Here Mr. Cox put himself into a boxing attitude, but observing that Mr. Somerville looked at his threatening gesture with a smile, and that several people, who had gathered round him as he stood in the street, laughed at the proof he gave of his peaceable disposition, he changed his attitude, and went on to vindicate himself against the charge of drinking.
“And as to drink, please your honour, there’s no truth in it. Not a drop of whisky, good or bad, have I touched these six months, except what I took with Jemmy M’Doole the night I had the misfortune to meet your honour coming home from the fair of Ballynagrish.”
To this speech Mr. Somerville made no answer, but turned away to look at the bow window of a handsome new inn, which the glazier was at this instant glazing. “Please your honour, that new inn is not let, I hear, as yet,” resumed Mr. Cox; “if your honour recollects, you promised to make me a compliment of it last Seraphtide was twelvemonth.”
“Impossible!” cried Mr. Somerville, “for I had no thoughts of building an inn at that time.”
“Oh, I beg your honour’s pardon but if you’d be just pleased to recollect, it was coming through the gap in the bog meadows, FORENENT Thady O’Connor, you made me the promise — I’ll leave it to him, so I will.”
“But I will not leave it to him, I assure you,” cried Mr. Somerville; “I never made any such promise. I never thought of letting this inn to you.”
“Then your honour won’t let me have it?”
“No, you have told me a dozen falsehoods. I do not wish to have you for a tenant.”
“Well, God bless your honour; I’ve no more to say, but God bless your honour,” said Mr. Cox; and he walked away, muttering to himself, as he slouched his hat over his face, “I hope I’ll live to be revenged on him!”
Mr. Somerville the next morning went with his family to look at the new inn, which he expected to see perfectly finished; but he was met by the carpenter, who, with a rueful face, informed him that six panes of glass in the large bow-window had been broken during the night.
“Ha! perhaps Mr. Cox has broken my windows, in revenge for my refusing to let him my house,” said Mr. Somerville; and many of the neighbours, who knew the malicious character of this Mr. Cox, observed that this was like one of his tricks. A boy of about twelve years old, however, stepped forward and said, “I don’t like Mr. Cox, I’m sure; for once he beat me when he was drunk; but, for all that, no one should be accused wrongfully. He could not be the person that broke these windows last night, for he was six miles off. He slept at his cousin’s last night, and he has not returned home yet. So I think he knows nothing of the matter.”
Mr. Somerville was pleased with the honest simplicity of this boy, and observing that he looked in eagerly at the staircase, when the house door was opened, he asked him whether he would like to go in and see the new house. “Yes, sir,” said the boy, “I should like to go up those stairs, and to see what I should come to.”
“Up with you, then!” said Mr. Somerville; and the boy ran up the stairs. He went from room to room with great expressions of admiration and delight. At length, as he was examining one of the garrets, he was startled by a fluttering noise over his head; and looking up, he saw a white pigeon, who, frightened at his appearance, began to fly round and round the room, till it found its way out of the door, and flew into the staircase.
The carpenter was speaking to Mr. Somerville upon the landing-place of the stairs; but, the moment he spied the white pigeon, he broke off in the midst of a speech about THE NOSE of the stairs, and exclaimed, “There he is, please your honour! There’s he that has done all the damage to our bow-window — that’s the very same wicked white pigeon that broke the church windows last Sunday was se’nnight; but he’s down for it now; we have him safe, and I’ll chop his head off, as he deserves, this minute.”
“Stay! O stay! don’t chop his head off: he does not deserve it,” cried the boy, who came running out of the garret with the greatest eagerness—”I broke your window, sir,” said he to Mr. Somerville. “I broke your window with this ball; but I did not know that I had done it, till this moment, I assure you, or I should have told you before. Don’t chop his head off,” added the boy to the carpenter, who had now the white pigeon in his hands.
