Class 
 Book.^ 
 
 ■ W €«# f 
 
 CopyriglitN?. 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSnv 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2011 with funding from 
 The Library of Congress 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/roundabouthomeirOOcarr 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
ROUND ABOUT 
 HOME 
 
 IRISH SCENES AND MEMORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 REV. P. J. CARROLL, C. S. C 
 
 NOTRE DAME, INDIANA 
 U. S. A. 
 

 \^' 
 
 Copyright 1914 
 By D. E. Hudson, C. S. C. 
 
 '-*. 'ik 
 
 SEP I719M 
 
 ©CI.A379542 
 
TO THE READER 
 
 ''Round About Home'' is made up of scenes 
 and memories: scenes from places I know; memories 
 of people I love. The quiet country herein described, 
 still remains — the flat land, the white road, the 
 little town, the river, and the hilVs crest. The 
 people who appear and speak for a brief period, 
 are grown very old, or gone away. 
 
 What is written, then, is written as a record of 
 what was, and what, for me, will never be again: 
 to-day's memories of a yesterday, back in Ireland, 
 when the gray dew was on the clover and the cuckoo 
 called from the blossomed alder. 
 
 Maybe certain scenes and memories here set 
 down will recall to you, also, your springtime in 
 the Old Land, with dear, kindly people all around 
 you, the wide, white Shannon a few fiat fields 
 away, and the sea's sweet breath coming from Kerry 
 Head. 
 
 If so, then is there no need of further dedicating 
 this book. Already it is dedicated to you. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Ways of Father Tracey i 
 
 The Blind Man of Athery ii 
 
 The Pathern Day 19 
 
 The Vision of the Golden Cross 28 
 
 The Bridge o' the Ghosts 36 
 
 Without House or Home 47 
 
 Micky the Fenian 56 
 
 Brother and Sister 67 
 
 The Hill o' Dreams 78 
 
 Brother and Sister 67 
 
 The Hill o' Dreams 78 
 
 The Triumph 89 
 
 The Bellman of Ardee 103 
 
 Around the Fire 112 
 
 Moll Magee 122 
 
 God Rest Him, Paddy Owen! .......... 132 
 
 Wicked Dana wee 141 
 
 John Kennedy's Resolve - . . . 149 
 
 The Sad Sunday 160 
 
 How the Curse was Lifted 169 
 
 The True Love of Maggie May 177 
 
 The Falling of Night 191 
 
 Mad Matt 200 
 
 The Last Day of School 208 
 
 The Athery Meeting 218 
 
 The After Years 226 
 
THE WAYS OF FATHER TRACEY 
 
 FATHER TRACEY had many and many an 
 offer of a larger and better parish than the 
 out-of-the-world little village of Knockfeen. But 
 he stayed with the simple people he knew and 
 loved, and could never be induced to "go up 
 higher." Every Sunday, at the last Mass, he 
 preached a plain sermon, in which he illustrated 
 his theme from the farm and the crops and the 
 weather, like his Divine Master before him. He 
 was brief or long as he had a mind; but, brief 
 or long, he received the same measured attention. 
 He never scolded or berated; for age had but 
 mellowed and sweetened this man of God, crowned 
 with the silver of seventy years. iVnd it was 
 better so; for he saved more stray sheep by love 
 and gentleness and pity than he could ever have 
 done by the white light of holy wrath. 
 
 On Saturday afternoon, from two to six, he 
 heard confessions in an old confessional that was 
 hidden av/ay under the stairs leading to the 
 gallery. When he gave a word of counsel or 
 consolation, he spoke so low the people said 'the 
 ould boy himself couldn't hear, and so couldn't 
 make plans to spoil the good work of his reverence.' 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 But when he said, Ego te absolve, he spoke with 
 such unction and authority as if he were chasing 
 money-changers out of the Temple. If there 
 were periods of lull — and usually there were, for 
 the parish was small — he walked out on the 
 grassplot of the "chapel yard" and said his Beads 
 or his Breviary, or stood above the grave of a 
 former Knockfeen parish priest who was laid to 
 rest many long years before. It was the only 
 priest's grave to which the "yard" could lay 
 claim. 
 
 Father Tracey loved his people, and you may 
 be sure his people loved him. Of a week morning 
 after Mass, he took a walk down the village 
 street, and passed a friendly word here and there 
 as he moved leisurely along. 
 
 "Well, Maureen, how is your mother this 
 morning ? " _ 
 
 "Oh, she's much better this morning, Father, 
 thank you!" 
 
 "I'm glad to hear that, Maureen. You might 
 tell her I'll drop in to-morrow or maybe 
 Wednesday." 
 
 Then he passed on till he met a young man 
 from the country leading a spirited horse to the 
 forge. 
 
 "Good-day, Mike! That's a fine colt." 
 
 "He is, Father; though he do be a bit wild 
 and foolish sometimes." 
 
 "You don't tell me! And where did you get 
 him, Mike?" 
 
 "I bought him from Tade Clancy." 
 
 [2] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "Tade of the hill?" 
 
 "Yes, Father." 
 
 Then Father Tracey would stroke the arched 
 neck, and the tossing head would turn; and 
 two large e3^es would survey the priest with 
 friendly curiosity. 
 
 "He's a great animal, Mike. I suppose he 
 cost you a bit?" 
 
 "Faix, then, he did. Father! He cost me 
 seventeen pound ten, a week ago ere yesterday." 
 
 "That's big money, Mike. I hope God will 
 make him prosper for you." 
 
 Then he might meet a "girleen" on her way 
 to school, and he v/ould stop and ask where her 
 brother was yesterday. Maybe her brother was 
 sick, or maybe he had to help in the garden, or 
 perhaps he had to go to the fair. Then Father 
 Tracey would grow very serious. 
 
 "Girleen, listen to me! We'll never be any- 
 thing in these parts without education. Once 
 upon a time we didn't get the chance, but 'tis 
 different now. Tell your father to let Tommy 
 come to school; for Tommy is a good, bright 
 boy and may be something yet." 
 
 The "girleen" promised and passed noiselessly 
 away. 
 
 If it were a summer morning, this shepherd of 
 his people, their light and their guide, might 
 leave the village scenes behind him to visit some 
 sick or forlorn member of his flock in the country. 
 On either side of the road, as he wended his way, 
 he saw potato fields glorious in their white blos- 
 
 [3] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 soms, and men with the bone and sinew of Kinn 
 Mac Coul's Fenians giving the furrows a last 
 touch of the spade. Or maybe he stopped to 
 watch the wide acres of clover, where the corn- 
 crakes lay a-hiding, and the smell of the growing 
 meadows was sweeter to his sense than the 
 perfumes of the desert. Or he might let his eyes 
 wander to the whitewashed house of a farmer, 
 crowned with a new roof of golden thatch. Or 
 he might see men busy following their teams in 
 hayfield or garden, and milch cows drowsing in 
 the shade. Or afar he might hear the river, like 
 a pulse, beating in its ceaseless course, and 
 quickening with life the face of the land. 
 
 He lived with his people; their hopes were 
 his hopes, their failures his failures. If the yellow 
 wheat promised only half a harvest, they told 
 him; and he gave, of his large pity, gentle words 
 of encouragement and hope. If a horse or a 
 cow "went against" them, into his heart they 
 poured the story. Especially if death came and 
 took some one from accustomed ways to "ways 
 unknown," he gave the mourners a message of 
 sympathy a.nd hope. 
 
 Often, too, in those daily walks he would linger 
 around a great old castle — the memory of a 
 bygone glory — that sent a long shadow of a waning 
 day far across the growing fields. There it stood, 
 with its narrow portholes, and crumbling stone 
 stairway, and dark, echo-making rooms, where 
 the owl and the bat hovered like spirits of evil. 
 The ivy clung fast about it, and knit itself to 
 
 [4] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 every stone that else might have fallen. And he 
 had his dream there in the shadow of Ireland's 
 crumbling grandeur, just as any one else would 
 who knew her story. He was a patriot, this 
 gentle priest. And who has a greater right to be 
 patriotic than the Irish priesthood? Has it not 
 proved the Spartan band that guarded Ther- 
 mopylae against the crowding hosts? 
 
 One summer afternoon in late July Father 
 Tracey hovered about this old castle on his way 
 home from a customary visit in the country. He 
 had not been long there when he noticed a man 
 running across the field toward him. Scarcely 
 had he reached the priest when he cried: "Glory 
 be to the great God! There's a man killed, Father! 
 Come quick!" 
 
 The priest followed at once. They reached the 
 highroad leading to the village and walked about 
 two hundred yards. Then on the edge of a grove 
 of trees he saw a number of persons surrounding 
 a dead body. Because of its strangeness and its 
 sadness, the story of the accident obtains in the 
 traditions of Southern Ireland. 
 
 Jim O'Brien had bought a couple of trees from 
 the owner of the grove, and needed the help of 
 a man and a horse to cut down and take home 
 the timber. Widow Madigan and her son Dan — an 
 onty child, born twenty-four years before, shortly 
 after her husband's death — were Jim's neighbors. 
 They were "neighbors" not b}^ location only, 
 but by spirit also, and Jim found little difficulty 
 in securing the assistance of man and horse. 
 
 [5] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Dan Madigan was a typical young Irishman. 
 He had eyes as blue as the sky of his motherland, 
 and a head of hair as black as the wing of a night 
 raven. Though he was a strong man, he spoke 
 softly, and his ways were as gentle as a girl's. 
 He never once made trouble for his fellowmen, 
 and his fellowmen never made trouble for him. 
 So his days were spent keeping his farm of forty 
 acres, which were among the finest in the 
 county. 
 
 It was no secret, either, that Kathleen O'Donnell, 
 the best girl in all Munster, was to be his own 
 forever the coming Shrove. Father Tracey himself 
 had helped to make the match, — and a good 
 matchmaker he was, too. There was no bargain- 
 ing, or "splitting the difference." They met, 
 they liked, they loved — and that was the end 
 of it. Nov/, if Dan loved Kathleen with the deep 
 love of a good heart, Kathleen in her turn thought 
 Dan the strongest and bravest and fleetest and 
 truest and gentlest boy from Cork to Dublin. 
 So they had their dreams and their plans and their 
 talks; and they built their golden castles on the 
 crests of Irish hills, around which daisied fields 
 stretched wide and far. And Dan's mother, who 
 never had much to say — she was the reserved 
 kind of mother whose love does not effervesce 
 in speech, — held this girl to her heart as a 
 daughter who would soften her age with her 
 gentle ways. So everybody — from Father Trarey, 
 who would bless their wedlock even as he had 
 baptized them, and given them their first Holy 
 
 [ 6 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Communion, and handed them "sacks of sweets" 
 for prizes at school, down to the most critical 
 member of the little parish — considered Dan 
 Madigan and Kathleen O'Donnell the bravest 
 boy and the finest girl one would meet in a hundred 
 miles of a highroad. 
 
 When Dan drove down the white road that 
 July day there wasn't a care in his heart. He 
 had a word of salute for everybody. Jim O'Brien 
 remarked as they drove along: 
 
 "Dan, 'tis great w^eather entirely." 
 "'Great' is the word, Jim. I don't believe I 
 ever saw finer crops." 
 
 " Yerra that's right! They're the best in years." 
 When they reached the little grove, Dan tied 
 the horse, with sufficient leeway to pluck big 
 bunches of luscious grass. Jim mounted one of 
 the trees — a giant with great, outreaching arms. 
 He sawed and sawed on one of the heaviest limbs, 
 then stopped a bit and handed a word down to 
 Dan: 
 
 "Dan, he's a tough fellow, so he is!" 
 "He is that, Jim! Let me up at him." 
 "No: you come up for the other fellow. He's 
 worse yet." 
 
 Then Jim began anew and went on with a will. 
 The story is too full of painful memories to linger 
 over it for paltry dramatic effect. Dan Madigan 
 walked directly under the swaying limb to find 
 out how the work was advancing. There was a 
 crash, and in a second his body was crushed 
 beneath the monster limb. 
 
 [7] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Men hurried to the spot and removed the 
 mangled form. And there they were, a silent 
 circle, when Father Tracey arrived. Of course 
 he gave conditional absolution and said the 
 usual prayers. Then the heart of the gentle priest 
 felt a great pang. When he spoke there was 
 something like bitterness in his words: 
 
 "Those are the dear trees to all of us. They 
 have put out the life of the finest boy in 
 Ireland." 
 
 Then he noticed Jim, the picture of misfortune, 
 hanging on the edge of the group. His heart melted 
 now and he felt a gentle pity. 
 
 "Jim, I'm not blaming you. And God doesn't 
 blame you. But he that's gone was the friend 
 of all of you." 
 
 And those strong men, rugged from sun and 
 soil, wept, and muttered with deference, "Indeed 
 he was!" and "God knows he was!" and "God 
 be merciful to him!" 
 
 One can not tell the great sorrow of the mother 
 at home when Father Tracey broke the terrible 
 news. Like every crushing sorrow, it found no 
 outlet. She looked at the son of her heart, the 
 child that lighted her widowhood of twenty-four 
 years, as he was borne through her door. But 
 no tears relieved the terrible burning heart within 
 her. Then there followed the long watching when 
 she sat by the body and looked at the still face, 
 not caring to eat, not wishing to give up her 
 vigil. At her side, brave in her woe, was the girl 
 that in a sense was a widow too. Father Tracey 
 
 [8] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 tried his gentlest arts to get the tears of rehef 
 to flow, but the tears did not come. The day of 
 the funeral arrived, and then God showed pity. 
 When the body was about to be placed away in 
 the yellow coffin, the mother stopped the bearers 
 and leaned her face down to the cold face of her 
 son. 
 
 "Dan, my Dan, child of my heart! And are 
 you going to leave me! Sure you are the light 
 of my eyes and the pulse of my blood, and I 
 can't live without you! vStay, son of mine; or 
 if you don't, may God take me to you soon!" 
 
 Then the spring of mother-love burst forth 
 in floods of tears, and the tears brought relief. 
 
 Knockpatrick is a graveyard on the crest of 
 a hill, and serves as the last resting-place of all 
 the people of Knockfeen parish. Narrow and 
 winding is the road that leads up to it, and you 
 can see its weather-worn tombs many and many 
 a mile away. Three narrow graves lie side by side 
 in one corner, where two ivy-covered walls meet. 
 One "headstone" keeps watch above them, and 
 chiselled into it are these words : ' ' To the memory 
 of John Madigan, his beloved wife Mary, and 
 their son Daniel." 
 
 There is a nun in the convent of the Good 
 Shepherd at Limerick, and her face is sweet and 
 her voice is gentle. She goes about each daily 
 task with quiet cheerfulness, and every beggar 
 calls her the "angel Sister." She felt a great 
 grief once, but the weight of that is lifted by love 
 and holy peace; yet at every Mass she hears 
 
 [9] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 she prays for the eternal rest of one soul called 
 suddenly away. 
 
 There are two priests' graves in Knockfeen 
 chapel yard now. One died many a long year 
 ago. The other is Father Tracey, vv^ho, at the 
 venerable age of eighty years, gave a parting 
 blessing to the people of his heart, and went 
 home to God. Many a mother brings her child 
 to the green plot of grass of a mellow summer 
 day, and in the silence of the place tells to eager 
 ears the story of Father Tracey and his gentle 
 ways. 
 
 [lo] 
 
THE BLIND MAN OF ATHERY. 
 
 ABROAD white road runs from Ardee to 
 Athery. Through both little towns flows 
 the River Deel; and where it divides Athery in 
 two, it is broad and deep; but farther south, 
 where it semicircles Ardee, it is so narrow you 
 could almost jump across, and so shallow you can 
 see the yellow sand and pebbles at the bottom. 
 Athery used to be a thriving town, as towns go in 
 Ireland. Into its small harbor, boats filled with 
 turf and "cots" heavy with seaweed glided with 
 the tide in the gray of the morning. Round about 
 it lived many rich farmers, who sent butter to 
 its markets and cattle and sheep to its fairs. 
 Thither went the women to do their shopping of 
 a Saturday, and the men with their grain to be 
 ground at the mill. 
 
 The broad white road was beaten into hardness 
 by constant travel. The well-shod horse made 
 it hard, as he swayed, patiently pulling his heavy 
 load of peat ; so did the winking donkey, burdened 
 with his "loadeen" of seaweed that had the 
 pungent odor of the ocean. In the early morning 
 bunches of well-fed cattle, that bellowed for their 
 native hills, passed over it on their last sad 
 
 [ii] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 journey, to be sold to fatten the Saxon; so did 
 flocks of sheep and lambs; so did the milk cars, 
 driven to the creamery by whistling dairy boys; 
 so did shy coleens, with donkey and trap going 
 to the "millinery" to buy new hats or dresses; 
 so did beggars, with small bags of potatoes and 
 odds and ends of all kinds gathered in a foray 
 of charity through the sweet air of the country; 
 so did tinkers, with their procession of lean ponies 
 of a like repute to their masters; so did huxters 
 of many wares; so did the postboy, with his 
 head up in the air, although he was a servant of 
 the government; so, sometimes, did fat, lazy 
 "peelers" in a side-car, to look over the farm of 
 an evicted tenant, and to guard the "emergency 
 man" — for want of something better to do; so 
 did the travelling Jew with a package of linen 
 done up in oilcloth; so did the school-children 
 from the country, with their books held in a 
 strap — when they had enough of them; so, too, 
 in the endless procession, did the Blind Man of 
 Athery and his dog. 
 
 Everybody knew the blind man, but not a 
 soul in the whole town or country knew of him. 
 Whence he came, when, why, — these were secrets 
 of the Great Book. He was in town before the 
 oldest inhabitant, and never seemed to have been 
 younger or to have grown older. He was always 
 blind, so far as anybody knew; and was led about 
 by the same dog, that shared the mystery of his 
 master. He was not a handsome dog, either; 
 not such a dog as you would stop to look at, 
 
 [12] 
 
ROU^'D ABOUT HOME 
 
 nor to waste a kind word on ; certainly not a 
 dog to entice you to descend to the familiarity 
 of an encouraging pat on the head. He was 
 scrawny and small and old-fashioned. He never 
 played like other dogs. He never acted like other 
 dogs. He did not pant in the heat, nor did he 
 bark at the footfall of a stranger. His eyes were 
 watery, and blinked so he never could look you 
 in the face. The fact is, he would never look 
 anyhow; for he was always too busy with his 
 own cares to bother about others. He went 
 before his master, who held him by a brass chain, 
 attached to his collar. The chain was always on 
 the verge of being taut, and stayed there. The 
 master walked at a fair pace, and the dog trotted 
 the leisurely trot of a dog who has no special 
 reason to hurry. 
 
 Everyday we school-children met them at the 
 same place, at the same time, on the same errand. 
 The place was Stoake's Cross, — so called because 
 years before some one of that name had been 
 killed there; thus does tradition obtain in Ireland. 
 The time was half-past eight in the morning; 
 the errand, to get a bundle of scollops from a 
 wood of hazel saplings that grew about a mile 
 out in the country. These scollops were sold by 
 the blind man to people whose thatched roofs 
 needed renewal or repair. Always he carried a 
 large rosary of brown beads with a large yellow 
 crucifix ; and always he was murmuring * ' Hail 
 Marys" as the little stones passed between his 
 thumb and forefinger in endless procession. Always 
 
 [13] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 he said, "God save you, children!" as he heard 
 our footfalls nearing him, and always we answered : 
 "And you kindly, sir!" He never paused, but 
 vanished around the bend of the road like a 
 spirit from the other world. 
 
