serpents, and crawling vipers, and every kind of venomous thing that infested the pleasant land of Ireland? And wasn't it he, as well, that stopped the black famine there, by making the grass to grow again in the blighted fields, by putting the swift-gleaming fish into the gray, silent streams, and by filling with sweet milk the dried udders of the kine? But greater than all these marvels, I think, was the miracle Patrick wrought upon the pagan chieftain Oisin, and that is what I am going to tell you about now.
Hundreds of years before St. Patrick first came to Ireland—and it's hundreds and hundreds of years ago entirely that was—Finn MacCumhull and the warriors of the Fianna ruled from their king's dun at Almhuin, over the pleasant province of Leinster. Threescore captains there were of the Fianna, and fivescore champions followed every captain when he went to the wars; and the like of them for heroes the world has never seen before nor since.
There was among them there Caol, the hundred-wounder, who, from the rising to the setting of the sun, on each one of five days fought with the giant Cathaeir of the speckled ships, and killed him after; and there was Faolan the manly, who slew in one combat the seven brave sons of Lochlin; and Goll the mighty; and Diarmuid the brown-haired, beloved of women; and mighty Oscar of the strokes, son of Oisin, who slew the King of Munster and Cairbre of the silken standard on the same day.
There were among the captains, too, Glas; and Gobha the generous; and Caolite of the flaming hair, whose feet could outrun the west wind; and Conan Moal, the giver of curses, whose words were more biting than the east wind in winter; and Feargus the nimble; and Conn of the sharp green spears; and Ronan, who with his well-tempered blade could pierce an oak-tree; and there were many others, too, of renown, of whom I have not time to be telling you. But the like of them all for heroes the world never saw before nor since. Seven feet tall was Minne, the smallest of them all, and the handle of his spear was just a young ash-tree. By that you may know what the others were like. Many's the grand song has been made up about them by the ancient bards of Ireland.
For grace and courtesy, for strength in battle, for swiftness in hunting, for skill in making melodious music, there was not the like of the Fianna in all Ireland, and if not in Ireland, why, then, of course, never by any chance at all in any other country of the world.
And, as it's one above the others there must always be whenever three men come together, so, among the Fianna, next in favor and in merit to the great chief Finn there was always standing comely Oisin of the strong hand. Son of Finn MacCumhull himself was he, and his mother was the goddess Sadb, daughter of Rodb the Red. Great was the beauty of Oisin and his fame was over the four kingdoms of Ireland. He could jump over a branch as high as his forehead, and stoop under one as low as his knee, and he running at full speed; and he could pluck a thorn out of the heel of his foot at the same time without hindrance to his flight.
On a day at the court of Teamhair, in the presence of the five kings and the five queens of Ireland, the three caskets of honor were given without lessening to Oisin by Cormac, the high king. The first casket held the five silver lilies of courtesy, which meant mercy to the conquered, hospitality to the stranger, charity for the poor and distressed, gentleness to old men and children, and white homage to women; the second casket contained the five bronze nuts of learning, which signified skill in fighting, sleight in wrestling, swiftness in hunting, caution in chess-playing, and sweet cunning in the making of melodious songs; and the third casket held three golden apples, which signified courage in danger, faith in friendship, and truth in speaking. And no other man before or since ever got those three caskets at one time without lessening.
So, no wonder at all it was that Niahm of the golden hair, who was the daughter of the king of the Country of the Young, fell into conceit with the great fame of Oisin, and journeyed all the way to Ireland for love of him; and no sooner did Oisin set his eyes on Niahm of the golden hair than he loved her with every vein of his body, and it's what he said to her:
"From this day out I will have
neither ease of mind nor peace of heart until your life is the same as my life; and for me there's no other woman in the world but you, O woman of the deep-shining eyes!"
For answer, Niahm bent down from the white horse on which she rode, and kissed him on the forehead and on the eyes, and this is what she said:
"There is many a king's son has paid court to me, O Oisin of the comely brow, but it's to you I give my heart, and to no other. And it's to take you back with me to my father's country I have come, bringing the white horse of magic for our journey; and if you love me as you say, you will come up now and sit behind me here."
So he did that, and the great white horse turned his face to the western sea. And when Finn saw this, he raised three shouts of sorrow: "My woe and my grief! O Oisin, my son, to be going away from me this way! for I know you will never return."
But the white steed never stayed nor stopped, but rose to meet the green combing waves and leaped in to them, and the people of the Fianna saw them no more. And Niahm and the warrior went their way together on the horse of magic over the high-tossing sea and under the dark-running waves toward the Country of the Young.
The Ashes of Old Wishes Page 18