“No,” said Mr. Somerville, “the pigeon’s head shall not be chopped off, nor yours either, my good boy, for breaking a window. I am persuaded by your open, honest countenance, that you are speaking the truth; but pray explain this matter to us; for you have not made it quite clear. How happened it that you could break my windows without knowing it? and how came you to find it out at last?”
“Sir,” said the boy, “if you’ll come up here, I’ll show you all I know, and how I came to know it.”
Mr. Somerville followed the boy into the garret, who pointed to a pane of glass that was broken in a small window that looked out upon a piece of waste ground behind the house. Upon this piece of waste ground the children of the village often used to play. “We were playing there at ball yesterday evening,” continued the boy, addressing himself to Mr. Somerville, “and one of the lads challenged me to hit a mark in the wall, which I did; but he said I did not hit it, and bade me give him up my ball as the forfeit. This I would not do; and when he began to wrestle with me for it, I threw the ball, as I thought, over the house. He ran to look for it in the street, but could not find it, which I was very glad of; but I was very sorry just now to find it myself lying upon this heap of shavings, sir, under this broken window; for, as soon as I saw it lying there, I knew I must have been the person that broke the window; and through this window came the white pigeon. Here’s one of his white feathers sticking in the gap.”
“Yes,” said the carpenter, “and in the bow-window room below there’s plenty of his feathers to be seen; for I’ve just been down to look. It was the pigeon broke THEM windows, sure enough.”
“But he could not have got in had I not broke this little window,” said the boy, eagerly; “and I am able to earn sixpence a day, and I’ll pay for all the mischief, and welcome. The white pigeon belongs to a poor neighbour, a friend of ours, who is very fond of him, and I would not have him killed for twice as much money.”
“Take the pigeon, my honest, generous lad,” said Mr. Somerville, “and carry him back to your neighbour. I forgive him all the mischief he has done me, tell your friend, for your sake. As to the rest, we can have the windows mended; and do you keep all the sixpences you earn for yourself.”
“That’s what he never did yet,” said the carpenter. “Many’s the sixpence he earns, but not a halfpenny goes into his own pocket: it goes every farthing to his poor father and mother. Happy for them to have such a son!”
“More happy for him to have such a father and mother,” exclaimed the boy. “Their good days they took all the best care of me that was to be had for love or money, and would, if I would let them, go on paying for my schooling now, falling as they be in the world; but I must learn to mind the shop now. Good morning to you, sir; and thank you kindly,” said he to Mr. Somerville.
“And where does this boy live, and who are his father and mother? They cannot live in town,” said Mr. Somerville, “or I should have heard of them.”
“They are but just come into the town, please your honour,” said the carpenter. “They lived formerly upon Counsellor O’Donnel’s estate; but they were ruined, please your honour, by taking a joint lease with a man, who fell afterwards into bad company, ran out all he had, so could not pay the landlord; and these poor people were forced to pay his share and their own too, which almost ruined them. They were obliged to give up the land; and now they have furnished a little shop in this town with what goods they could afford to buy with the money they got by the sale of their cattle and stock. They have the good-will of all who know them; and I am sure I hope they will do well. The boy is very ready in the shop, though he said only that he could earn sixpence a day. He writes a good hand, and is quick at casting up accounts, for his age. Besides, he
is likely to do well in the world, because he is never in idle company, and I’ve known him since he was two foot high, and never heard of his telling a lie.”
“This is an excellent character of the boy, indeed,” said Mr. Somerville, “and from his behaviour this morning I am inclined to think that he deserves all your praises.”
Mr. Somerville resolved to inquire more fully concerning this poor family, and to attend to their conduct himself, fully determined to assist them if he should find them such as they had been represented.
In the meantime, this boy, whose name was Brian O’Neill, went to return the white pigeon to its owner. “You have saved its life,” said the woman to whom it belonged, “and I’ll make you a present of it.” Brian thanked her; and he from that day began to grow fond of the pigeon. He always took care to scatter some oats for it in his father’s yard; and the pigeon grew so tame at last that it would hop about the kitchen, and eat off the same trencher with the dog.