 If people knew nothing of the blind man's 
 history, you may be sure they made up by con- 
 jecture and gossip and hearsay what they lacked 
 in the way of positive information. Sure it was 
 known he had been a great sinner once upon a 
 time, and had travelled to the end of the world 
 to find a spot where he could do penance; and 
 Athery was the place, with its crumbling castle 
 of the fighting Desmonds, and its ivy-clad abbey 
 that looked down upon the placid river, — the 
 abbey where the monks prayed in the bygone 
 ages, when Ireland was still uncrowned by a 
 great crown of sorrows. Some said he had com- 
 mitted murder and was haunted day and night 
 by the ghost of the man he killed. Others said 
 he had been cursed by a priest because he had 
 answered him back when the priest was speaking 
 from the holy altar. 
 
 He was a strange man, too, in his way, like his 
 dog that went before him. He never talked with 
 the neighbors about the weather or the conditions 
 of the crops. He lived his life alone, never visiting 
 a body of an evening, and never asking a body 
 to visit him. He went to Mass every morning 
 and knelt in a quiet corner behind a pillar, holding 
 the big brown beads with the yellow crucifix. 
 He went to confession every Saturday at three 
 
 [14] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 o'clock; and, as he knelt in his corner after he 
 had told his sins to the keeper of the seal, often 
 and often his blind eyes were wet from weeping. 
 There were those who said he was a miser and 
 had money hoarded away somewhere ; but nobody 
 ever tried to make sure, for good luck never yet 
 followed those who pried into the secrets of the 
 blind man. "Let him alone," was the warning of 
 the old to the young. "He is a strange man 
 entirely, and 'tis an evil day for them that'll 
 meddle with him or his affairs." 
 
 So the tradition was handed down from the 
 ancients, and the blind man of mystery was 
 allowed to go his way without let or hindrance. 
 There was a story indeed that once a boy inter- 
 fered with the dog, and the dog bit him, and the 
 boy died howling within an hour, though the best 
 doctor for miles around did all in his power to 
 save him. There were stories of others who came 
 to evil from interfering with the poor sightless 
 man. But they were past and gone, if they ever 
 lived; and the town showed kindness and con- 
 sideration to the man whose story was as a sealed 
 book. 
 
 One morning in mid-April, we were making our 
 regular journey to school. It was the season of 
 what is called the "spring showers." Strange, 
 melancholy, fascinating, showery Irish weather! 
 A patch of black cloud soils the blue of the west 
 and spreads like a cancer over the face of the 
 sky. A low moan of the wind that rises to a 
 dismal roar and tosses every leafing tree and 
 
 [15] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 shrub. Then a rain that is blown across the 
 country over broad fields, up hills and down 
 valleys for twenty minutes or half an hour. It 
 is all over soon — cloud, wind, rain — and a blue 
 sky and a warm sun look down upon the emerald 
 of Ireland. Thus the cloud and the light come 
 and go for weeks at a stretch, reminding one in 
 figure of the character of the race. 
 
 It was one such morning in the period of sun 
 that we hurried on our way to the school that 
 stood on the crest of a little hill overlooking 
 the river. Some of us were talking, some were 
 silent, and a few took a last look at a difficult 
 lesson. We turned the bend in the road, and 
 that which had never been recorded in the memory 
 of living man was to be recorded then. The 
 Blind Man of Athery and the dog that guided 
 him were nowhere to be seen! By a strange 
 coincidence, the long stretch of straight, white 
 road ahead of us was vacant and silent. A mys- 
 terious fear took possession of us all, and we grew 
 silent too. We felt that somewhere near us his 
 spirit hovered, and that the man of mystery 
 had made himself invisible and was passing by 
 on his daily journey. 
 
 We hurried to the town, where passed 
 from tongue to tongue the news that the blind 
 man was dead. That morning at seven o'clock 
 the postman brought him the only letter ever 
 known to have come to him ; and when he entered 
 his cottage, found him lying dead in bed, with 
 his beads twined about his fingers. The dog 
 
 [i6l 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 that had been his light and guide for so long sat 
 watching and waiting a few feet away. The 
 postman placed the letter on the bed and ran 
 out to tell the neighbors. In a short time a silent, 
 sympathetic, and perhaps a curious group was 
 in the room. After the first flush of excitement 
 was over, the postman thought of the letter, 
 which he would take to the priest, who might 
 decide to read it, and perhaps solve the mystery. 
 But the letter was gone! They searched and 
 searched, but it was never found, and it is a long 
 time now since people have given up the hope 
 that it ever will be found. 
 
 Two days later it was a large gathering that 
 saw the blind man laid away in a little corner 
 of the abbey. It was a dark afternoon outside, 
 and darker still within the ruins. The wind 
 shook the new spring leaves, and moaned dis- 
 mally through crumbling windows and vacant 
 doors. The priest said the prayers, and the 
 people answered. The earth was heaved upon 
 the yellow coffin; and when the work was done, 
 at the head of the mound was placed a little black 
 iron cross with this inscription: "The Blind 
 Man of Athery is buried here." 
 
 The dog followed his master's funeral, and never 
 after left the abbey. Because of the strangeness 
 and sadness and mystery of it all, people sent him 
 food, which the mute animal scarcely touched, 
 though you may be sure the crows devoured it 
 without ceremony. He did not need people's 
 attention for long. Just three weeks after his 
 
 [17I 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 master's buqal, he was found dead near the 
 grave, upon which the long grass is growing now, 
 and on which is renewed every three or four 
 years the simple words that tell all that is known 
 and all that will ever be known of the Blind Man 
 of Athery. 
 
 [i8] 
 
THE PATHERN DAY. 
 
 THE twenty-fifth of July was always called 
 "Pathern Day" in the parish of Knockfeen. 
 It took some years to arrive at the truth that 
 "pathern" was a corruption of "patron," and 
 that the day was kept holy in honor of St. James 
 the Greater, to whom the parish chapel was 
 dedicated. 
 
 A small mile out from the village was St. 
 James' Well, to which from dawn to sundown 
 people went in unbroken procession to make 
 the "rounds." Over it was built a covering of 
 mortar and stone, that in shape looked not unlike 
 a beehive; while around it a path was worn 
 from the unending procession during the long 
 July day. People counted the rounds on their 
 beads, or sometimes on little stones, one of which 
 they dropped to the grass after each round. 
 Everybody drank some of the clear, cold water, 
 and gave an alms to the beggar woman who 
 reached down for the welcome glassful. As a 
 rule, people made the rounds at St. James' Well 
 only on the feast of the saint; though, of course, 
 there are numerous wells in Ireland where rounds 
 are made every day of the year. It must be 
 
 [19] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 said, too, that nobody spent the whole day at 
 this form of devotion. Indeed, it would be difficult 
 for the same person to keep marching in the pro- 
 cession all day long. 
 
 About four hundred yards down from the rise 
 of ground, out of which sometime in the dim past 
 the cooling waters leaped, was a sloping lawn 
 like that mentioned in Goldsmith's "Deserted 
 Village." There one could see the vision of five 
 or six booths or stands — "tents" they used to be 
 called, — presided over by professional "huxters," 
 who made it a business to be present at all fairs, 
 races, "patherns," and other gatherings of a like 
 character. The stands had two departments — 
 the religious and the worldly. The religious portion 
 contained beads, scapulars, prayer-books, statues, 
 medals, and crucifixes; the worldly contained 
 "sweets," cakes, lemonade, fruit of all kinds, 
 especially plums and gooseberries. Old people 
 came and chose the things of the spirit; children 
 came and chose the things of the world. When 
 the day was waning the old people walked leisurely 
 home, wondering how many more years would 
 be given them "to make the rounds." But the 
 children stayed with their elder brothers and 
 sisters, still feeding on the things of the world, 
 for which they were to suffer later on. 
 
 Beyond these tents was the "Maggie man," 
 who conducted a tournament of skill in wattle 
 throwing. The sport consisted of two well-padded 
 sticks driven into the ground, on which were 
 placed two wooden targets resembling bottles. 
 
 [ 20] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Every young man desiring to take a turn was 
 given three throws at either of the targets for a 
 penny. For every one knocked down, three more 
 throws were granted, so that a man with a good 
 aim might keep on throwing all day. The "Maggie 
 man" had four specific duties: to collect and 
 bring back the sticks after they had been thrown; 
 to replace the targets; to call out continuously, 
 "Three throws for a penny!" and to keep beyond 
 reach of the flying missiles. It was a simple sport 
 enough, no doubt; but the grown men and the 
 growing boys of Knockfeen found it most 
 enjoyable. 
 
 After all, amusement is relative. Simple people 
 have simple joys. The boy with a kite is probably 
 happier than the millionaire with a yacht. He 
 has the same sky above him, and his young 
 eyes can watch the rift for a stretch of blue; 
 he has youth, and hope; he is on the east side 
 of life, with all the promise of the west before 
 him. The man of money has comfort and ease 
 and the material good things of earth. But 
 earth's treasures gather rust with time, and earth's 
 joys are always on the borderland of sorrow. 
 
 Late one Pathern afternoon Father Tracey 
 walked out from the village to share by obser- 
 vation in the pleasures of his simple people. 
 
 "Himself is comin'!" an old lady, who still 
 lingered, whispered to a neighbor. 
 
 "Wisha glory be to God, an' he never misses! 
 An' faix 'tis aisly plased he is, comin' out here 
 to the likes of us." 
 
 [21] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "Whist, woman! Hasn't he been comin' here 
 for thirty years, and won't he come till he die?" 
 
 "He will, — of course he will. And may the 
 Blessed Mother herself keep him comin' a good 
 while yet ! ' ' 
 
 Meantime one of the children, having seen the 
 familiar figure walking down the road, gave the 
 welcome word. It is not any picture of fancy to 
 say that every child in the place rushed with a 
 leaping heart to meet the sweet, kindly priest. 
 They clapped their hands, fluttered around him 
 like birds, and laughed in hysterical joy. One 
 knows not how, but this man of silvered hair 
 had the heart of every child in the hollow of 
 his hand. When he appeared, father, mother, 
 brother, sister, everybody on the whole round 
 earth was set aside; when he left, a cloud settled 
 on their young faces. 
 
 He set them racing for pennies till his coppers 
 were all gone. Then Maureen sang ' * Ninety- 
 Eight" for him; and the fire of her race leaped 
 out of her eyes, and the red blood of her heart 
 rushed to her face in defiance as the words brought 
 meaning to her young mind. There was a lad 
 he called "Laughing Fox," because he could 
 never look at you without breaking into a smile, 
 and because his hair was as red as the fur of a 
 fox. Father Tracey had him speak a little piece 
 about 'Jacky the Lanthern' and his wild pranks, 
 which an old man in the parish had taught him. 
 There were two lines which never failed to make 
 Father Tracey laugh and clap his hands and 
 
 [22] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 say, "Bravo, bravo, 'Laughing Fox'!" The lines 
 ran: 
 
 For Jacky could make the divil go wrong, 
 But the divil went wrong before him. 
 
 There was a little girl he called "Erin." She 
 had long, black hair that always flew back in 
 the wind; and her face was strangely serious, 
 and her eyes full of expression. One day when 
 he visited the school he asked her to read for 
 him. The selection began, "Erin, the light will 
 shine out of thine eyes"; and ever after he called 
 her "Erin." When the children had sung and 
 spoken and run themselves tired, he watched 
 the men for a little, chatting here and there, and 
 commenting on the good or ill luck of the stick- 
 throwers. 
 
 Donald O'Neill, one of the finest hurlers in 
 County Limerick, stepped up for a turn. The 
 "Maggie man" put him off and told him to wait 
 a bit; for he knew, as everybody else knew, that 
 Donald could, without effort, knock down four 
 bottles out of every six throws. 
 
 "Let Donald take a turn," Father Tracey said, 
 as he heard the old man warding him off. 
 
 "Sure, your reverence, he's too good* entirely, 
 and 'tis tired he makes me gathering up the 
 sticks for him. A man must make a living, your 
 reverence. And Donald O'Neill might keep 
 throwing from now till Christmas for a pinny." 
 
 "Yes, Donald is a great boy," Father Tracey 
 added reflectively. "Sure, I baptized him and 
 his father and mother before him, and I ought 
 
 [ 23 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 to know. Come over here to me, Donald.** 
 
 Then Father Tracey placed his fatherly hand 
 on the young head, crowned with a growth of 
 fair, soft hair; and he looked with the pride of 
 spiritual fatherhood into the eyes that were 
 gentle and full of light. Father Tracey had an 
 ever-widening love for all his people, young and 
 old. But because Donald served his Mass for 
 eleven years, and rang the chapel bell, and took 
 care of his horse when he had one, and hovered 
 about him morning, noon and night, for this lad 
 the priest had the most tender affection. Donald 
 was handsome like his father and mother before 
 him. Many a girl would be glad to say "Yes" 
 if he asked her, but 'twas known he was taking 
 Latin lessons with Father Tracey and might be 
 a priest; so they put the thought of him out of 
 their young heads. 
 
 The priest and Donald left the "Maggie man" 
 to "make a living," as he put it, and stood on a 
 rise of ground near the edge of the crowd. 
 
 "Well, Donald my lad, are you still thinking 
 it over?" 
 
 "Indeed I am. Father, day and night. I know 
 how my mother has her heart set on my staying 
 here at home. My father won't like it either. 
 But always the voice is calling me to foreign 
 parts. I have prayed and prayed, and the voice 
 keeps calling, calling, — something like the voice 
 of the Irish calling St. Patrick long ago. I'm 
 thinking to still the voice and ease my heart by 
 joining the Franciscans for the foreign missions.'* 
 
 [24] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "Donald my lad, I'm forty-seven years a 
 
 priest, and never yet have I stilled the voice 
 
 in the heart of any one; and I never will, God 
 
 helping me with His holy grace. I was thinking, 
 
 since your father is well-to-do, you might go tQ 
 
 Maynooth and join the priesthood of your own 
 
 country. But who am I that I should lay plans 
 
 for a boy when the voice of the great God is 
 
 calling him?" Then Father Tracey's eyes filled 
 
 with tears: "Donald, Donald, you are a good 
 
 lad, and your young face shows it, and so does 
 
 the light of your eyes. You have lingered around 
 
 your poor old priest when his thoughts and his 
 
 ways were so different from yours. You have 
 
 cheered him when his heart was heavy with 
 
 sorrow; you have helped him when age had 
 
 fettered his feet. And I love you, Donald, as only 
 
 a father could. And God loves you, Donald. 
 
 Therefore follow Him, even if your father and 
 
 mother gainsay you; for we must leave father 
 
 and mother and follow Him. Yes, although I'll 
 
 miss you many and many a day, and will hear 
 
 no more the voice that sings in you, still go, 
 
 Donald, when you are ready; and my blessing 
 
 and the blessing of God go with you." 
 
 Father Tracey left the "Pathern" shortly after, 
 thoughtful and silent. The sun was far down 
 in the west, and already a few scattered stars 
 shone feebly in the sky. The scent of hayfields 
 came to him from either side of the road; and, 
 above, the crows, with extended necks and wings 
 now flapping, now motionless, were journeying 
 
 [25] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 homeward. He caught not the scent of the hay- 
 fields, but looked up and saw the black carrion 
 birds sailing along to protecting forests in the 
 falling night. 
 
 "They are going home, — they are going home," 
 he mused. "Everybody goes home when the night 
 comes. The cows, the sheep, the birds, — they 
 all go home. Man goes home, too; for the day 
 is given to labor, the night to rest. I am going 
 home myself, to pause a little; for the darkness 
 is falling. Soon the long night will come, when 
 the long day will be over; and then, too, I'll 
 go home, — God grant I'll go home!" 
 
 Back at the "Pathern" the crowd is getting 
 thinner, the voices are fewer, the laughter is fast 
 dying away. You can see people walking along 
 the road in different directions, and their words 
 come like echoes; you can see them crossing 
 the fields and climbing over fences, and already 
 their forms are vanishing in twilight. The well 
 is deserted, the beggar woman has counted her 
 pennies and has gone away to her little cabin 
 in the village. The "Maggie man" has collected 
 his wattles and has placed them away securely 
 in his donkey cart; he has pulled up his padded 
 sticks and has placed them away with his wattles. 
 Over all he has spread his canvas and has made 
 it fast. Now he hitches his donkey to the cart; 
 now he, too, is fading into the twilight. The huxters 
 at their booths are placing away their unsold 
 holy objects and the meagre remains of their 
 fruits and candies. They, too, pull down the 
 
 f26] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 canvas and make it fast over their wares; they, 
 too, harness their donkeys, hitch them to the 
 carts, pull out from the grounds, and fade into 
 the twilight. 
 
 Not a soul lingers now. They are all gone. 
 A law, a tradition brought them ; a law, a tradition 
 took them away. There was a new day, a joy 
 in their coming; there is falling night and a 
 strange pain that grips at the heart in their going. 
 How silent the field! How silent the well! The 
 grass will grow green again through the course 
 of a long year where the huxters sold their wares, 
 where the men threw the sticks in answer to the 
 call of the "Maggie man," where the children 
 played at their simple games. It will grow green 
 also in the path around the well, now worn into 
 hardness bj^ the procession of many feet. 
 
 [27] 
 
THK VISION OF THE GOLDEN CROSS. 
 
 'ARY CONNELLY was pronounced a "clever" 
 girl by all Knockfeen and far beyond it. 
 She received a convent education, and went to 
 Dublin for what they call the "finishing touches." 
 Already at twenty she was head teacher, with 
 three assistants, in one of the city national schools. 
 On Saturdays she took the evening train home 
 and always spent Sunday with her mother. 
 
 She was the light and the joy of the whole 
 parish, and many a poor woman with a boy or 
 a girl in America wondered what in the world 
 would become of Knockfeen if the good God had 
 not sent Mary Connelly. It must be said of Mary 
 that her light v/as never given a chance to burn 
 under a bushel. During each week of her absence 
 in the city, there were always three or four letters 
 from "beyond the seas." These she had to answer 
 for some of the dear old mothers at home, whom 
 an enlightened Government had kept in ignorance. 
 
 Mrs. Clancy, for instance, had a letter from 
 her son Tom, who was in New York. Mary had 
 first of all to read it, had to pause betimes for 
 Mrs. Clancy's running comment and ejaculation, 
 and finally to hear a motherly eulogy on Tom. 
 It was ail veiy beautiful, no doubt; but many 
 
 [28] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME - 
 
 another girl would have grown tired of comment, 
 ejaculation, and eulogy, and would have found 
 excuses galore to be elsewhere. But Mary loved 
 the simple poor, their tender hearts and kindly 
 ways. So she gave them her Sunday afternoons 
 for correspondence, laughing betimes till the tears 
 came, over the things they said and the way 
 in which they said them. 
 
 When, for instance, Tom's letter had been 
 read, and Mrs. Clancy had reached the end of 
 her eulogy, Mary took her "pen in hand." 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Clancy, what shall I answer?" 
 
 "Yerra, child, say we're all well, of course." 
 
 In a strong, neat script Mary wrote down, 
 preceded by an introduction, the information 
 that all at home were well. Then she stopped 
 and looked a question at the kindly-faced little 
 woman. 
 
 "Well, child, what is it?" 
 
 "Any more?" 
 
 "Yerra of course there is!" 
 
 Mary waited w^hile Mrs. Clancy sat meditating 
 on just what else she had to say. But her thoughts 
 came slowly. Finally she said: 
 
 "Mary alanna, my ould head doesn't think at 
 all. An' 'tis yourself will have to do it for me. 
 Tell Tom to be a good boy, an' go to Mass an' 
 his duties, an' not forget to wear the scapulars 
 an' carry the rosary. An' while you're writing, 
 Mary, I'll make a cup o' tay for the both of us. 
 For I can make that anyhow, even if me ould 
 head doesn't think." 
 
 [29] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Then Mary laughed, and Mrs. Clancy joined 
 her as she went off to make the tea. 
 
 The girl grew serious while the little woman 
 set about her task, and imagined herself a mother 
 writing to her own son, a stranger in a strange 
 land. What tender things she wrote as the pen 
 went on its swift course! Into every sentence 
 she poured out the Irish warmth of her own young 
 soul. Like a poet when the mood is come, she 
 wrote on and on, such words of endearment and 
 tenderness as can arise only when the heart is 
 warm. Later, when tea was over, she read the 
 mother-message, and the real mother wept sweet 
 tears of holy joy. Then Mary reached down, held 
 the face worn by toil and care between her soft, 
 white hands, and kissed the wrinkled forehead. 
 
 "May Our Lady and her blessed Son guard 
 and keep you, Mary alanna, down to the brink 
 of your grave, and beyond it!" 
 
 Presently Mary's swift step was taking her 
 down the village street to her home, while Mrs. 
 Clancy leaned over the half-door watching her 
 wistfully with a sealed letter in her hand. 
 
 Then there was Aunty Purcell, so-called because 
 instead of marrying, she took care of eight children 
 for her brother when his wife was carried away 
 by cancer. The children were now under every 
 sky, — two in America, two in England, one in 
 Australia, three in Scotland. Mary had to write 
 to them all. Then there were odd jobs of all 
 kinds, like writing a notice to hand to the priest 
 of a Sunday, asking the prayers of the people 
 
 [30] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 for the dead or the sick; or making a neat news 
 item out of a Land League meeting for the Lim- 
 erick Leader; or writing on cards, with a fine 
 flourish, the names of the children for First Com- 
 munion or Confirmation. Do not infer from all 
 this that there was no one else in the parish of 
 Knockfeen who could read or write. There were 
 "plenty and more too," as they say. But that 
 is not the point at present. 
 
 Mary Connelly's life ran smoothly and sweetly 
 enough. She was young, had a kindly heart, a 
 winning way that secured her a smile and "God 
 bless you!" at every turn of the road, a splendid 
 position, and a host of friends among the high 
 and low. But there were times when her face 
 wore a cloud, — not such a cloud as darkens the 
 heavens before a storm, but a white cloud that 
 stands in mid-sky of a calm summer day. In 
 later years, she would tell you it was a foreboding. 
 One can not judge of that; but surely there were 
 times when Mary's face was sad and her heart 
 was heavy. 
 
 After she had been teaching school for some 
 time, Father Tracey met her in the chapel yard 
 one morning coming out from first Mass. 
 
 "Mary, they tell me you're a very clever girl, 
 entirely." 
 
 "I'm afraid. Father, people have too high an 
 opinion of me." 
 
 "Mary, they tell me you're a great teacher 
 too," Father Tracey continued, paying no atten- 
 tion whatever to Mary's act of humility. "And, 
 
 [31I 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Mary, because you know so much, and because 
 you teach so well, I am going to give you one of 
 the Sunday 'classes' from now on." 
 
 Mary smiled at the fine diplomacy, and became 
 a catechism teacher thereafter. 
 
 She was successful beyond Father Tracey's 
 every dream; for she had the rare gift of explain- 
 ing great truths in the simple language of children. 
 Then she taught hymns to the little ones, and 
 had them sing at Mass, with herself at the organ. 
 Many an eye was wet with weeping as the young 
 voices, mellowed with the accent of the land, 
 floated out over the kneeling people. It was all 
 so tender and so full of devotion and lifted them 
 so much nearer heaven, that Father Tracey decided 
 to have Mary prepare them to sing High Mass. 
 But this dream was not to be. 
 
 One Sunday morning late in May, Mary and 
 her mother were at early Mass and Holy Com- 
 munion. On their return home, just as they 
 reached the lawn in front of their cottage, the 
 young girl was conscious that the face of the 
 world was fading away. The familiar things she 
 knew so well were half hidden as in a mist. The 
 trees, the whitewashed houses, the hills, the grey 
 rocks with the glory of the sun upon them, — they 
 were all vanishing, vanishing into haze. The 
 girl caught her mother's arm, and half whispered 
 to herself: 
 
 "The heights!— the heights!" 
 
 "What is it, alanna?" questioned the mother, 
 with solicitude. 
 
 [32] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "The heights! — the heights! And the golden 
 cross!" 
 
 "What golden cross, child?" 
 
 "Mother," said the girl, more calmly, "I have 
 not told you, because I did not want to bring 
 any sorrow into your life if I could prevent it; 
 but I feel the time is now come when I must tell 
 you. For two years I have felt as if some great 
 trouble were ahead of me. During the last three 
 nights, after I went to bed, a golden cross floated 
 above my face. When I closed my eyes, it floated 
 as in image; and when I opened them again, it 
 was still there. I said my Rosary, and always 
 the cross lingered till I fell asleep. In my dreams 
 I saw it, and when I woke I saw it again like a 
 glory. Yesterday in confession I told Father 
 Tracey, and he said: ' Child, God's hand is always 
 leading us, and in His mercy He leads us only as 
 fast as we can go. Your feet may be strong 
 enough and your heart may be brave enough to 
 go up the heights of sorrow. Be brave, be brave, 
 child; and wherever the hand of God leads, 
 follow.' Mother, my soul grew strong then; and 
 when I received Holy Communion this morning 
 my heart was filled with a burning joy, and in 
 pauses of it I said : ' Lord, the Master of my 
 life, lead and I will follow You up the heights, 
 holding Your hand.'" 
 
 "Child, child, all this is wild, wandering talk 
 to me! But you're nearer to God than I am. And 
 the heights of which you speak, God will show 
 you if 'tis His holy will." 
 
 [33] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 ''Mother," said the girl tightening her hands 
 convulsively on the arm she held, "the fields are 
 fading, and the trees and the hills and the sky 
 and the sun. 'Tis getting darker and darker. 
 Now — it is quite dark." Then she held the sweet 
 little lady in her young arms, drew her close to 
 her heart in a long embrace, kissed her, and said 
 simply: "Mother, you will have to lead me 
 hereafter: I am blind." 
 
 The years went their swift way, and the world 
 saw very little change in Mary Connelly's outward 
 mode of life. She no longer taught school in the 
 city, but she still had her catechism class in the 
 chapel. Children would crowd around her, and 
 she had a hard task quieting the eager voices 
 that begged for the privilege of taking her home. 
 Still she played the organ, every key of which 
 she knew, every note of which she could awaken. 
 The children still sang simple hymns that quick- 
 ened all hearts to prayer. 
 
 Mary had been to Knock and to a number of 
 holy wells, because her friends insisted she should 
 pray for a cure. But always Mary prayed for 
 greater resignation, and never for a miracle. 
 She was a saint without showing it. Her quiet 
 sense of humor, her appreciation of literature, 
 her love of her people and her country, — these 
 she never put away. She was singularly close 
 to God, yet she had the sweet human traits that 
 made her lovable. She always visited St. James* 
 Well on "Pathern Day." But those who knew 
 her heart would tell you that Mary Connelly 
 
 [34] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 would feel she was losing the guiding hand of 
 God if the light came back to her sightless eyes. 
 
 "Mary," said Father Tracey, one "Pathern 
 Day," as he saw her led from the well by a child, — 
 *'Mary, I see you are still climbing." 
 
 "Yes, Father; but you must pray that I may 
 not stumble." 
 
 "Child," said the good old priest, solemnly, 
 "you can not stumble. Your hand is in the 
 Hand of God." 
 
 It is not so long since Mary Connelly died. 
 Those at her bedside say that shortly before her 
 going, she opened her eyes and saw again the 
 golden cross. She reached up her hands as if to 
 clasp it, and whispered: "The heights are almost 
 won. I am ready to receive my golden cross." 
 Then the vision vanished, and her lips moved 
 for a little. Presently she was silent, having 
 passed out of time to where her sightless eyes 
 would forever gaze upon the "golden cross." 
 
 [35] 
 
THE BRIDGE O' THE GHOSTS. 
 
 JUST about midway on the white road from 
 Ardee to Athery, another road crosses from 
 the east and runs straight on to the west. If 
 you go to the east, you will have at either side 
 of you stony fields, on which sheep and goats 
 pick such spears of grass as the barren land 
 offers, and in the evening lie down together in 
 hunger and harmony. If you go to the west, 
 you will pass out of the stone belt presently, and 
 the vision of vast dairy farms and well-fed cattle 
 will lift up your heart. If you lean over the 
 breast-high stone fence, a sleek cow will gently 
 push up her moist nose into your hand. If she 
 were of a common breed, she would probably 
 kick up the dirt, and, with a bellow of terror, 
 scamper off to her browsing sisters far down the 
 field. But she is not. She is of the soil, and has 
 caught the friendliness, the bid-you-the-time-of- 
 day spirit of the race. So she makes you welcome 
 with her large, mild eyes; and when you leave, 
 she looks after you with good wishes till you 
 vanish in the distance. 
 
 Some way still to the west there is a stately 
 old building called Furness Mansion, set in among 
 
 [36] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 great, lordly trees. The road runs through the 
 estate, and is quite overshadowed from either 
 side by trees that extend a mile or so north and 
 south. This tree-shadowed portion of the road 
 is about a half mile long; and midway the distance 
 is a bridge, under which a clear stream sings on 
 its journey northward to join the river Deel. 
 
 Not in the whole length and breadth of Ireland 
 is there a gloomier tunnel than this piece of 
 road which lies between sunlight and sunlight in 
 the Furness estate. The great trees lock their 
 thousand arms above it; and when the wind 
 comes in squalls from Kerry Head, they writhe 
 and swing and toss, and a great groan breaks 
 from them that is heard in the hushes of the 
 storm. In bright summer days, only a fitful 
 play of sunshine breaks through the interlocking 
 branches and their fan -sized leaves. And never 
 a small boy goes through it of a winter night 
 without gripping his father's arm and shutting 
 his eyes for fear he should see the ghost. Some 
 of the ghost visitations were creations of the 
 brain, no doubt; but of others even at this date 
 one can not be so sure. 
 
 Sir Philip Furness, the fifth in the family line 
 to hold the Furness estate, was a widower, the 
 father of two grown-up sons and a daughter. 
 He was known to be the worst landlord in all 
 Ireland — and competition was keen in those 
 days. He committed many crimes, any one of 
 which in a well-governed country would have 
 sent him to prison. His two boys followed his 
 
 [37] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 wild and wicked ways, while his daughter was 
 loved for her goodness and tenderness, and un- 
 measured mercy toward God's suffering poor for 
 miles and miles around. No doubt the father and 
 sons would have been made pay for their sins 
 many and many the time by some daring spirit, 
 but for the thought of this gentle lady. Her 
 word and her smile gave more healing to the 
 sick than all the medicines of the apothecary of 
 Ardee; and to the poor she gave with such sweet 
 grace that her gift was dearer to them than all the 
 riches of the king's treasures. They called her 
 the "Little Lady" when she was not present, and 
 "My Lady" when she was. Her vagabond father 
 loved her in his own wild way; and the people 
 never blamed her that he was no better, but 
 blessed her that he was no worse. 
 
 "Sure, I saw a goat nursing a lamb over on 
 the hill at Ballydown the other day," said old 
 Paddy Hogan, who had a small holding near the 
 estate; "and the goat was that wild he would 
 climb up to the cross on the chapel for a sprig 
 of ivy; but the lamb was gentle and would 
 nibble a bit o' grass undher a tree. So where's 
 the use in talkin'? Ould Furness is wild like all 
 his breed before him. But the * Little Lady' 
 isn't wan o' thim. She's o' the mother's side, and 
 the mother came o' good stock. I tell ye again 
 there's no use in talkin.' Things is all right as 
 God made thim, and bye an' bye everywan 
 comes by his own." 
 
 In one corner of his estate Furness kept a 
 
 [38I 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 roan bull that was wilder and more wicked than 
 his master. One day two little girls were picking 
 sloes on the edge of the estate. They got separated, 
 and one of them in her search for the other climbed 
 over the^fence into the field where the bull was 
 kept. Next day her people found the little body 
 beaten into pulp, while the bull looked down 
 with unconcern from the other end of the field. 
 In all, that bull had crushed out the lives of 
 four persons in two years. But Furness always 
 said: "My bull is mine; my land is mine. And 
 if I put my bull between fences, 'tis for you to keep 
 on the safe side." But the longest road has a 
 bend, as they say; and it seemed quite in accord 
 withf the Greek idea of fate that the roan bull 
 should prove the doom of Furness. 
 
 It was the day of the hunt in early January. 
 The air was thin and crisp, and if you listened 
 you could hear the bay of a beagle or the blast 
 of a horn five miles away. It was the season of 
 rest, when the potatoes were safe in the pit, 
 and the grain was stowed away in the loft, and 
 the hayricks were snug as could be under their 
 cover of sedge or green rushes. Nearly every 
 man and boy turned out for the hunt. For, 
 although introduced by the English and confined 
 to the gentry, one could never tell when a land- 
 lord would get a fall from his horse and break 
 a leg or two — and there was a measure of relief 
 in that. 
 
 [39] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 So everybody was abroad that crisp day of the 
 young year, — alert, excited, ready for fun. The 
 fox cover — some five acres of fenced land overgrown 
 with furz — was about three miles to the east of 
 the Furness property. Men stood on the top of 
 hayricks and on fences, and on cairns of stones, 
 and on every hill and rise of ground. They were 
 in groups of threes and fours, or sometimes alone; 
 they were talking of former great hunts and 
 great hunters, of how reynard was caught and 
 quartered, or won his race for life. They forgot 
 they were lauding the race that oppressed them, 
 and the sport that made them think of their 
 bondage. After a time they drifted to other 
 topics and talked of well-nigh every subject 
 under the sun, smoking betimes in a quiet way, 
 but always with their faces to the cover. 
 
 You could see the foxhounds, their tails 
 wagging excitedly above the furz, searching for 
 the fox in every section, while the red-coated 
 gentry and the ladies of fashion rested easily in 
 their saddles till reynard should decide to hie 
 himself elsewhere. He did presently. Then the 
 official huntsman blew a horn, and hounds, men, 
 women and horses galloped off, with much shout- 
 ing and hurrah. It was a pleasant sight enough 
 to watch the red coats and the black coats and the 
 fine ladies careering across the country, leaping 
 ditches and wading streams as they followed the 
 hounds, that gave tongue as they ran. Many 
 
 [40] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 and many is the mile they went; then at the close 
 of the day the fox wheeled around toward the 
 Furness estate. Old Furness himself was well 
 in the lead, and his two bad sons were not far 
 behind him. The "Little Lady" was at home in 
 the mansion, not troubling herself about the 
 wild ways of the hunt, but instead was making 
 ready a tender bit of meat for Maureen Sheedy 
 to take to her mother, who was just getting over 
 the fever. 
 
 The fox circled the field of the roan bull; the 
 dogs followed him and so did the hunters — except 
 old Furness. Here was his advantage to make 
 a "short cut" and be first man in when the fox 
 was caught, and so secure the head — the prize 
 of the day. It took less time to open the gate 
 than it does to tell it, and off he started across 
 the field. The bull saw the red coat and ran up in 
 front of the horse. The horse took fright, reared 
 and threw Sir Philip. The enraged bull beat the 
 life out of his body before man, woman or child 
 could reach him. 
 
 There was a full week of mourning; and all the 
 gentry of County Limerick, and many a county 
 beyond, came to do honor to the dead landlord. 
 There was a hearse and four horses and a black 
 coffin. There was a half-mile long of fine carriages; 
 but there were no beggar women following after, 
 weeping, and saying, "God be merciful to him 
 that is gone, 'tis he that was good to the poor and 
 
 [41] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 needy!" The "Little Lady" was in a closed 
 carriage with her wild brothers; and as she passed, 
 those on the roadside said one to another: "God 
 pity the ' Little Lady ' ! The ould man was wild 
 but he loved his little girl. 'Tis different now, for 
 thim boys are as bad as the divils in hell." But 
 Paddy Hogan, who was among them, said: "The 
 'Little Lady' isn't wan o' thim. She's o' the 
 mother's side, and the mother came o' good 
 stock. I tell ye there's no use in talkin'. Things 
 is all right as God made thim, an' bye an' bye 
 everywan comes by his own." 
 
 About a year after, one of the boys was killed 
 coming from Dublin, and the other took what 
 fortune was coming to him, joined the English 
 army, and has never been heard of to this 
 day. 
 
 'Twas no secret around West Limerick that 
 the ghost of Sir Philip appeared many and many 
 a night on the bridge over the stream that flowed 
 down to the river Deel. 
 
 "I saw him," said Tade Clancy, "about twelve 
 o'clock at night, when I was coming home from 
 the horse -fair of Ballyowne." 
 
 "Yerra, how did he look, Tade?" asked one of 
 the boys, who was sitting in the semicircle that 
 nightly gathered around the turf fire. 
 
 "Well, he looked for all the world like he did 
 the day of the hunt, — the red coat, the top-boots, 
 
 [42] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 the spurs an' the whip. He was standing on 
 the battlement o' the bridge, looking down at 
 the wather. An' whin — " 
 
 ''Aiaybe he needed a dhrink where he is and 
 came back for it," said a small boy, a member 
 of the family, who couldn't resist the tempta- 
 tion. 
 
 Tade looked even graver than before. 
 
 "Whin I was a boy I always kept my distance 
 whin my elders were talkin'. Silence is the great 
 virtue of the young." 
 
 "Well, as I was saying, whin I saw him my 
 hat flew off my head and my hair stood straight 
 up like the whisks of a new brush. Ned — the 
 horse I sold last year at Limerick — stood stark 
 still, and forty of the strongest men in all Ireland 
 couldn't root him out o' the spot. Thin I saw the 
 roan bull coming from behind the trees on the 
 north side o' the road, and two streams of fire 
 were burning out of his nostrils. Thin Sir Philip 
 seemed to walk in the air, and disappeared in the 
 woods on the south side o' the road, with the bull 
 after him. Thin Ned leaped like mad into the 
 air and hardly touched foot to the ground till 
 we got home. And you couldn't put the top of 
 your little finger on any part of his body that 
 wasn't covered with the foam." 
 
 There was testimony galore equally strong, with 
 all manner of assuring circumstances. Phelim 
 
 [43] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 O'Neill of Ballancar saw him Michaelmas night, 
 for instance, galloping down the road in front 
 of him, and he stopped stark still at the bridge. 
 Then came the loud, long roar of the bull, and 
 the ghost of Sir Philip vanished into the night. 
 Jimeen Sullivan had seen Sir Philip himself and 
 his dead son standing each on one of the battle- 
 ments, till the roan bull rushed into the middle 
 of the road between them, and they both seemed 
 to float down the stream, which the fire from 
 the bull's nostrils lighted with a light like blood. 
 And testimony was added unto testimony until 
 the most incredulous put on some light cloak of 
 belief, and the bridge in the gloomy road was 
 called the "Bridge o' the Ghosts." It carries 
 the name still, and will carry it until the dark 
 stone battlements are torn away, and the road 
 closed up, and the trees hewn down to let in 
 the sunlight and a smile from the blue face of the 
 sky. 
 