Brian, after the shop was shut up at night, used to amuse himself with reading some little books which the schoolmaster who formerly taught him arithmetic was so good as to lend him. Amongst these he one evening met with a little book full of the history of birds and beasts; he looked immediately to see whether the pigeon was mentioned amongst the birds, and, to his great joy, he found a full description and history of his favourite bird.
“So, Brian, I see your schooling has not been thrown away upon you; you like your book, I see, when you have no master over you to bid you read,” said his father, when he came in and saw Brian reading his book very attentively.
“Thank you for having me taught to read, father,” said Brian. “Here I’ve made a great discovery: I’ve found out in this book, little as it looks, father, a most curious way of making a fortune; and I hope it will make your fortune, father; and if you’ll sit down, I’ll tell it to you.”
Mr. O’Neill, in hopes of pleasing his son rather than in the expectation of having his fortune made, immediately sat down to listen; and his son explained to him, that he had found in his book an account of pigeons who carried notes and letters: “and, father,” continued Brian, “I find my pigeon is of this sort; and I intend to make my pigeon carry messages. Why should not he? If other pigeons have done so before him, I think he is as good, and, I daresay, will be as easy to teach as any pigeon in the world. I shall begin to teach him to-morrow morning; and then, father, you know people often pay a great deal for sending messengers; and no boy can run, no horse can gallop, so fast as a bird can fly; therefore the bird must be the best messenger, and I should be paid the best price. Hey, father?”
“To be sure, to be sure, my boy,” said his father, laughing; “I wish you may make the best messenger in Ireland of your pigeon; but all I beg, my dear boy, is that you won’t neglect our shop for your pigeon; for I’ve a notion we have a better chance of making a fortune by the shop than by the white pigeon.”
Brian never neglected the shop; but in his leisure hours he amused himself with training his pigeon; and after much patience he at last succeeded so well, that one day he went to his father and offered to send him word by his pigeon what beef was a pound in the market of Ballynagrish, where he was going.
“The pigeon will be home long before me, father; and he will come in at the kitchen window, and light upon the dresser; then you must untie the little note which I shall have tied under his left wing, and you’ll know the price of beef directly.”
The pigeon carried his message well; and Brian was much delighted with his success. He soon was employed by the neighbours, who were aroused by Brian’s fondness of his swift messenger; and soon the fame of the white pigeon was spread amongst all who frequented the markets and fairs of Somerville.
At one of these fairs a set of men of desperate fortunes met to drink, and to concert plans of robberies. Their place of meeting was at the ale-house of Mr. Cox, the man who, as our readers may remember, was offended by Mr. Somerville’s hinting that he was fond of drinking and of quarrelling, and who threatened vengeance for having been refused the new inn.
Whilst these men were talking over their scheme, one of them observed, that one of their companions was not arrived. Another said, “No.” “He’s six miles off,” said another; and a third wished that he could make him hear at that distance. This turned the discourse upon the difficulties of sending messages secretly and quickly. Cox’s son, a lad of about nineteen, who was one of this gang, mentioned the white carrier-pigeon, and he was desired to try all means to get it into his possession. Accordingly, the next day young Cox went to Brian O’Neill, and tried, at first by persuasion and afterwards by threats, to prevail upon him to give up the pigeon. Brian was resolute in his refusal, more especially when the petitioner began to bully him.
“If we can’t have it by fair means, we will by foul,” said Cox; and a few days afterwards the pigeon was gone. Brian searched for it in vain — inquired from all the neighbours if they had seen it, and applied, but to no purpose, to Cox. He swore that he knew nothing about the matter. But this was false, for it was he who during the night-time had stolen the white pigeon. He conveyed it to his employers, and they rejoiced that they had gotten it into their possession, as they thought it would serve them for a useful messenger.