 Things do not change in Ireland. Men still 
 go to the horse fair of Ballyowne, and the quay 
 of Athery for seaweed, and to the Ardee apothe- 
 cary shop for medicines, and to the Limerick 
 races, and to the peat fields afar to the west. And 
 many a strong man who would not wink an eye 
 before a volley of musketry will bless himself 
 and say, "God keep us from harm!" when he 
 comes to the "Bridge o' the Ghosts" in the 
 dark of the night. Things do not change 
 
 [44] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 in Ireland. The names that quicken the love 
 or the fear in a man by memories, and the 
 song in a man by associations, — these stay for- 
 ever. 
 
 The "Little Lady" did not remain long at 
 Furness Mansion after the death of her father 
 and brother. With her other brother gone, she 
 was alone. As everybody expected, she joined 
 the Faith of her tenants, having been received 
 into the Fold by Father Connelly. Then she 
 lowered the rents by half and went off to Dublin, 
 where she lived very quietly, leaving mansion 
 and estate in charge of a steward. 
 
 If you pass along the walk up to the stately 
 old building, every step you take will bring an 
 echo; for the whole place is filled with echoes. 
 If you enter the mansion, an oil painting of Sir 
 Philip will stare at you from the wall, and you 
 will start if you have heard his story. They say 
 his ghost and the ghost of his son wander in 
 endless procession from room to room every 
 night, and that the ghosts vanish when they 
 hear the bellow of the roan bull, long since dead, 
 from the fenced field below. But the steward 
 is a silent man and keeps his council, so the 
 knowledge of the outer world is founded on 
 gossip and hearsay. 
 
 "Yerra, they're gone now, and let thim rest!" 
 said Paddy Hogan, one day in the forge at Athery. 
 "The Little Lady' isn't wan o' thim anyhow, 
 
 [45] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 and that's sure. She's o' the mother's side, and j 
 
 the mother came o' good stock. I tell ye there's \ 
 
 no use in talkin'. Things are all right as God ■ 
 
 made thim, and bye an' bye everywan comes \ 
 
 by his own." \ 
 
 [46] 
 
WITHOUT HOUSE OR HOME. 
 
 FROM Limerick to Tralee there runs a spur 
 of line which used to bear the name "Water- 
 ford and Limerick Railway." Several years ago, 
 however, it lost its identity in the " Great Southern 
 and Western," and to-day the name is forgotten 
 by the younger generation. As the little train 
 makes its way from Limerick on to the West, 
 you pass into the neighborhood of historic Mungret. 
 You will stop at Adare, near which Aubrey de 
 Vere and Gerald Griffin made song. You will 
 move on and leave a couple of stations of no 
 great importance behind you, till you reach the 
 small town of Ardagh that quickens memories. 
 It was in the summer of the year. The morning 
 train was making its accustomed trip across the 
 quiet country. But from the vision of red coats 
 and white helmets behind the "carriage" windows, 
 one would suppose the crushed spirit of Ninety- 
 Eight was abroad upon the land, and her Majesty's 
 militia was hard upon its wake. But, sad to say, 
 it was not the resurrected spirit of Ninety- Ei ght ! 
 Indeed, if you saw the handful of men that stood 
 around every little station through which the 
 train glided, you would know for sure there was 
 
 [471 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 no war spirit abroad. Poverty, starvation, emigra- 
 tion, coercion and "rack-rents," had but too surely 
 subdued the fighting Celt. He accepted his hard 
 lot of serfdom sullenly, yet resignedly. The sun 
 of his freedom had gone down in the West, and 
 his eyes had grown a-weary watching for the 
 glimpse of a new day. No, there was no insurrec- 
 tion in Ireland that morning. Her Majesty's two 
 hundred odd soldiers were bent on no hazardous 
 undertaking. 
 
 The little town of Ardagh lies some five miles 
 out from a wide acreage of peat fields. In Ireland 
 they use the term "bog," a word vastly more 
 suggestive and exact. One knows of no land- 
 scape more desolate than that which breaks upon 
 the view when one is brought face to face with 
 a broad area of bog. A wide desert of heath, its 
 lonesome prospect unrelieved by a solitary tree, 
 its barrenness unblessed by a single blade of 
 wholesome grass, spreads out before you. Narrow 
 roads, that bend and vibrate on their miry foun- 
 dations, run through the bog in different directions. 
 In the late summ^er and autumn, either side of 
 every one of these roads is lined with "reeks" 
 of turf, waiting for buyers who come from other 
 parts of the county to haul it home for winter 
 fuel. Here and there mud cabins rise up from 
 the ground, and through their little chimneys 
 the purple smoke rises, spreads, and vanishes. 
 Men, women and children are at work during 
 the turf season, cutting the sods, hauling them 
 away in wheelbarrows, and setting them out to 
 
 [48] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 dry. It is a dreary task, that keeps a man's 
 face to the ground, and burdens a woman with 
 unnatural toil, and forces children to be ignorant 
 and makes them prematurely old. It is dreary 
 and hopeless; for if the rain comes hard and 
 frequently, as is the case in West Limerick, the 
 turf sods become dank and heavy on the heather, 
 and the sweat and toil are all in vain. 
 
 Matthew Arnold says that the Celtic word 
 gair (to laugh) expresses the character of the 
 Celtic race. No doubt it does in part. But were 
 he to drive out to the West Limerick bog fields 
 in those days and view the lonesome prospect; 
 w^ere he to see the sad, solemn faces of men, 
 women and children }^oked to profitless labor, 
 wearing their hearts away to pay rents, rates 
 and charges, and with the meagre balance trying 
 to live and be clothed, he would probably conclude 
 that gair does not fathom all the soundings of 
 the Celt. 
 
 Ardagh had heard the rumors, and so was 
 not surprised out of its senses that morning when 
 a cordon of black-jacketed, black-gloved, helmeted 
 policemen, with guns and bayonets, glorified its 
 principal and onl}^ street with martial splendor. 
 In Ireland they used to call the policemen "peelers" 
 in contempt, and some still have a fondness for 
 the name. Up from the little station came the 
 soldiers, and above their marching one could 
 hear the engine that brought them, puffing on 
 and on to the West. There were certain loud 
 commands, certain military evolutions, and 
 
 U9 1 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 presently police and militia marched out of the 
 town and on to the peat iields. The high call 
 of duty that awaited them was the hazardous 
 task of turning out a famnly from their cabin 
 because they could not pay the annual rent. 
 It was a long march of live miles, and the clouds 
 were lov/ and threatening. 
 
 "It will rain, boys," said Jerry Sullivan, who 
 with two score others followed the marching hosts 
 to the scene of the eviction. 
 
 "Faith, Jerry," said Micky Mack, who walked 
 beside him, "we don't need a prophet to tell us 
 that. Sure everybody knows it always rains 
 where there's evictions in County Limerick." 
 
 Whether it was the quiet irony or some more 
 patriotic motive that stirred him, Jerry clinched 
 his fists till his finger nails left their impress in 
 the palms of his hands. 
 
 "Micky Mack, 'tisn't rain we want, but 
 brimstone to burn every last landlord and soldier 
 and peeler out of Ireland." 
 
 This was treason, no doubt. But it must be 
 said of Jerry that he tempered his patriotism 
 with prudence; for his words were not heard 
 by the paid servants of her Majesty. 
 
 The scene of the eviction was neither formidable 
 nor inviting. A mud cabin with two small windows, 
 a rush roof, a "reek" of turf a little to one side, 
 an outhouse that might have been a barn, a 
 cowshed, a stable, or a combination of the three, — 
 that was all. The soldiers and policemen made 
 revolutions in approved style, and in due time 
 
 [501 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 formed a semicircle in front of the house. Then 
 the bailiff — a name symbolic among the Irish 
 of the lowest in henchmanry — began the duties 
 of his ugly office. He walked up to the door, 
 properly guarded by policemen, to execute formal 
 ejection. 
 
 A purple mist hung over every section of the 
 bog, and at this moment, with dramatic fitness, 
 Ireland's sky let fall a drizzle of cold, clinging 
 rain. Through a gap between two hills one could 
 look, and fancy the hovering vapors were a stretch 
 of the sea. But the sea was more to the West; 
 and every boy and every girl of the family left 
 homeless that day would hear its eternal calling, 
 would seek and find it, and beyond it, in another 
 land, would work out their individual destinies. 
 
 Out of the cabin, followed by the bailiff, came 
 a mother and seven children, ranging in age from 
 two to perhaps twelve years. The mother held the 
 smallest in her left arm, and with her right hand 
 was leading a little chubby-faced, barefoot fellow 
 of about four. The father had just died a year 
 before, hence the pinching poverty that terminated 
 in eviction. Because of the helpless condition of 
 the young family depending on a widowed mother, 
 there was feeling galore throughout all West 
 Limerick. Strong talk went out of armed re- 
 sistance, and men took rusty guns from their 
 hiding-places; spades, shovels, scythes and pitch- 
 forks were also pressed into service. But the 
 priest of the parish was a prudent man; and, 
 while he felt his heart breaking for the sorrows 
 
 [51] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 of his people, he saw at a glance the results of 
 an encounter between an organized government 
 and a handful of peasantry. So he told his people 
 the Sunday before to put back their guns, spades, 
 shovels, scythes and pitchforks where they got 
 them, and the Lord God would provide for the 
 widowed mother and her little ones. Without a 
 murmur, because of their great love and reverence, 
 they obeyed. But the English Government took 
 no chances. Hence the Limerick militia, and the 
 cordon of police massed together from the well- 
 filled barracks of those days. 
 
 The bailiff locked, bolted and nailed up the 
 door. Gradually the crowd broke and melted 
 into the mist. The soldiers and police took up 
 their return journey, and only a few immediate 
 vSympathizers remained with the evicted family. 
 These were gathered under the roof of the out- 
 house for protection from the drizzling rain. 
 
 "Wisha, Mary," said Ned Connelly, with the 
 familiarity of one who had known the evicted 
 widow from girlhood, " 'tisn't much that we 
 have, for God knows we're all poor around here. 
 But there's no house so small it won't hold another. 
 An' if you give me three of the little childer, 
 Anne will care for thim like her own, till God 
 sends us betther times." 
 
 And when, with true Celtic delicacy, Mary 
 expressed unwillingness to trouble other people 
 with her burdens, saying that the sweet Saviour 
 and His Blessed Mother would take care of her 
 and her children, there was a chorus of protest 
 
 [52] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 and cries of "Yerra, what ails you, woman?" — 
 "Sure we're all one and the same out here in 
 the bogs!" — "Yerra, sure if 'tis your turn to-da}^ 
 'twill be ours to-morrow!"— "You'd think 'tis 
 the house of the Knight of Glen himself we're 
 offering you, the way you're carryin' on!" So 
 with infinite tact these unlettered bogmen divided 
 up the family among them, taking care that the 
 mother and the little one should be together with 
 an old couple who had never seen the world 
 beyond the horizon that bounded the peat fields. 
 Then they left, and by nightfall the cabin was 
 dark and silent. 
 
 Just seven years ago a young priest got off the 
 train at Ardagh and walked up its principal and 
 still its only street. It takes very little to quicken 
 curiosit}^ in a small Irish town. Mrs. Clancy stood 
 at her little shop door, her arms akimbo. 
 
 "A priest from America!" she called to a next- 
 door neighbor, whose eyes were also following 
 the clergyman. 
 
 "Wisha, and may God help the poor man, all 
 the way from thim wild parts ! ' ' said her neighbor, \ 
 
 with large pit}^ | 
 
 The priest secured the service of a jarvy to 
 drive him out the same winding road that the 
 company of soldiers and cordon of police had 
 travelled long years before. He was a tall, ), 
 
 muscular man, not over forty years of age, i 
 
 perhaps. He wore a soft, black hat, below which 3 
 
 appeared a rich growth of dark hair. The jarvy I 
 
 was loquacious after the manner of his kind. \ 
 
 [53] \ 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 But let no traveller mistake the jarvy's racy 
 talk — prepared with the same care as that of 
 the seller of wares — for the quiet, unobtrusive, 
 inoffensive repartee of the unspoiled Celt. This 
 priest seemed to know the jarvy's craft. He 
 had very little to say, had very little interest in 
 what the jarvy was saying, and very naturally 
 this man of words reduced his remarks to mere 
 exhortations and threats to his horse. 
 
 When they reached the boglands, there was 
 no rising mist and no falling rain. A warm wind 
 from the sea blew across the wide acres and 
 scattered massed clouds over the face of the 
 sky. Many a mud cabin had gone down, and 
 many a whitewashed home, ample for right 
 human living, had arisen in its place. Men were 
 still at work on the black bogs, and, as before, 
 acres of sod lay drying on the heath. But for 
 the most part the men were working for them- 
 selves, having purchased their holdings. The 
 ruined mud walls of what had once been a cabin 
 and an outhouse stood like crumbling tombs in 
 an abandoned graveyard. 
 
 The priest viewed the walls and the sky and 
 the face of the land. He took a piece of mud from 
 one of the fallen walls and stored it away in his 
 satchel. "Yes, they'll surely be glad to get this," 
 he said, as he snapped the clasp. He looked yet 
 again at the sky and over the wide acres of bogs. 
 "The mists and the rain are gone; the old cabin 
 is nearly gone, too. The men's faces are less 
 on the ground, and the women are keeping house 
 
 [54] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 at home, and the children are at school. Yes, it 
 was different," he continued musing, "when 
 mother and the seven of us were turned out, and 
 I was only twelve. But God took care of us." 
 
 "I don't like to disturb your Reverence, but 
 you said you wanted to make the evening train 
 to Limerick. We have just an hour, and it takes 
 the pony fifty-five minutes on a trot." 
 
 In a little while they were gliding down the 
 sloping road to Ardagh. The jarvy carried home 
 a good fee that night. The priest carried home a 
 piece of dry mud and a wealth of memories. 
 
 55 
 
MICKY THE FENIAN. 
 
 MICHAEL McCABE was his official name in 
 the baptismal records kept in the priest's 
 house at Athery. At Christmas, Easter and the 
 "Stations," Michael McCabe was announced to 
 have contributed a half-crown to maintain re- 
 ligion, or, as the people about said, to "pay his 
 dues." But beyond this official record and these 
 tri-annual announcements, the name Michael 
 McCabe had no person of flesh and blood to 
 correspond to it. Once, indeed, a salesman from 
 Limerick came with samples of leather to show 
 to Michael McCabe. 
 
 " By gor," said the road man, who was spreading 
 small stones in a bad bed of the street, "there's 
 ne'er a man here o' that name." 
 
 "Faith there isn't an' never was," said a boat- 
 man just come in on the tide with a "cot" of 
 seaweed. 
 
 "Yerra," said an old sage, scratching his head, 
 "maybe he manes Micky the Fenian — the 
 cobbler?" 
 
 Yes, he was a cobbler, the stranger said. 
 Straightway all the hands pointed the index 
 finger in the same direction, and all tongues said 
 
 [56] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 just the same words at just the same time, "There 
 he is foreninst ye." 
 
 Micky the Fenian was a cobbler by trade, by 
 reputation a Fenian, and by natural bent a story- 
 teller. He was hump-backed, which he said was 
 caused by the horse of a trooper stepping on 
 him when he was hiding under a clump of bushes. 
 He had one eye, having lost the other in a wild 
 raid at Ballingarry. His mouth was very large, 
 his lips very thin, his head very bald. When he 
 told you anything possessing, in his mind, any 
 measure of importance, he looked at you and 
 spoke to you as if he expected you to contradict 
 him. If you didn't contradict, he was disappointed ; 
 if you did, you would be apt to remember the 
 date in writing your autobiography. 
 
 Micky lived in a small house on a street which 
 was called "Pound Lane." The name was given 
 on account of a small inclosure in from the street, 
 where stray cattle and sheep were kept till re- 
 deemed with a fine. The little house was no 
 more prepossessing than its owner. There was a 
 hump on the roof, caused by a deformed rafter, 
 like the hump on Micky's back. There was one 
 small window in front, corresponding to Micky's 
 one good eye. During his working hours he sat 
 inside this window, stitching at a patch or 
 hammering little yellow tacks into the fresh 
 leather of a new sole. In the brief pauses of his 
 work, he would measure the road and then the 
 heavens, for no more definite purpose than to 
 get the pain out of his back, as he said. He would 
 
 [57] 
 
ROUND ABOUT 'HOME 
 
 sing v/hen the mood was on him, holding the 
 theory that a song Hfts the care out of a man's 
 heart. In the days gone by he ''drank a Httle," 
 as people charitably put it, and then all the 
 fervor of the Fenian days leaped in like a surge 
 from the ocean of memory. But during one of 
 the missions the "holy Father" gave Micky the 
 pledge, and never a surge leaped from the ocean 
 of memory afterward. 
 
 All his stories were in the nature of monologues, 
 with such interruptions from listeners as might 
 be safely made. Interruptions always hindered 
 the gliding flow of Micky's speech. 
 
 "I'm o' that kind," he used to say over and 
 over again, "I'd rather have a man hit me between 
 the two eyes than interrupt the flow o' me words." 
 
 A schoolboy, leaning over the half-door while 
 vv^aiting for a pair of shoes, heard Micky make 
 this remark: 
 
 "Yerra, Micky, how could I hit you between 
 the two eyes, seein' you have only the one?" 
 
 The boy was on the street side of the half-door, 
 however, and did not tarry. 
 
 Like many a story-teller of repute, Micky had 
 passed the time when he could discern the false 
 from the true. Subjectively, perhaps, all that 
 he said measured up to facts. Objectively, he 
 described and narrated on so gigantic a scale 
 that the schoolmaster said he should be classified 
 with the saga makers of the Red Branch Cycle. 
 The people who heard this did not catch the 
 force of the allusion; no more did Micky. But 
 
 [58] 
 
FOUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 he took it as a compliment, and let it go at that. 
 
 The hero of all Micky's tales was the first 
 person singular of the personal pronoun. And 
 never in the memory of man did the first person 
 singular of the personal pronoun come out second 
 in the denouement of Micky's tales. 
 
 To begin with, Micky said he was a Fenian. 
 He had no record to show it, except his blind 
 eye and his hump, and these were not conclusive. 
 But no one seemed able or willing or daring 
 enough to disprove his claim, so he went down 
 through the years as "Micky the Fenian." He 
 reckoned all dates by the number of days, months 
 or years before or after some narrow escape or 
 daring deed in his shadowy life. One night they 
 were talking about the time Jimeen Sullivan 
 went out to America, and a dispute arose about 
 the year, then Micky said: 
 
 "I beg lave to tell ye, boys, Jimeen Sullivan 
 left for the other side, of all the days o' the year, 
 the day before I ran from Croom to Cappamore 
 with sojers afther me; an' that was in the month 
 o' May, sixty-seven." 
 
 Then som^e of the boys said: "Yerra, Micky, 
 that must have been a great race!" and " Did they 
 catch you, Micky?" and "How did you escape, 
 Micky?" Micky relighted his pipe, puffed out 
 the blue smoke thoughtfully for a little, and then 
 told his stor}^ somewhat after this fashion: 
 
 "Boys, thim wor great days. But the min o* 
 me time are all gone, an' there's no min left 
 behind." 
 
 [59] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Jim Donnelly talked up and battled for the 
 present : 
 
 "Faix there's as good fish in the say as ever 
 was caught." 
 
 "There is, is there? Thin if there is, why don't 
 ye catch thim?" 
 
 "It was in sixty-seven, — in the month o' May, 
 sixty-seven. I was in Croom waitin' to join the 
 Fenian min who wor comin' be night from 
 lyimerick. 'Twas about seven o'clock in the 
 evenin' maybe, an' I was sittin' outside Mike 
 Fagan's public house, pretendin' nothin'; for 
 there wor two peelers sthandin' on the opposite 
 side o' the sthreet. By an' by comes along an 
 ould woman with a bucket o' wather on her 
 head. An' says she in Irish: 'If Micky the Fenian 
 is a wise man an' wants to escape the gallows, he'll 
 lave the town to-night; for the dragoons are 
 afther him.' — 'A wink is as good as a nod to a 
 blind man,' says I. — 'Faix 'tis so,' says Mike 
 Fagan, who was sthandin' beside me at the time. 
 But the divil a word the peelers understhood, with 
 their big helmets up upon thim, that made thim 
 look the boobies they were. 
 
 "So with the fallin' o' the night I v/alked un- 
 suspicious like out the Pike road till I got beyant 
 the tov/n. Thin I ran like I was makin' for the 
 gate o' heaven with vSt. Pether waitin' to shut 
 it. Glory be to the great God, how I ran an' 
 ran, over ditches an' whitethorn finces, an' across 
 fields out o' which a lark would rise as I woke 
 him! The moon was up, an' the sky was so thick 
 
 [60] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 with stars you could hardly get your little finger 
 between thim. But little time I had for moon or 
 stars, with the dragoons behind me. Whin I was 
 crossin' by Jackeen Madigan's house, his two grey- 
 hounds ran out afther me. We had a race down to 
 the ditch at the other ind o' the field ; an' — do ye 
 believe me, boys? — I bate thim by twenty yards; 
 an' jumped over a fince six feet high an' the 
 trench at the other side of it." 
 
 "You did!" exlaimed the incredulous listeners. 
 
 "I did, I tell ye!" answered Micky. "I heard 
 the galloping horses o' the throopers away on the 
 distant road, an' me heart leaped up to me mouth. 
 They kep' comin' closer an' closer along the road, 
 an' all the time I kep' in among fields till I got to 
 the bogs of Cappamore. There was a boreen 
 ladin' into the bogs; an', as the ould boy, their 
 father, would have it, he brought the dragoons 
 along the boreen. I ran in among the sedges that 
 grew as straight as a ramrod out o' one o' the 
 ponds. So there I hid meself, with only me head 
 above the wather an' me hands holdin' on to 
 two bunches of sedges to keep me from sinkin'. 
 An' the sedges shook like ivy leaves, me breath 
 was comin' so fast." 
 
 "They did!" 
 
 "They did, I tell ye!" 
 
 Micky paused here to give his hearers time to 
 take in the full difficulty of his situation. 
 
 "Glory be to God, but you wor in a terrible 
 way, Micky!" ejaculated Owen Conway. 
 
 [6il 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 ' ' He was that ! ' ' came a number of agreeing 
 voices. 
 
 "Yerra, how did you come out of it at all?" 
 Jim Donnelly asked, anxious for the outcome. 
 
 "Well, if I was a minute, I was down there 
 in the wather for two hours, an' the dragoons 
 huntin' high up an' low down tryin' to find me. 
 An' to this day I don't know how I ever kep' 
 sowl an' body together, I was that cowld. At 
 last one o' thim came right over where I was, 
 an' saw me." 
 
 "He did!" came an exclamation in which 
 surprise and doubt commingled. 
 
 "He did, I tell ye! An' he was a Kerry man, 
 who for some sthrange reason joined the red- 
 coats. Says he in Irish, in a kind of a whisper: 
 
 "'Micky the Fenian! sthay sthill where you 
 are, for I see you. There's a rope hangin' from the 
 gallows up near Dublin waitin' for you. But they 
 won't catch you to-night, Micky; for you're 
 one o' me race, an' blood is thicker than wather.' 
 
 "Well, he sthayed around the place so the 
 others would keep away. An' by an' by, whin 
 they were startin' off, the captain says in a loud 
 voice that made the heart in me cowld: 
 
 "'Search that clump of sedges.' 
 
 "'Captain, I searched it already,' says the 
 Kerry man, salutin.' 
 
 "'March on, thin!' says the captain; an' away 
 they rode. 
 
 "Seven years ago I met that Kerry man at 
 the fair of Knockfinnen, an' he was no more a 
 
 [62] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 dragoon. He left the sojers an' settled down in 
 his father's little holdin' outside Tralee. I thanked 
 him with tears in me eyes, an' offered to thrate 
 him. 
 
 '"Thank you, — thank you, Micky!' says he. 
 'No thratin' for me. I took the Father Mathew 
 pledge whin I left the sojers, an' I've always 
 kep' it. An' as for savin' your life,' says he, 
 'sure you're one o' me race, an' blood is thicker 
 than wather.'" 
 
 "He was a good man, God bless him, whoever 
 he was!" said Owen Conway, with pious gratitude. 
 
 "He was," agreed Micky, as he put away his 
 pipe. 
 
 "But tell me, Micky," asked Jim Donnelly, 
 "how did they know you were in Croom.? An' 
 how^ did they know the road you took? An' 
 what made thim search the bog? An' why couldn't 
 they see you in the moonlight?" 
 
 "Didn't I tell you," answered Micky, with 
 rising ire, "that the divil, their father, tould 
 thim." Then, addressing the others, he added: 
 "There are some people, boys, wouldn't under- 
 sthand their name if ye spelled it out for thim; 
 an' they wouldn't know they have an eye in 
 their head till you put your finger in it." 
 
 There is just one other of Micky's narrow 
 escapes which stands distinct through the years. 
 A force of six policemen formed the searching 
 party in this tale. 
 
 "In April, sixty-five," as Micky told it, "I 
 druv down in a donkey an' car from Bally finnan 
 
 [63] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 to see me sister, a woman with five childer. Her 
 husband — a good, honest man he was — they had 
 laid away in the graveyard six months before, an' 
 she had a hard time enough keepin' the Httle 
 ones together. So I wint down to see her, an' 
 give her a helpin' hand an' a word o' cheer. There 
 was a government spy that saw me, an' he tould 
 the peelers. Down they came to me sister's place; 
 an' they would ha' caught me out in the garden 
 makin' dhrills, only one o' the neighbors ran 
 like a hare an' tould me. 
 
 "'Micky,' says he, 'they're comin'!' 
 
 "Faith, I didn't sthop to ask any questions, 
 but ran sthraight into the haggard at the back 
 o' the house. There was a big rick o' hay, and 
 I was for hidin' in it; but out me sister came when 
 she saw me, an' says she: 
 
 '"Don't go into the rick, Micky. They'll 
 search that.' 
 
 '"Then where'll I go, woman?' says I. 
 
 "Well, to make a long story short, she made 
 me sit down in the ground, an' thin got some 
 hay out o' the big rick an' covered me with it, 
 an' thin got the childer to play quietly around what 
 looked for all the world like a cockeen o' hay. 
 By an' by the peelers came along ; an' the sergeant, 
 a rogue with a red beard and a crooked eye, called 
 in to me sister an' says: 
 
 '"Have you any sthrangers in your primises, 
 mam?' 
 
 "'Yerra an' what would sthrangers be doin' 
 in the primises of a poor woman like me?' 
 
 [64] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 '"Is your brother, Michael McCabe, or Micky 
 the Fenian, in your house or primises?' 
 
 "'Faix me brother, Micky the Fenian, as ye 
 call him, don't often bother me or me primises.' 
 
 '"Haven't you seen Micky the Fenian?' 
 
 "'Yerra of course I have many an' many a 
 time! Isn't he me brother? An' 'tisn't ashamed 
 of him I'd be.' 
 
 " Well, the long an' the short of it was, the peelers 
 got no tale or trace of me from the woman, an' 
 sthraight away they began searchin' the rick of 
 hay. They druv the swords down into it, an' 
 sideways through it, an' didn't lave a wisp they 
 didn't examine. But the childer kep' on playin' 
 around the cockeen, pretendin' nothin', but 
 laughin' an' runnin' about for thimselves. An' 
 all the time I was down undher, makin' an act 
 o' contrition, expectin' every minute I'd have a 
 sword in me back. But God protects His own; 
 for the peelers marched off without ever findin' 
 me, glory and praise be to Him an' His blessed 
 Mother!" 
 
 Micky's stories, as has been said, were not 
 literally true; but most of them had the founda- 
 tion and rough outer walls of fact; he embellished 
 on a large scale, leaving the imagination to fill 
 in the details. He was an artist after a fashion, — 
 not a polished artist, as the phrase goes. Yet 
 he had the gift— call it by what name you will — 
 of getting the fragments of a story together, and 
 of never wasting a word in telling it. He was 
 not a man to catch you with his looks, and he 
 
 [65] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 had a vain way of putting himself in the fore- 
 front. But human beauty is something given, 
 not acquired; and as for a little vanity, nearly 
 everybody has that. All told, Micky's faults 
 were neither deep nor hidden. His gentleness, 
 his charity, his reverence, his simple faith, — these 
 were all in the stiller depths beneath" the ruffled 
 surface of a brusque, breezy nature. 
 
 [66] 
 
BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 ALTHOUGH Phelim and Danny O'Neill were 
 twin brothers, fourteen years old, you could 
 hardly find two boys more unlike in appearance, 
 talents, and tastes. Phelim was a tall, muscular 
 lad, with a well-shaped head of black hair. He 
 could cast a stone, twelve pounds in weight, two 
 feet farther than many a lad three years his 
 senior; he could leap across a trench like a race 
 horse; could hurdle and kick football in approved 
 style. He was a "block of a boy," as they say, 
 who liked the fresh air and the ways and the 
 games of a boy. He had a gay laugh, eyes brim- 
 ful of fun, and cheeks as ruddy as an autumn 
 apple. His father was proud of Phelim the younger, 
 and said he would be the head of the house some 
 day. The lad was proud of his father, because 
 he could train a young horse till a child could 
 handle him; because he could tell the value of 
 a cow to a half-crown; because he could show 
 the servant boy how to make a potato drill as 
 straight as a string when 'tis pulled tight; because 
 he could tell when the hay should be cut to an 
 hour, and when the oats was ripe to a half-hour. 
 Phelim O'Neill was a "knowledgeable" man, the 
 
 [67] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 neighbors all said; and the neighbors were right. 
 
 Danny was a lad you could blow away with 
 your breath, he was that frail. His face and his 
 hands were as white as new cream; and his 
 eyes were gentle when they were turned full 
 on you, which seldom happened; for they had 
 a way of losing themselves in vacancy. He 
 never played with the boys of his age, as Phelim 
 did. Small blame to him either; for he could 
 hardly kick the ball four times the length of 
 himself, and a six foot trench was too wide for 
 him to jump. He was shy and retiring, and 
 stayed at home with his mother and his sister 
 Nell. He had two other grown sisters also, Mary 
 and Ann; but they worshipped the strong and 
 the valorous Phelim. 
 
 "I like Phelim, he's so strong and so hand- 
 some," Mary said, as she watched her brother 
 playing on the lawn. 
 
 "Yes, and his hair is like silk and he carries 
 his head high," Ann added. 
 
 There is always a touch of tenderness when 
 health and beauty stand on the side of weakness. 
 Now, 'twas a known fact throughout Knockfeen 
 that Nell O'Neill might pass you by six times a 
 days on the highroad, and every time she passed, 
 you would say to yourself: "That girl has not 
 her equal in all Ireland." Father Tracey was 
 not given to comment on the accident of beauty, 
 but one day he said: 
 
 "Nell, you're fit to be a duchess or a queen, 
 but I hope the Lord God will give you to some 
 
 [68] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 honest Irish boy, who will have the beauty 
 and the virtue, which kings and dukes don't 
 always have." 
 
 So when her sisters sang the praises of Phelim, 
 Nell rose to the defence of her frail brother. 
 
 '■Phelim's hair may be silk, and his head may 
 be high, and he may be strong and handsome; 
 but Danny is first in all his classes, and brings 
 home the prizes. Miss Connelly, after catechism 
 last Sunday, said he was among the brightest 
 boys she had ever met." 
 
 To tell the whole truth, Nell said all this with 
 a tilt to her head and an expression of defiance 
 lingering about the corners of her mouth that 
 provoked a retort. And the retort came, you 
 may be sure. 
 
 Then the mother, a woman of fifty, with a 
 soft voice that turned away anger, threw in a 
 kindly word. 
 
 "Children dear, why do you be working your- 
 selves up about trifles? Sure Phelim is mine and 
 I love him, and so are you all, and so is my Danny." 
 
 But always the mother drew the delicate lad 
 toward her when she said this, and stroked his 
 head and held him close for a little. 
 
 "Yes; but, mother, you love Danny more 
 than all of us," Mary commented. 
 
 "Mary, didn't you hear the servant girl tell 
 you that the grey hen out in the barnyard keeps 
 the weak chicken always next her? It wouldn't 
 be nature if the mother didn't love the weakest. 
 That's why God gives her the mother heart. 
 
 [69] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 You're all strong and hearty, and you can go out 
 among people and enjoy yourselves. But Danny 
 is as frail as a flower; so he stays at home and 
 reads for me when you're all away. Yes, Mary 
 dear, I love you all, but I love my Danny too." 
 
 Now, she meant to say, "I love ray Danny 
 best," but she suppressed the word that might 
 inject the poison of jealousy. 
 
 One still has a picture of the O'Neill farm a 
 mile out from Knockfeen. A tree-lined avenue 
 led up to the house from the main road. There 
 were barns and stables and cowhouses to the 
 rear. Around these, in the early summer mornings, 
 the servants drew from the full udders of the 
 well-fed cows the foaming white milk, some of 
 them singing as they worked. There was the 
 noise of milk cans, and the plaintive bawling of 
 calves, and the loud calling of human voices, that 
 gave you the impression of business and hurry. 
 Sometimes PheHm O'Neill— called "the Masther" 
 by the servants — came out from the dwelling- 
 house on a tour of inspection. He never talked 
 loud or long when matters did not suit him, 
 which had a far-reaching effect with his servants. 
 For usually the man of few words puts his speech 
 into act. Yet "the Masther" was singularly kind 
 and treated those who worked for him with 
 marked courtesy. "Signs on," remarked one of 
 the neighbors, "he gets more out o' thim." 
 
 Directl}^ in front of the living house were 
 flower beds interwoven with a network of gravel 
 walks. Beyond the flower beds stretched a great 
 
 [70] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 lawn, in which, here and there, lordly oaks made 
 wide shadows. At the end of the lawn, a stream 
 flowed over little slate-like stones, and murmured 
 as it went. 
 
 Inside, the house was richly, though not 
 grandly, furnished. One does not remember the 
 details after so many years, but the impression 
 remains of a substantial home with all the home 
 comforts. Indeed, Tade Clancy remarked one 
 day: 
 
 "By gor', Phelim O'Neill is well off enough 
 to be a Prodestant!" 
 
 " He is, — indeed he is," answered Owen Conway, 
 "and he deserves it." Then he swerved from his 
 thought and added: "Faith the Prodestants are 
 all well-to-do in this w^orld, how^ever 'twill be 
 wid 'em in the next." 
 
 The years went their swift way, and before 
 one knew it Phelim was entering his young, 
 healthy manhood. Gradually the father placed 
 the burdens he had borne so long on the shoulders 
 of the son who carried his name. Mary and 
 Ann w^ere married, and had such weddings as 
 Knockfeen never saw before or since. But Nell 
 was still single; and, though she was yet young, 
 people said it was time to select one from the 
 many who would be proud of her hand. Somehow, 
 Nell did not select, and the neighbors kept wonder- 
 ing. Danny grew stronger with years; and, 
 though he wasn't a giant and never would be, he 
 was no dwarf either. He was sent to Blackrock 
 College, because he liked books; so was Phelim, 
 
 [71 1 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 for that matter; but Phelim thought he had 
 learning enough after two years' stay, and settled 
 down to take up the burdens of the farm. 
 
 One day during the vacation, after Danny 
 had received his A. B. degree, Nell and himself 
 w^alked out through the flower beds and down 
 the wide lawn to the stream. It was cool there. 
 Under a tree that threw its shadow across to the 
 other bank, they sat down together. The place 
 was very still. Only a few wandering bees buzzed 
 about in drowsy fashion. Here and there a stone 
 projecting above the stream churned the gliding 
 waters into foam. Not a bird sang in the summer 
 heat; not a dog barked at the coming of a 
 stranger; not a cow lowed to be driven to the 
 dairy yard, for the milking hour was not yet 
 come. It was very quiet there. Neither brother 
 nor sister was anxious to break the silence, for 
 they were under the spell of the place. 
 
 People who think that entertainment consists 
 in conversation, and therefore must always 
 converse, miss the meanings of chasmy pauses. 
 Often the pause in a song is sweeter than the 
 song itself. Those who sit or walk and feel free 
 to be silent will speak only when the mood is on 
 them. For conversation, like writing or oratory 
 or music, must be quickened by inspiration. The 
 fact that people so soon grow weary of one another 
 often arises from the fact that they have never 
 cultivated the language of silence. Nell had a 
 secret for her brother, and she wanted his advice. 
 
 •[72] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 When she spoke, she was still half lost in the 
 mazes of her reverie. 
 
 "Danny, we have come on together ever since 
 we were children. We are children no more. We 
 have reached the end of the journey." 
 
 "Yes, the end of the journey!" echoed Danny. 
 
 The girl roused herself. 
 
 "Brother dear, you don't understand me. I 
 mean the real end of the journe}^ We must say 
 good-'bye and part." 
 
 "Yes, we must say good-bye and part!" came 
 the echo. 
 
 Nell shook "brother dear" by the shoulders, 
 and her eyes looked straight into his. Then she 
 said with emphasis, as if she were a judge pro- 
 nouncing a sentence: 
 
 "Danny O'Neill, listen and hear! Your beloved 
 sister, Nell O'Neill, whom all Knockfeen expects 
 to see married soon, isn't going to marry at all. 
 A month from to-day she'll be in the convent of 
 Good Shepherd to begin learning to be a nun." 
 
 Danny had caught the pious phrasing of the 
 spiritual adviser during his college course; and, 
 placing his hand on the head of his sister, said 
 with mock solemnity: 
 
 "Daughter, we bless your choice, and hope 
 you'll never return." 
 
 Then sister and brother forgot solemnity, and 
 their laughter drowned out the buzzing of bees 
 and the murmur of gliding waters. But in a little 
 while the laughter died away, and they were 
 serious again. 
 
 [73] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "Danny, I know my choice will surprise every- 
 one around, even if it doesn't surprise you." 
 
 "You see, Nell, I know you better than any- 
 body else does, and that's why." 
 
 "Yes, I think you know me, Danny," said the 
 girl, looking thoughtfully at her brother. "I 
 feel I ought to go, that my place is there; and 
 if I stay, I know I won't be happy." 
 
 "Then, go, Nell! I'll miss you, of course. But 
 I'd miss you more only I am going too." 
 
 "Going too?" 
 
 So Danny had a surprise also. 
 
 "Yes, I have made up my mind to be a priest." 
 
 "O Danny, how good God is!" And straight 
 way the girl reached over and kissed the white 
 face of her brother. 
 
 "You'll be in Maynooth for three or four years, 
 then you'll be a curate in the city or somewhere 
 near it, and you can come in and see me. And — 
 oh, 'twill be just like home!" The future nun 
 clapped her hands with the joy of anticipation. 
 