Nothing can be more shortsighted than cunning. The very means which these people took to secure secrecy were the means of bringing their plots to light. They endeavoured to teach the pigeon, which they had stolen, to carry messages for them in a part of the country at some distance from Somerville; and when they fancied that it had forgotten its former habits, and its old master, they thought that they might venture to employ him nearer home. The pigeon, however, had a better memory than they imagined. They loosed him from a bag near the town of Ballynagrish in hopes that he would stop at the house of Cox’s cousin, which was on its road between Ballynagrish and Somerville. But the pigeon, though he had been purposely fed at this house for a week before this trial, did not stop there, but flew on to his old master’s house in Somerville, and pecked at the kitchen window, as he had formerly been taught to do. His father, fortunately, was within hearing, and poor Brian ran with the greatest joy to open the window and to let him in.
“O, father, here’s my white pigeon come back of his own accord,” exclaimed Brian; “I must run and show him to my mother.” At this instant the pigeon spread his wings, and Brian discovered under one of its wings a small and very dirty looking billet. He opened it in his father’s presence. The scrawl was scarcely legible; but these words were at length deciphered: —
“Thare are eight of uz sworn; I send yo at botom thare names. We meat at tin this nite at my faders, and have harms and all in radiness to brak into the grate ‘ouse. Mr. Summervill is to lye out to nite — kip the pigeon untill to-morrow. For ever yours, MURTAGH COX, JUN.”
Scarcely had they finished reading this note, than both father and son exclaimed, “Let us go and show it to Mr. Somerville.” Before they set out, they had, however, the prudence to secure the pigeon, so that he should not be seen by anyone but themselves. Mr. Somerville, in consequence of this fortunate discovery, took proper measures for the apprehension of the eight men who had sworn to rob his house. When they were all safely lodged in the county gaol, he sent for Brian O’Neill and his father; and after thanking them for the service they had done him, he counted out ten bright guineas upon a table, and pushed them towards Brian, saying, “I suppose you know that a reward of ten guineas was offered some weeks ago for the discovery of John Mac Dermod, one of the eight men whom we have just taken up?”
“No, sir,” said Brian; “I did not know it, and I did not bring that note to you to get ten guineas, but because I thought it was right. I don’t want to be paid for doing it.”
“That’s my own boy,” said his father. “We thank you, sir; but we’ll not take the money; I DON’T LIKE TO TAKE THE PRICE OF BLOOD.”
“I know the difference, my good friends,” said Mr. Somerville, “between vil
e informers and courageous, honest men.”
“Why, as to that, please your honour, though we are poor, I hope we are honest.”
“And, what is more,” said Mr. Somerville, “I have a notion that you would continue to be honest, even if you were rich. Will you, my good lad,” continued Mr. Somerville, after a moment’s pause—”will you trust me with your pigeon a few days?”
“O, and welcome, sir,” said the boy, with a smile; and he brought the pigeon to Mr. Somerville when it was dark, and nobody saw him.
A few days afterwards, Mr. Somerville called at O’Neill’s house, and bid him and his son follow him. They followed till he stopped opposite to the bow-window of the new inn. The carpenter had just put up a sign, which was covered over with a bit of carpeting.
“Go up the ladder, will you?” said Mr. Somerville to Brian, “and pull that sign straight, for it hangs quite crooked. There, now it is straight. Now pull off the carpet, and let us see the new sign.”
The boy pulled off the cover, and saw a white pigeon painted upon the sign, and the name of O’Neill in large letters underneath.
“Take care you do not tumble down and break your neck upon this joyful occasion,” said Mr. Somerville, who saw that Brian’s surprise was too great for his situation. “Come down from the ladder, and wish your father joy of being master of the new inn called the ‘White Pigeon.’ And I wish him joy of having such a son as you are. Those who bring up their children well, will certainly be rewarded for it, be they poor or rich.”
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT.
“Mamma,” said Rosamond, after a long silence, “do you know what I have been thinking of all this time?”
“No, my dear. — What?”
“Why, mamma, about my cousin Bell’s birthday; do you know what day it is?”
“No, I don’t remember.”
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