 "No, Nell," Danny, answered wistfully. "Even 
 that can't be." 
 
 "That can't be!'' exclaimed Nell, with marked 
 emphasis on the last little word. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And why, sure?" The head was tilted a 
 little to one side, the lips were parted in a troubled 
 way, and the eyes were suspiciously misty., 
 
 "Nell, I'll tell you, if you promise not to waste 
 time afterward trying to make me change my 
 mind." 
 
 [74] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Of course Nell promised — for 'twas a great 
 secret, — but made all manner of mental 
 reservations. 
 
 Danny began: "Last year, some time before 
 Christmas, a priest from America visited the 
 college. He was a missionary priest from Texas, 
 a State bordering on Mexico. He was with us only 
 three days, and the day before he left the president 
 asked him to address the students. He was a 
 tall, thin man, about fifty years of age, who had 
 left Ireland twenty years before, and had never 
 seen it since. He was returning, he said, to visit 
 the old place in Galway where his sister, the only 
 living member of his family, was residing. Then 
 he switched off and spoke about his far-away 
 mission. 'Young men,' I remember him saying, 
 ' I may say of Texas to you what Christ said to His 
 Apostles, of the region about Him, "the harvest is 
 great but the laborers are few." He told of the high 
 blue sk}^, and the hot sun ; of the ranches, or farms, 
 stretching for miles and miles away; the parched 
 fields; the cattle wandering over miles of prairie; 
 the cowboys that live and die on the backs of 
 their horses. Then he spoke of the want of priests. 
 'Here are some of you,' he said, 'studying to be 
 priests for your owti island home. My parish is 
 longer and wider than any seven dioceses in 
 Ireland. Here you have priests in abundance; 
 there, the men and the women of your own race, 
 and of every other race, are hungering for the 
 bread of the Word, but there is no one to break 
 it to them. There is a great call from the Heart 
 
 [75] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 of Christ for some heroic young men among you, 
 who feel they have a vocation for the priesthood, 
 to make an act of renunciation and seek the vast 
 tractless regions of Texas, there to plant the 
 seed of faith. The sacrifice is great but the reward 
 is eternal!'" 
 
 Danny paused for a little and then added 
 quietly: "Nell, I have made the act of renim- 
 ciation. I am going to Texas." 
 
 Nell cried softly, and Danny gazed thoughtfully 
 at the stream. There is relief in tears; for when 
 the true-hearted girl had wiped her eyes, and when 
 the cooling evening wind had removed all the tell- 
 tale marks of her weeping, she was calm, almost 
 reconciled. She took her brother's arm and they 
 walked home together. 
 
 In one of the mission cemeteries of Southern 
 Texas there is a well-kept grave with an impre- 
 tentious monument at the head. There is a 
 well-equipped academy near by. The Sisters 
 think it a sweet task each day to water the grass 
 that -is always green above the decaying bones. 
 They will tell you the story of a refined young 
 priest v/ho arrived from Ireland some years before. 
 They will speak of his long journeys to Mexican 
 camps and scattered ranches of Catholics. They 
 will tell of the fever that caught him. They will 
 speak of a night when a couple of devoted Mex- 
 icans, after bringing the dying priest across wide 
 wastes in a canvas-covered wagon, left him at 
 the door of the convent to the protection of the 
 Sisters. They will not speak of their own large 
 
 • [76] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 charity in caring for the homeless one, who left 
 a home beyond the seas. No; but they will 
 eulogize his sweet patience, his readiness to live 
 or to die as God willed, his gratitude for every 
 least service. Yes, and they will tell with tears 
 of a little brass crucifix which he always carried 
 next his heart. 
 
 "Send this to Nell. She'll be glad to keep it," 
 he said tenderly, when the hand of Death was 
 already clutching at his throat. 
 
 Later they sealed the precious relic, with a 
 letter, and sent it away. He who had worn it 
 and prized it so dearly was also gone away. Four 
 weeks later the nun in Good Shepherd convent 
 read that letter, so full of sympathy and sweet 
 appreciation for him who in life she could meet 
 no m.ore. Nell wept long and silently, till every 
 page was wet with her tears. Over and over again 
 she kissed the little crucifix which he had carried 
 so close to his heart. Many and many a time 
 afterward she looked at it and held it to her lips 
 with a thought and a tear, and a prayer for him 
 who had left father, mother, brothers, sisters, 
 lands, and all else to seek the wandering sheep 
 on the arid plains. 
 
 [77 
 
THE HILL O' DREAMS. 
 
 WHERE the river Deel flows into the Shannon 
 below Athery, there is a wide stretch of 
 water that makes one think of the sea. And as 
 you watch the smoke of a calm day lifting from 
 the chimneys of the passing boats and trailing 
 in the air behind them, a longing for the ocean 
 clutches your heart. When the sun is warm and 
 the blue of the sky is far above, you will sit on 
 the crest of a hill out of which grows many a 
 rock that has weathered the winds for ages. It 
 is a still place up there, — so still, so far away, 
 and overlooking so vast a reach of land and 
 water, they call it "The Hill o' Dreams." To the 
 east of you, the face of the land is flat, and the 
 smoke rises out of many a farmhouse, as it does 
 from the boats on the river. South of you, and 
 on the west side of the Deel, the smoke rises, 
 too, from the chimneys of Athery. But you can 
 not see the houses, as they lie in a valley below. 
 You look north, and then the dreams come; 
 for the Shannon is in front of you, deep and 
 lordly, bearing its everlasting tribute to the 
 ocean. Away on the other side, the hills of Clare 
 are faint and far; for a haze hangs before them, — 
 the haze of distance. 
 
 [78] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 But up there on the hill, when you are still 
 young, you never take the slightest account of 
 water or sky or land. You sit and dream; and 
 the child dreamer never keeps count of his dreams. 
 The boats that glide so lazily past you far out in 
 mid-river are not carrying turf to Limerick or 
 grain to Kilrush: they are fairy boats from 
 spirit land, sailing back to spirit land. There is 
 a wild longing to join the boats of the fairies and 
 sail away to the land of the ever young. You 
 watch them as they become a speck and vanish. 
 The smoke that hangs on their wake, lifts, grows 
 whiter and thinner, and vanishes. The foam in 
 their track rises and falls with the wave for a 
 little, and vanishes. So, too, your dreams come 
 and vanish, as all dreams do. You may never 
 be able to write them in story, for the strangest 
 dreams are never told; you may never be able 
 to sing of them, for the sweetest dreams are never 
 sung. Men tell us that whosoever thinks clearly 
 can write clearly. Which is true no doubt of 
 thoughts as the mind thinks them; for every 
 thought is mated to a word. But there are 
 dreams that reach beyond language, — dreams 
 that come gushing from the wells of memory; 
 dreams of faces; dreams of moments, of scenes; 
 dreams that quicken the beat of the heart, or 
 lure the eye into vacancy. You can not tell of 
 these dreams; at least you can not tell of them 
 as they come to you in dream hours. 
 
 Below "The Hill o' Dreams" there used to be 
 a neat cottage, in which lived Tim Hogan, the 
 
 [79] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 laborer, and his little girl. He had other children, 
 but some had died, and the rest, when they 
 were old enough, sailed west to the country of 
 gold, as they thought. Tim's wife was gone, too, — 
 but she was gone to heaven; for she was a good 
 woman, all the neighbors said. Tim took care 
 of a rich man's estate on the other side of the 
 Shannon. So he had a good stretch of water to 
 glide through in his little boat every morning, 
 and an equally long pull to get back home in 
 the evening. 
 
 Eileen, the youngest child, was about eight 
 years old when she was all that was left to Tim. 
 Because she was his all, and he was left, as he 
 said, like an old bird in a forsaken nest, with 
 only one of the brood to sweeten his life with her 
 song, he loved his Eileen with a great love. In 
 the morning before he set out to work he folded 
 the little girl in his strong arms and held her 
 to his anxious heart. 
 
 "Eileen, my coleen dhas, I'm goin' out like 
 the tide, an' I'll come back like the tide again. 
 An' 'tis my heart will be hungry for the touch 
 of you, an' my eyes achin' for the sight of you 
 all the day. But God will take care of you, my 
 baby bird, till I come back." 
 
 Then her little white hands would tighten 
 around his neck, and her little red lips would 
 reach up and kiss a hundred times the v/eather- 
 beaten face. When he rowed out from the land, 
 she watched him from the river-bank, and her 
 
 [80 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 young eyes followed him with a great yearning 
 till he was lost to sight. 
 
 "Come, Shep!" she would say to the shepherd 
 dog that was her companion and protector. "We 
 must go in and clear the table after dadda's break- 
 fast, and feed the chicks, — and, O yes, I must 
 give you some breakfast too, Shep!" 
 
 Shep panted with great delight, taking a few 
 rolls on the grass to show his approval. He 
 always trotted before the little girl, but never 
 very far, and frequently turned back and walked 
 directly in front of her. 
 
 "Dada is far out on the river now, but he'll 
 be back again to-night." 
 
 Shep would wag his bushy tail, look up at the 
 face of his mistress and almost speak. 
 
 When the table v/as cleared, and the house 
 swept, and the chickens fed, and Shep had lapped 
 up his breakfast, Eileen locked the door, and 
 with her lunch and her books neatly stowed away 
 in her bag, set out for school along the river- 
 bank, with the dog trotting before her. Shep 
 left her at the edge of the village, w^here she 
 was among kindly people, and ran back to keep 
 watch on the cottage through the day. In the 
 afternoon he returned, and waited where he had 
 left her in the morning till he saw her coming, 
 when he bounded for joy at the sight of her, 
 and home they went together. 
 
 Eileen was a child of the hill, — a child of 
 dreamxS. It was there she watched for the return 
 of her father when the sun was sloping to the 
 
 [8i] 
 
ROUKW ABOUT HOME 
 
 west. She saw the boats come and go like phantom 
 ships. She wondered whence they came and 
 where they went. Was there some land of mystery 
 away to the east, where the mist never hung 
 heavy, where fountains leaped in song, where 
 soft winds were always sweet with the odor of 
 flowxrs? Were the phantom ships bearing the 
 happy people of that lovely land out to the great 
 sea in the west, at whose brink she stood one 
 day with her father and saw the great breakers 
 rolling up against the rocks? Were the waves 
 calling to them as she heard them call to her 
 that day? Were those happy people leaving 
 their land of sun and flowers in the east and 
 heeding the call of the sea in the west? So Eileen 
 wondered day after da}^; and sometimes she 
 asked her father, but he said: 
 
 "Child, child, you're always dramin'! Sure 
 I'm tired tellin' you there's no lovely land in the 
 east. An' those boats carry no happy people 
 as I know, except a captain an' a mate an' a 
 couple o' helpers. Sure they come from Limerick, 
 an' they're going to Foynes or Tarbert or Kilrush. 
 An' that's the end of it." 
 
 vSometimes Eileen lifted her eyes from the 
 river to the sky, and above her she saw the white 
 clouds that were drifting below the motionless 
 blue. vShe wondered if the blue might not be the 
 ocean of God, it was so large and so far away; 
 if the clouds might not be the smoke from the 
 ships of heaven. It might be so; for the waters 
 fell down from the sky sometimes and made the 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 grass green and brought millions of daisies from 
 the heart of the earth. It was good of God to 
 send down the rain from the ocean of heaven; 
 for the oceans of earth are salty. The stars were 
 the lighthouses which the angels lighted to guide 
 the ships of heaven. And when the stars were 
 not lighted, God was angry and the sea of heaven 
 was rolling, and all the ships not safe in their 
 harbor were tossed on the billows above. Presently 
 when her father's boat appeared above the horizon, 
 Eileen put away her dreams and ran down the 
 hill to the river to meet him. 
 
 But one evening Tim Hogan came home, and 
 there was no Eileen to meet him. At first he 
 supposed the child was in the cottage, though 
 there never was an evening before when she was 
 not waiting for him on the bank. He entered 
 the house, his heart beating with terrible sus- 
 picions. The place was deserted and dark. 
 
 "Holy Mother of God!" cried the old man, 
 "what will I do at all, at all? Sure I never missed 
 her this way before, an' I might as well be dead 
 as be without my little girl." 
 
 After a while he began to think, and his thought 
 took form. He hurried to the crest of the hill: 
 it sickened him not to find her there. He walked 
 along the river-bank, looked up into the trees 
 and down into the water; he went for some 
 distance along her path to school, returned and 
 searched among the currant bushes of his garden. 
 Nowhere, — nowhere! He called, but only the 
 lapping of the waves and the murmuring of the 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 wind came back to him for answer. He entered 
 a little cave at the base of the hill, where often 
 and often the chickens dozed at noontime. It 
 was dark — quite dark — there now. He was about 
 to leave the place when his foot came in contact 
 with some object on the ground. He lighted a 
 match, and stretched dead on the earthen floor 
 he sav/ vShep, his long, brown-and-white hair 
 matted with blood, his head almost severed from 
 his body, his teeth broken in his blood-covered 
 mouth. The old man rushed out to the cottage 
 for a candle, and, returning, viewed the body of 
 the dog with a strangely quiet scrutiny. Tim 
 Hogan understood now, and choking sobs broke 
 from him. 
 
 "O Shep, Shep, my brave dog! They killed 
 you, — they killed you, an' stole away my little 
 girl! An' never a betther dog followed the feet 
 of man than you, my Shep, lyin' dead there in 
 the dust!" 
 
 Then he put away his grief as unworthy, even 
 as the bride of Christ puts dovsrn her silks and gold 
 and gems before the altar. He raised his right 
 hand to Heaven and sent up a great prayer : 
 
 "Blessed God, I have never wronged or injured 
 man, woman or child! I wouldn't step on the 
 meanest thing that crawls upon the face of the 
 earth. I have tried to serve You all the years. 
 And now, blessed God of my race, let Your 
 light be with me till I find my child!" 
 
 Forty minutes later Tim Hogan was in Athery 
 on the "square" before the post office, with a 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 number of sinewy men standing around him. 
 He had brought them together with very Uttle 
 difficulty; for the day was over, and villagers 
 usually collected in the "square." Brief as his 
 story was, he had not finished when every eye 
 blazed fight, and every heart quickened with 
 emotion for the lonely man and his stolen child 
 and the faithful dog. 
 
 "Of course 'twas the gypsies stole 'er, the poor 
 child! Who ever heard of dacent people rimnin' 
 off with other people's childer?" This w^as Micky 
 the Fenian's thought, and perhaps Micky was 
 right. 
 
 Then the information was given that a man 
 and two women were seen hovering about the 
 town for the past three or four days; that they 
 were down by the river-bank, not far from the 
 cottage. Testimony followed testimony, given 
 with solemn finality, as to the man and the two 
 women and their mysterious behavior. Then 
 there was some discussion as to Vv^hich road they 
 should take to seek for the stolen girl. Some 
 said: "Let's take the road to Lim.erick." And 
 others said: "Let's take the road to Ardee." 
 But Tim Hogan said: "God's holy light is 
 guidin' me. Let's take the road to Tarbert and 
 the sea." Argument ceased; for Hogan spoke 
 quietly and his eyes were full of brilliance. 
 
 Five armed men, including Hogan, mounted 
 on swift horses, left the village and trotted west- 
 ward into the night. The sky w^as aglow with 
 stars and the full moon brightened the silent fields. 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 The men did not speak much on the way, for they 
 felt they were on a mission. Tim Hogan spoke 
 not at all, but his eyes were always on the west. 
 After many hours they were nearing the sea; 
 they could hear its everlasting pulse beating; 
 they caught its pungent odor in their nostrils. 
 The dawn would soon be breaking, and the sight 
 of the waters would follow? "But where then?" 
 came the question, to the brain of every one 
 of the four riders. Tim Hogan divined the question, 
 and spoke for the first time in a language not like 
 the racy language of the land: 
 
 "The light o' God is guidin' me; we will not 
 see the ocean with the sun shinin' on it. We will 
 find my child before we get to the sea." 
 
 At the next turn of the road, Hogan and his 
 faithful cohorts saw Eileen, like an apparition, 
 walking toward them on her journey home. You 
 must imagine the child's cry of joy as she leaped 
 into the arms of her father; you must imagine 
 the great, relieving sobs, the holy kisses, the pro- 
 tecting embrace of Tim Hggan once he held 
 his little one safe to him. You must imagine the 
 men who accompanied the laborer holding their 
 horses, silent, bareheaded, reverent, as if God's 
 presence was singularly near. You must imagine 
 these things, for any attempt to tell must make 
 them paltry. 
 
 The journey home is a mere detail. The joy 
 of the village when Eileen returned, seated on 
 the horse before her father, the words of welcome, 
 the prayers, the ejaculations of "Glory be to the 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Blessed Lord and His Holy Mother!" the talk 
 and the wonder and the murmur, — all must be 
 passed over as incidents, which, if very interesting, 
 would of necessity give the effect of crowding. 
 
 Eileen's own story is soon told. About four 
 o'clock on the afternoon she was stolen, two 
 women and a man walked up "The Hill o' 
 Dreams," where she sat watching the boats. 
 Shep sniffed the air uneasily when he saw them, 
 nor could the child's gentle coaxing quiet him. 
 One of the women asked for a drink of sweet 
 milk, as the day was hot and they had a long 
 journey to go. The strangers accompanied them 
 down the hill to the cottage, Shep keeping close 
 to his little mistress, growling viciously if any 
 of the strangers came too near. The child opened 
 the door and was about to enter, with Shep 
 immediately following, when the man, a large, 
 burly fellow, suddenly threw himself full weight 
 on the dog and penned him to the ground. It 
 was an easy task for the two women to force the 
 child within the cottage, but it was not so easy 
 for the man outside to carry the dog to the cave 
 and there almost sever his head from his body; 
 for Eileen said it was twenty minutes before 
 death hushed his howls. 
 
 Blindfolded and gagged, the child was carried 
 off to a gypsy van in an unfrequented road out 
 from the village. About eight o'clock in the 
 evening they went out to the main road and 
 travelled to the west. This gave them about two 
 hours' start of the horsemen. But the gypsy van 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 was heavy with all manner of stolen wares, and 
 the gypsy horse never travels fast. It was after 
 a night of travel that the gypsies got nearer the 
 sea, and then they heard the beat of horses' 
 hoofs behind them. They tried their hardest to 
 quicken the pace, but the best the gypsy horse 
 could do was poor indeed; the hoof beats grew 
 more distinct, and they debated a little. The 
 women were for holding the child. But the man 
 suddenly lifted her from where she sat cowering, 
 and dropped her on the road, saying: "Follow 
 this long enough and you'll get home." Then he 
 lashed his horse for the thousandth time, and 
 the van rumbled away. 
 
 It must be said that the people of the village 
 and the countryside never quite forgave Tim 
 Hogan for not allowing the horsemen to follow 
 up the gypsies. But Hogan always had the same 
 answer : 
 
 "I made my prayer and my promise to God. 
 God heard my prayer, and I kept my promise. 
 Blessed forever be His holy Name!" 
 
 [88] 
 
THE TRIUMPH. 
 
 WHEN Maurice Ahern died of pneumonia 
 shortly after Christmas, he left a widow 
 and a young son behind him. One would say 
 Mrs. Ahern was fifty and young Maurice fourteen. 
 They were well off enough while the elder Maurice 
 lived; but God took him, and then the two had 
 to make out for themselves. 
 
 Shortly after the funeral, Mrs. Ahern went up 
 to the "Great House" to see the "Masther," 
 Sir Robert Ferendale. Her husband had been 
 his sheep-tender — shepherd in pastoral phrase, — 
 and she wanted to know if she could still keep 
 her little house and tend the sheep. The " Masther" 
 was not such a bad man, but his sheep must be 
 thought of. 
 
 "My good woman, I should like to help you, 
 for your husband was a faithful servant; but 
 surely you can not take care of all my sheep?" 
 
 "Your honor, I'm not manin' myself, but the 
 little boy." 
 
 "Your little boy take care of my sheep? In 
 the washing season? In the shearing season? In 
 the yeaning season? And the old sheep to be 
 sold off? And the new ones to replace them?" 
 Impossible! Your son is the merest child." 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "Yes; but, your honor, he used to be about 
 with his father a great deal morniti' an' evenin* 
 when he was home from school, an* he does be 
 very knowledgeable." 
 
 "Mrs. Ahern, I really am afraid to trust my 
 sheep to so young a boy." 
 
 "Wisha couldn't your honor give him a thrial? 
 Your honor wouldn't lose much by that." 
 
 "Very well, my good woman; I'll give him a 
 trial," the man of acres and sheep replied promptly 
 knowing very well he could not lose much in the 
 brief space of six or seven days. 
 \ The mother brought home the good news, 
 saying as she hung up her winter shawl: 
 
 "Maurice agra, the work is hard an' you must 
 be up early an' late. But you'll have three sthrong 
 fnin to help you as your father — God rest him! — 
 had before you. An' you know more about the 
 sheep than they think you do. An' God, who 
 left you without a father, will give you His hand 
 to guide an' help you." 
 
 But little Maurice had high hopes for a day 
 ahead; and the prospect of sheeptending in cold 
 and heat, wet and dry, early and late, scattered 
 his hopes like chaff in the wind. He w^anted to 
 go to college — he did not know when or how — 
 to study lavvT, and then to be an attorney, and 
 later a councillor. He had a schoolmaster who 
 rose above the birch and the beating system of 
 those days, and spoke to him in a kindly, human 
 way. All of them are risen above the system 
 now. But one must praise the man who is ahead 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 of his time; for his light is a light unto others, 
 and opens pathways to fairer vistas. 
 
 Alaurice was a sensible lad, however, and took 
 the present for what it gave, and let the future 
 wait for him away in the years. He was already 
 in the "second stage of sixth" class in the national 
 schools, and spoke English with remarkable 
 accuracy. 
 
 "Mother, I was thinking of something else for 
 myself, but I see I must put that by for the 
 present. To-morrow morning I'll begin tending 
 the sheep; and, as I have a little time now, 1 
 want to see Mr. Crimmins, the teacher, after 
 school is let out.'" 
 
 "Yes, Maurice. An' be back for supper, a 
 go to bed early; for there's a long, hard day 
 ahead of you to-morrow." 
 
 The lad promised, and passed out of the house. 
 John Crimmins, the school-teacher, was a 
 bachelor of forty-five, who lived in a neat cottage 
 about a quarter of a mile away from the school- 
 house. Old Mrs. Doyle, a woman of sixty-four, 
 who was all alone in the world, kept house for 
 Crimmins, — and kept it well, you mxay be sure. 
 She had a motherly way with her, and looked 
 upon the teacher as a son, and John looked upon 
 her as a mother. It was a pleasant arrangement 
 for both of them, and made life run smoothly 
 enough. 
 
 When Maurice reached the cottage, Crimmins 
 had just got home from school. He was most 
 friendly in his greetings to his promising scholar, 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 and made him forget as much as possible the 
 gap of distance between them. When one is 
 full of a subject one comes out with it quickly and 
 Maurice was full of fading visions and dying hopes. 
 
 "Mr. Crimmins, you have been very good to 
 me all along, and you have helped me in a hundred 
 ways." 
 
 "And, Maurice, I have told you a hundred 
 times not to mention goodness or favors from 
 me to you." 
 
 "Well, I can't help it this once; for I'm going." 
 
 "Going? Where, my dear?" 
 
 "To leave school." 
 
 "To leave school?" 
 
 The teacher waited for explanations. 
 
 "You know, now that my father is dead, I 
 must fill his position or we must leave our little 
 home. We can't do that; for we must live, and 
 not beg. I learned a good deal morning and even- 
 ing about taking care of the sheep from father. 
 To-morrow I'll take up his work." 
 
 To Maurice's surprise and, perhaps, disappoint- 
 ment, the teacher had no regrets to offer over 
 his stern fate. 
 
 "Evidently to take care of your mother and 
 to keep the little home is the present duty. And 
 the present duty is the first duty, Maurice. Don't 
 worry about the future; for the little service 
 of to-day takes care of the larger service of 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "That's all fine talk," thought Maurice; "but 
 fine talk never gets one a schooling." 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 The teacher had more to add: 
 
 "Maurice, keep up the studies, — the Latin, 
 the reading of English authors, — and write a 
 composition sometimes. I'll help you." 
 
 And straightway this man of axioms wrote 
 down a schedule of work for his shepherd pupil 
 and promised to help him along. 
 
 Maurice went off in better spirits than he 
 had come; for, in spite of drudgery and long 
 vigils, his dream was not blotted out forever, 
 though it was far away. 
 
 To tell of his daily round of work — keeping 
 guard and count of the sheep, warding off disease, 
 and fighting it out when it entered the fold; his 
 long walks from end to end of the wide estate; 
 his watchfulness to protect the interests of his 
 master; his tact in getting those under him to 
 render full and careful service, — to tell all this 
 would be to repeat the story of many another 
 lad born at the base of the mountain, who, 
 because he longed for larger vision, could not 
 be gainsaid, and climbed to the summit. There 
 were, in his watch, periods of lull, when he sat 
 under a tree and pored over his Latin, or worked 
 a problem in mathematics, or read the books 
 loaned to him by his teacher. There were many 
 occasions, too, when the teacher himself happened 
 along and removed difficulties from before the 
 active lad, or showed him new^ ways. It was 
 like fighting one's path against a high wind on 
 a treeless plain, this battling against circumstance. 
 Maurice liked it, waxed stronger of purpose under 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 the force of it, and saw his dream come nearer 
 day by day. But for one opposing force he would 
 have advanced so joyously as almost to forget 
 he was a sheep-tender. 
 
 Sir Robert Ferendale had three sons and as 
 many daughters. Five of these children one 
 may dismiss without a word or a nod, as they 
 had no relations whatever with the young dreamer 
 of dreams. The second son, who carried his 
 father's name, was about a year and a half 
 Maurice's senior. Like his brothers and sisters, 
 he had a private teacher, following the traditional 
 ideas of "gentleman born." Probably he was 
 clever enough — one is not concerned. Doubtless 
 he made progress in his studies — it is not so 
 important. But what surprises one even now is 
 that this young, pampered, petted boy, with the 
 way of life rosy before him, could stoop to notice 
 with envy a lad who ran barefoot about his 
 father's fields and wrestled with his father's 
 sheep. Yet he did. The reason for his jealousy 
 is simple enough. 
 
 On three occasions his own father, in his 
 presence, praised the grit and serious manner of 
 Maurice. Twice the talented young minister, 
 an Oxford man, who occupied the manse close 
 by the estate, spoke at dinner of the "wonderful 
 eyes of Sir Robert's shepherd lad." A lady whose 
 flighty horse Maurice had held for a little spoke 
 of the "remarkable working boy who took care 
 of the sheep." Then Maurice's talents were 
 spoken of once or so, and Lady Ferendale said 
 
 194] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 she wished "Master Bob had as bright a head 
 as young Ahern." 
 
 From then on Robert Ferendale, Jr., seemed 
 to have but one aim in his young Ufe — to keep 
 in the low dust Master Maurice Ahern, Jr., official 
 guardian of his sire's sheep. It was an unequal 
 contest, you may be sure. Poor Maurice had to 
 grin and be silent while the rich young gentle- 
 man raged and abused him. He might have 
 inflicted bodily punishment on young Ferendale 
 for Maurice was known as a hard hitter at school. 
 But he had a mother, and it would be small 
 satisfaction to her if some time he w^ere to say: 
 "Mother, I have made Master Robert Ferendale's 
 face black and blue with my fists. I am glad of 
 it, too, although I must give up the sheep and 
 get out of the house." It was an unequal contest, 
 therefore. For if a man's hands are tied behind 
 his back, a brave opponent may smite him with 
 impunity. 
 
 Young Master Robert would say, as he galloped 
 his pony across the fields to where Maurice was 
 branding a sheep : 
 
 "You insolent dog, don't you see you're in my 
 way? Move off, you beggar!" 
 
 Maurice would move away a little, though 
 there were acres of field on either side of him for 
 the young gentleman to pass. 
 
 Again, young Ferendale might come upon him 
 during the brief periods he snatched for study. 
 
 "You worthless brat! Do you suppose my 
 father pays you and gives you a house, in order 
 
 [ 95 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 to have you spend your time reading? You 
 ignorant peasant! I'd like to know v/hat you 
 want books for?" 
 
 Maurice w^ould put the little volume in his 
 pocket and glide away to another section of the 
 field. 
 
 He might have stopped the persecution if he 
 had complained of the pampered boy to his 
 father; for Ferendale was a strict man, who 
 would accept no nonsense from his children. 
 But, with the instinct of his race against "spy" 
 and "informer," he could never bring himself to 
 lodge a complaint. All the same, his young mind 
 planned revenge, and his young heart longed for 
 the day when his turn would come. 
 
 When Maurice was in his eighteenth year, 
 John Crimmins' housekeeper died. Owing to the 
 careful tutelage of the teacher and his own patient 
 work, Maurice was ready to go away somewhere 
 to begin his stud}^ of law. But he had not enough 
 money to carry him through, nor did he see any 
 prospect of getting it. Then the unexpected 
 happened, and John Crimmins offered the position 
 of housekeeper to his mother, and told Maurice 
 to make ready to cross the Channel to take up 
 the studies of his profession in England. Some 
 days later Mrs. Ahern began her new duties, 
 when Maurice was gone to the land of the oppressor. 
 Robert Ferendale, Jr., had taken up the study 
 of law in a select school some time before. 
 
 The years went their swift way, and fate or 
 circumstance or what not at last brought Robert 
 
 [96] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Ferendale, O. C, and Maurice Ahern, Q. C, 
 into conflict. The former sheep-tender remem- 
 bered the burning insults of days gone by, you 
 may be sure; for personal wrong sometimes 
 leaves a deep, red wound that time does not heal. 
 The trial in which they both appeared as cele- 
 brated opponents is so well remembered that one 
 need only offer the merest outline. 
 
 Smithfield was an "emergency man" placed 
 over the farms of two evicted tenants some miles 
 outside Ardee. The landlord of these tenants 
 was an "absentee," who spent most of his time 
 in keeping up with the races, the yachts, and 
 those games of chance which are a part of the 
 pastime of the "idle rich." He gave no thought 
 to the struggling peasants who were trying to 
 eke out a living and to hold up under the crushing 
 weight of the rents. Probably the landlord did 
 not know who they were, and did not care to 
 know. He was a hard, bad spendthrift at best; 
 and the agent he employed to collect his rents 
 was no better than himself. Two tenants were 
 evicted for nonpa3^ment of rent, and this Smith-. 
 field from somewhere was sent to occupy one of 
 the houses and take care of both farms. 
 
 An "emergency man" at his highest was a 
 hateful beast, whose presence defiled the abandoned 
 hearth, whose very shadow was unholy on the 
 land. Smithfield was the most offensive of a 
 very offensive tribe. He swaggered and put on 
 the airs of a gentleman, and by and b}^ told the 
 two "peelers" sent to guard him to go home, as 
 
 [ 97 1 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 he could take care of himself. The poorest beggar 
 on the road would neither salute him nor answer 
 his salutation. He drank freely and his swagger 
 rose to insolence. But the people had no mind 
 to borrow more trouble than they had already, 
 and let him go his way. 
 
 One evening, Margaret Sheehy, a young woman 
 of fine appearance, was coming home from the 
 dressmaker's at Ardee and was met by Smithfield. 
 She fought the fight of her race for the priceless 
 treasure of her sex, and was found insensible on 
 the road an hour later. When the people heard 
 of the outrage their anger leaped out in burning 
 tongues of fire. Next morning the police found 
 Smithfield dead in the exact spot where the girl 
 was found, with three bullets lodged in his head. 
 Margaret Sheehy had three brothers, who were 
 at once placed under arrest, charged with the 
 deed. There was a great deal of talk about cir- 
 cumstantial evidence among the attorneys, which 
 the laymen could not follow. The concrete facts 
 were the death of Smithfield, the arrest of the 
 Sheehy brothers, and the great trial at Limerick. 
 
 Young, rich and brilliant Robert Ferendale, 
 Q. C, was to prosecute for the Crown. Every- 
 body expected that: he was a landlord's son. 
 Young, brilliant, but not so rich, Maurice Ahern, 
 Q. C, was retained by the defence. Everybody 
 expected that, too: he was of the people, and 
 proud of it. And you may be sure the people 
 were proud of him. Now, if ever, his services 
 would be needed. One might call up the fine 
 
 [98] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 rhetoric of Mr. Alacaulay on his Warren Hastings' 
 trial to describe the time and the scene, but one 
 must surely be caught with the purloined property. 
 At any rate, the courtroom held all it could hold, 
 and out beyond it the streets were packed with 
 people. 
 
 In Robert Ferendale's opening speech there 
 were finish of language, grace of gesture, and 
 wealth of discouraging testimony. One does not 
 remember the points after so many years; but a 
 distinct impression remains that the distinguished 
 councillor had the rope around the necks of the 
 Sheehy boys and it needed only the hangman 
 to finish them. He was sarcastic, he thundered 
 invective against a lawless people till one wondered 
 if he would not hang them all; he appealed to 
 the jury to stand for law and righteousness as 
 against cold-blooded murder in the broad highway. 
 He wept some as he spoke of the blameless man 
 away from home, rendering a legitimate service 
 in the face of boycott and intimidation. When 
 he ended at last, many a man and many a woman 
 said, "God have mercy on thim poor boys! Sure 
 they're as good as dead an' gone!" 
 
 There was a whispering among the solicitors 
 and the white-wigged councillors, and many 
 nodded, and many more shook their heads. 
 Indeed, among the high and the low, it looked 
 hard for the three Sheehy boys sitting silent and 
 solemn on the prisoners' dock. And a man might 
 cry a bit, and not be ashamed of it either, to see 
 the crushed and broken parents of the three 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 stalwart lads, and their sweet-faced sister close 
 beside them. But often in the darkest hour the 
 sun leaps out and scatters the clouds. 
 
 Maurice Ahern, O. C, rose with fine self- 
 possession, and there was a very perceptible buzz 
 of excitement in the courtroom. 
 
 "My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury." 
 
 He seemed like a fine rider astride a horse 
 that at a word would leap into space and annihilate 
 miles by the minute. But he did not urge his steed 
 yet. Rather he walked his charger. Language, 
 with ease and grace, bowing and paying compli- 
 ments as he went. 
 
 "My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury: The 
 distinguished counsel who has assumed the 
 responsibility of the Crown at this trial has more 
 than measured up to his previous reputation as 
 a master in the craft of matching words. He is 
 brilliant and resourceful, and has captivated the 
 fancy of the jury and of the crowded courtroom; 
 and, I am free to confess, he has captivated me 
 also. If matchless language and exquisite finish 
 of voice were to decide between him and me, 
 between the three prisoners at the bar and the 
 dead Smithfield, between guilt and innocence, 
 the case might well rest here. But, Gentlemen of 
 the Jury, there are issues that even eloquence 
 can not tide over; minds that beauty of language 
 can not sing to slumber; clamoring rights that 
 crushing invective and picturesque irony can not 
 hush into silence. Above all, there is a just God" 
 (here the young councillor lifted his right hand 
 
 [ loo ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 high above him), "whose truth is eternal and 
 must prevail, who holds rich and poor alike in 
 the hollow of His hand, and who will bring to 
 light the hidden things of darkness." 
 
 Then his charger cantered, and later galloped, 
 and finally flew. How like a prophet was this man 
 tearing to tatters circumstance after circumstance 
 till there was not a shred of it left! How puny — 
 to mix the figure — was the polish of Ferendale, Jr. 
 before the giant blows of this towering man! 
 How every bit of adverse testimony fell into dust 
 with the strokes of his sledge! How the jurymen 
 listened, with extended necks and parted lips, as 
 he sent home every telling circumstance, every 
 crushing weight that battered down the feeble 
 breastworks of his opponent! There were demon- 
 strations and the court rapped for order. 
 
 Suddenly he sw^erved from his thought: 
 
 "And who is this Smithfield? 'A blameless 
 man,' the worthy council says, 'away from home, 
 rendering a legitimate service in the face of 
 boycott and intimidation.' A blameless man? 
 Does a blameless man beat an innocent young 
 woman into insensibility to steal away her virtue? 
 Does a blameless man wait for an innocent girl 
 on the highroad and beat her down in the darkness 
 of night? Is this the worthy council's concept of 
 blamelessness, of chivalry, of modern knight- 
 errantry?" 
 
 He went on and on and on. At one moment 
 men's eyes blazed fire, at another tears were 
 streaming down their rough, weather-beaten faces. 
 
 [ lOI ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 He made witnesses contradict themselves, and 
 pointed out discrepancy^ after discrepancy in the 
 testimony. Half of them were perjurers before 
 he had finished the cross-examination, and the 
 other half did not wish to stand sponsor for what 
 they had at first testified. Young Ferendale 
 objected here and there as a matter of duty, but 
 this mad rider could neither be reined nor thrown. 
 On he went to the bitter end, and closed with a 
 peroration that put the courtroom into a frenzy 
 of enthusiasm. 
 
 The judge's charge was brief and, to all intents, 
 a verdict. The jury filed out, and returned in 
 just two minutes with the words, "Not guilty." 
 The wild joy that followed one passes over as a 
 matter of course. There are scenes and moments 
 and feelings that always lose in the telling. 
 
 Coming out from the court, a warm hand clasped 
 the hand of the now imperishable Maurice Ahern. 
 It was that of John Crimmins. 
 
 "Maurice, Maurice, I'm proud of you! It was 
 a victory for ten lives!" 
 
 Maurice returned the pressure of his old friend 
 and teacher. 
 
 "My dear old teacher, my dear old friend, you 
 share in the triumph! It is yours as well as mine. 
 And isn't it worth waiting for all the years?" 
 
 [ I02 ] 
 
THE BELLMAN OF ARDEE. 
 
 HE might have been a Queen's Councillor if 
 he had had schooHng; he might have been 
 a Member of ParHament if he had had schooling 
 and influence; he might have been a parish 
 priest if he had had schooling and a vocation. 
 But he had neither schooling, influence nor voca- 
 tion; so he was not a O. C. nor an M. P. nor a 
 P. P., but merely a town bellman. 
 
 One must not infer from this that Jacky McCann 
 had wasted his substance, missed his calling and 
 lived in vain. No doubt it was intended he should 
 be a bellman from the beginning, and not serve 
 her Majesty, the people, or the Church. At 
 any rate, Jacky himself had no heartaches on 
 that score. He had no regrets over lost hopes, 
 no looking back to a cross in the road where he 
 might have taken a different direction and reached 
 a fairer destiny. He was as happy as a man could 
 be here below, and what more should one want? 
 
 Jacky' s calling probably needs explanation. He 
 was not a maker of bells, nor a clerk of the parish 
 who rang the people to Mass on Sundays and 
 days of devotion. Rather his field of work em- 
 braced what is done to-day through the advertising 
 columns of a newspaper, through billboards, and 
 through the manifold other means of reaching 
 
 8 [ 103 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 the public. The bellman was present at every fair 
 within a radius of twelve or fifteen miles, and 
 was the vehicle that carried information to the 
 people assembled from near and far. You had 
 fifty acres of upland hay at auction and you 
 wanted buyers. Straightway you went to Jacky 
 McCann, and secured his services at a fixed rate 
 for an hour or a half hour, as the case might be. 
 Jacky got the facts correctly stated, took his 
 handbell and made his way to the street. Once 
 there, he swung his bell back and forth with fine 
 rhythm, and secured a measure of attention. 
 Then he began in an rotund voice that would 
 do credit to Daniel O'Connell himself: 
 
 "At auction. — Fifty acres of prime upland hay 
 in the Knockfernah meadows, three miles west of 
 Adare. The auction will take place on the morning 
 of Wednesday, July the 27th, beginning at ten 
 o'clock. Quick sale and ready money! Remember 
 the date! John Coughlin, auctioneer." 
 
 Back and forth through the town he went, 
 varying the phrasing of his announcement to 
 catch the fancy of his listeners. He rang his 
 bell betimes to make a noise, to secure attention, 
 to get his breath, and to break the monotony. 
 When he had served his time of this announcement, 
 there were usually two or three more waiting 
 for him; in which event he announced them, as 
 he said, "like three staves of a song, one after 
 the other." For instance, the first would be: 
 
 "Strayed or stolen. — A red milch cow with a 
 white face, from O' Donovan's farm, near Croom. 
 
 [ 104] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Any one giving information that will lead to the 
 finding of the animal will be liberally rewarded 
 by Michael O' Donovan, owner of the same." 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong! 
 
 The second proclamation would roll forth as 
 follows : 
 
 "The great horse races of Newcastle will begin 
 on July the 9th, to continue for two days. Special 
 trains will run from Limerick and Tralee bearing 
 the wealth and beauty of all Munster. Splendid 
 prizes for the winning horses. The Races! The 
 Races! The Races at Newcastle!" Ding-dong, 
 ding-dong ! 
 
 Finally, the third might be a political hint: 
 
 "The election of Poor Law Guardians will be 
 held next Monday. Do not forget the name of 
 William Clancy in choosing an honest man." 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong! 
 
 It would be an overstatement to say that 
 Jacky's voice and his bell and his sum of infor- 
 mation held everybody at the fair of Ardee 
 spellbound. Cattle-buyers argued and offered to 
 "split the difference"; sellers argued and refused 
 to do so, just as if Jacky's voice and bell were 
 away down in Co. Belfast. So, too, the go-between 
 who tried to close the deal with buyer and seller. 
 The buyer, a man from Cork or Limerick let 
 us say, would leave the seller, a shrewd, cattle 
 farmer from the rich grazing lands of the Golden 
 Vale. Yes, the buyer would leave him for good 
 and all, to repent for his folly of heart in not 
 jumping at his offer. But the farmer would let him 
 
 [ 105 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 go, knowing he would be glad to return if called. 
 Then the go-between, the split-the~difference man, 
 who might be a chance onlooker, but more often a 
 friend of the buyer or of the seller — you could 
 never tell which, — would run after the buyer 
 and call him back. The buyer would return 
 reluctantly, the go-between forcing him, as it 
 were. Negotiations might be reopened in some 
 such way as this: 
 
 "Yerra what ails ye? An' sure there isn't so 
 much between ye that ye can't fix it up." 
 
 "Faith, then, there is," the seller would say 
 with dogged insistence. 
 
 Again the cattle-buyer would turn as if to 
 leave, dazed at such conduct. The go-between 
 would hold him, would face the buyer and would 
 put to him this solemn question: 
 
 "Now, Jim, we're all min here, so answer like 
 a man. What's the lowest you'll take for the four 
 cows?" 
 
 "Forty-four pounds, an' not a ha' penny less." 
 
 Then he would turn to the buyer and ask 
 with like solemnity: 
 
 "What's the highest money you can offer for 
 the four cows?" 
 
 The buyer would protest by the tombs of all 
 the Irish Kings that he didn't want the cows 
 very much, anyway; but, in order not to make 
 futile the efforts of an honest man, he would 
 be willing to make a sacrifice and pay forty 
 pounds. 
 
 "There's onty a matther of four pounds between 
 
 [ io6] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 ve," the go-between would declare hopefully. 
 
 Then he would catch the palm of the right 
 hand of the buyer and the palm of the right 
 ^hand of the seller, would strike their palms with 
 his palm, and exclaim as if inspired: 
 
 "Split the difference!" 
 
 Not at all! Couldn't think of it! Sure they'd 
 both be out money. The cows weren't worth 
 it, or were worth twice the amount. To shorten 
 a long tale, buyer and seller, after much argument 
 and rebuttal, affirmation and denial, agreed on 
 forty-two pounds for the four cows, with a 
 shilling apiece for luck money. Outwardly, each 
 appeared to be giving his home and holding in 
 fee simple to the other, though one may reason- 
 ably doubt if really they felt that way. 
 
 In the midst of a hundred scenes like this, where 
 buyer and seller watched, waited, argued, pro- 
 tested, agreed or disagreed, Jacky passed all 
 day long. He dodged great bunches of cattle 
 that were driven down to the little railway 
 station, where a long row of "wagons" stood 
 waiting on a side track to receive them. There 
 was a vast deal of shouting and cracking of whips 
 and bellowing of cows, and generally an appear- 
 ance of confusion, out of which would issue 
 order in time. The thimbleman was at the fair, 
 too, passing a tiny ball of lead from one thimble 
 to another. You paid a penny to guess under 
 which thimble he hid the ball, and got three 
 pennies back if you guessed right. Many a lad 
 who thought he was "smart" tried to triple his 
 
 [ 107] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 money, and got the laugh from bystanders for 
 his pains. 
 
 There was the ballad singer lilting a ballad of 
 twenty-one stanzas or so, telling the fortunes 
 and death of "Shane O'Grady, the boy of Ballyo." 
 Many a lad bought the song for a penny, then 
 listened to the performer for a while, trying to 
 catch the "chune"; for there was no such luxury 
 as musical score. If he had a "good ear," he 
 caught it; if he had not, he caught it partially 
 or not at all, and sang it afterward to a "chune" 
 of his own. It made very little difference either 
 way. There was a stand of upright whips with 
 brass-covered ends. You paid a penny for six 
 rings and took six chances to lodge a ring on any 
 one of the whips. Sometimes Fortune favored 
 you; but the owner of the stand did not leave 
 Fortune a very wide field for her favors. As 
 the day waned, the sold cattle housed away in 
 the "wagons" were taken to Limerick in a special 
 "goods" train, to be shipped later to more distant 
 parts. The unsold were driven back to the sweet 
 grass of their native fields. The bellman still 
 rang on, and gave forth his items of news, never 
 wear}^ of himself, never weary of the weariness 
 of others. 
 
 "But how about the tipsy, turbulent Celt in 
 the waning day?" you alliteratively ask. "Is he 
 not a product of the fair? And the blackthorn 
 sticks? And the fights? And the broken heads? 
 Surel}^ the picture is not complete." Even if 
 these items, singly or collectively, were a "product" 
 
 [ io8 i 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 of the fair, they would not add anything to the 
 picture, if you chose to call it so. But they were 
 not a product nor an offshoot nor an after- 
 math, nor, in philosophical phrase, a necessary 
 consequence. 
 
 The fact is, they never were, except in misty 
 tradition, and as an additional foulness in the 
 already foul pages of a few self-styled Celtic 
 "humorists." You probably have heard of them. 
 If you have not, rejoice; for you have not missed 
 anything that will add a cubit to your aesthetic 
 stature. One hears and reads of riots at "our 
 national pastime"; of umpires assaulted; of mob 
 violence at conventions; of beating and stabbing 
 and blood and violence and murder in our cities 
 and small towns. Yet, somehow, they do not 
 live in misty tradition. But at the Irish fair and 
 market and public meeting, men must drink 
 and fight and bleed. We have always imagined 
 so, and to imagine otherwise would be to set 
 aside the old ideas to which we have grown 
 accustomed, and to put on the new which may 
 not suit so well. Such conditions may have 
 existed fifty years ago. One does not live from 
 the beginning. But those who lived then say 
 they did not; and they heard from those gone 
 before that such things did not exist in their 
 generation. And so on to the days of the Mile- 
 sians, if you like. No doubt there was a quenching 
 of thirst and loud talk and a rov/ and a fight 
 now and then. But why call in question the 
 peace and sobriety and general right living of 
 
 [ 109 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 the great many, because you have heard of or 
 seen the weakness or waywardness or foolishness 
 of a very few? 
 
 The fair of Ardee was all over about four 
 o'clock. There were few strangers in the town at 
 five; by six, scarcely any. It was a quiet town, 
 and the police might be up in the barracks, for 
 all they had to do. A few of them marched up 
 and down the street, to work up an appetite 
 in order to eat with more relish the good dinner 
 which the taxes of poor people paid for. Other- 
 wise they might have been in bed, so far as any- 
 body cared. 
 
 Jacky McCann's stock of trade vanished with 
 the vanishing crowd. Usually he lingered till 
 five o'clock; though he had no proclamations to 
 proclaim, for there were scarcely any listeners 
 to listen. Then, catching hold of his bell by the 
 tongue, he disappeared up a short side street to 
 his snug home, where his wife — a quiet little 
 woman — had a hot supper waiting for him. 
 
 "I'm back, little woman; an' 'tis tired I am 
 thrampin' it up an' down the whole day." 
 
 "Wisha, Jacky, sure I often tell you we have 
 enough laid by now to keep us for the rest of our 
 days. So why don't you rest and give over?" 
 
 Jack always took up these last words of his kind 
 
 helpmate and sang them with such heart as to 
 
 make you say, "Rise it!" — 
 
 Give over. Wild Rover, put your money in store; 
 And you never will be a Wild Rover no more. 
 
 Whether it was because two negatives make 
 
 [ no] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 an affirmative, or because he had to follow his 
 natural bent, at any rate, Jacky never consented 
 to "give over." It was only when age and 
 rheumatism caught him that he remained at 
 home. But for a long time, like an imprisoned 
 bird, he hoped for a day when he would be free 
 again. And when finally the truth was forced 
 upon him that the fairs must go on month after 
 month in regular rotation and that he must remain 
 away, he took the handbell from where it hung 
 and stowed it away in the loft for safekeeping. 
 As he did so he said to his helpmate: 
 
 "Little woman, if I go first, ring my bell three 
 times in honor of the Blessed Trinity, an' three 
 times in honor of the Holy Family, an' three 
 times in honor of the virtues of Faith, Hope an' 
 Charity. After that throw it into the deepest 
 bed of the River Deel; for I'll have no use for 
 it up in heaven. An' if you go first, I'll do the 
 same thing for you. Then I hope I'll soon follow." 
 
 [ill] 
 
AROUND THE FIRE. 
 
 YE may say what ye like, but ghosts walk 
 in the night just as people on this side of 
 the grave walk in the day." 
 
 Tade Clancy put a fresh coal in his pipe and 
 spoke with solemnity. No one of the four men 
 who sat around the fire that night felt inclined 
 to contradict him, even though his remark would 
 seem to have been occasioned by a previous 
 dispute. Neither, you may be sure, did any of 
 his four children, whose seniority of birth gave 
 them the traditional privilege of staying up a 
 little later than the rest of the flock, nor his hard- 
 working wife, who at that moment was remaking 
 a dress for one of the little ones and had not her 
 mind on spirit-land. Indeed, she was too busy 
 with the cares of the present. 
 
 Tade Clancy was steeped in ghost lore. Spirits 
 lived closer to him than did his struggling fellows 
 on this earth. His imagination ran riot with the 
 vision of them. In ever}^ silence of the dark he 
 heard their voices, long-drawn and plaintive; he 
 saw their forms moving about in the neighborhood 
 of old castles, fallen abbeys, graveyards, and 
 sometimes along a dark, deserted piece of road. 
 He spoke of them with finality and reverence. 
 
 [ 112 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 When you heard him, you would feel inclined to 
 say: "This man could not speak with such show 
 of conviction if what he says were founded on a 
 pretence." 
 
 Every little group he joined the ghosts joined 
 with him; every house he entered the ghosts 
 followed. Never a man nor a woman died, whose 
 going was at all sudden or peculiar, but came back 
 to him with a word or a message. He heard the 
 banshee in every sough of the wind, — now blending 
 with it, now distinct and high, now faint and far, 
 now almost lost. He was so much in the company 
 of ghosts that one might wonder if he were not a 
 ghost himself. Once when a neighbor said so, 
 Tade made answer: 
 
 "The ghosts are on the hill and on the plain. 
 An' sometimes the hill man sees thim, an' some- 
 times the man on the plain. But all don't see 
 thim; for they don't show themselves to all. 
 An' I'm no ghost that I'll tell you, but only one 
 o' thim they come to." 
 
 Around the fire that night the scene was singu- 
 larly suited to Tade's train of thought. The turf 
 sods were banked high in the hearth; the sparks 
 leaped up and vanished with the smoke through 
 the chimney ; the group was silent and meditative ; 
 the click of the old clock in one of the back 
 rooms measured the pauses between Tade's 
 solemn words; fitful gusts of wind shook the 
 bare tree limbs, and made the windows rattle 
 dismally; the occasional patter of the rain seemed 
 like the dancing of fairy feet. 
 
 [113] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "Wisha, God rest Mick Hannon's sowl!" Tade 
 began reflectively; "an' 'tis a night like this 
 reminds me of him. I was ridin' down the Creela 
 road on the horse I bought at the autumn fair 
 of Limerick, an' a fine horse he was. 'Twas about 
 tin o'clock of a Saturday night, an' the wind 
 blowin', the trees sighin', an' the heavens weepin', 
 just like ye hear abroad now. Ne'er a sign of a 
 star was in the sky, nor a thrace o' the moon at all, 
 at all. I was cantherin' along pretty lively; for the 
 hour was gettin' on, an' the darkness isn't for min 
 to be out in. Just whin I got to Hasset's lodge, 
 at this side o' Downey's cross, a man walked out 
 through the closed gates, with ne'er a noise nor a 
 sign of any kind to show that he opened thim. 
 He sthood in the road in front o' me in a flood 
 o' light, with his two hands stretched out." 
 
 Here Tade and his hearers lifted their hats, 
 the same as if they were passing by the priest 
 or the chapel gate, while the children blessed 
 themselves in holy fear. Tade remained silent for 
 a little. There was a hush in the wind at that 
 moment, and the hound out in the car shed howled 
 plaintively. Mrs. Clancy at her sewing ejaculated 
 piously: 
 
 "God guard and keep thim without house or 
 home on a night like this!" 
 
 "I coaxed the horse," continued Tade, "to 
 move on past the vision there in the middle o* 
 the road. He picked his way gintly like a lady 
 in a muddy boreen, and thrimbled like a spray 
 of ivy. As for meself, I thought every minute 
 
 [114] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 the sowl would go out o' me body from fright. 
 Just as we got on the side o' the road opposite 
 the man, a voice spoke that seemed not his voice 
 but a voice from far away: 
 
 '"Tade Clancy, stop there!' If the glory of 
 heaven was waitin' in front o' me I couldn't open 
 me mouth nor lift me hand to make the horse 
 gallop away. An' faix the animal himself sthood 
 as sthill as a statue. 
 
 '"Tade Clancy,' says the voice again, 'do you 
 know me?' 
 
 "Then I found me tongue an' looked at the 
 man. I says: 'By gor I do. You're Mick Hannon, 
 the son of Paddy Hannon, of BallinagooL' 
 
 "'I was,' says he, ' but I am no more. To-morrow 
 mornin' early they'll find me dead body out from 
 Athery, at the bind o' the white road. A side- 
 car sthruck me at the dark turn, an' the driver 
 was the servant o' Hasset, the landlord, an' 
 Hasset himself was sittin' in the opposite side. 
 An' whin they saw what they did, they galloped 
 away and left me dead on the road. Now, Tade 
 Clancy,' says he, 'man}^ a man an' many a woman 
 about these parts will say I was dhrunk and died 
 in me sin. For 'tis their way an' the way o' the 
 the world. But 'tis bad for the livin' to spake 
 hard o' the dead. An' I wasn't dhrunk, an' me 
 sowl wasn't red with sin; for I was back at the 
 chapel this day an' the hand o' the priest ab- 
 solved me o' me sins an' they are washed away. 
 An', Tade Clancy, you silence the tongues of 
 thim that spake against me, an' give the money 
 
 [115] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 they find in me pocket for Masses, for I need 
 thim where I am. An' know that it will not 
 come well by thim that left me deserted there 
 in the dark o' the night.* 
 
 "All at once he vanished, an' there I was alone 
 with me horse on the side o' the highway. Whin 
 I came home here the childer were all in bed, 
 but herself was up sittin' by the fire waitin' for 
 the first bate o' the horse's hoof on the stony 
 road. An' whin I came in she says: 
 
 "'Yerra, Tade, what ails you? An' is it hurt 
 you are?' 
 
 "'Woman,' says I, 'I'm not hurt, thanks be 
 to the great God! But don't ask me any more 
 questions now, only let us kneel down together 
 an' say the Rosary for poor young Mick Hannon's 
 sowl.' 
 
 "'For Mick Hannon's sowl! Sure you must 
 be taken lave of your sinses. Didn't I see Mick 
 Hannon goin' to Athery a little afther dinner?' 
 
 "'He's dead an' gone, an' that's all. So let us 
 kneel down an' say the Rosary.' 
 
 "So we said the Rosary and the prayers for 
 the dead, while the wind kep' on wailin' an' 
 moanin' outside. 'Twas a long time before I 
 slep', an' whin I did all night long I saw the 
 outstretched arms an' the light an' the pale 
 face in the middle o' the road. 
 
 "Early next mornin' the news flew like wildfire 
 that Mick Hannon was found dead at the turn 
 o' the white road outside o' Athery. An' there 
 was terror an' wondher an' talk. But I sthilled 
 
 [ it6] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 the tongues o' thim that gossiped about the 
 poor boy, an' had his brother Jim give the money 
 found in his pocket to the priest to say Masses 
 for his poor sowl. An' may the great God have 
 mercy on him, an' may Our Lady put her blue 
 mantle about him an' carry him home to heaven! 
 I needn't tell ye how ould Hasset was drowned 
 at a watherin' place three summers ago, an' 
 how a short time afterward his servant boy was 
 killed; for ye already know." 
 
 "But, Tade, why didn't you tell the peelers 
 how Mick came by his death, an' make ould 
 Hasset an' his servant pay for their deed?" asked 
 one of the men. 
 
 "Because the ghost o' Mick Hannon didn't 
 tell me, that's why. 'Tis for us to do what the 
 spirits tell us; no more an' no less." 
 
 "Well," declared Maurice O'Connor, looking 
 thoughtfully into the fire, "it may be all well 
 an' good to talk about ghosts, but I hope the Lord 
 will preserve me from ever seein' one." 
 
 "You shouldn't pray for that," replied Clancy; 
 "for the ghosts mane no harm to any one, only to 
 warn him or ask his help. Sure you remimber 
 ould Ned Condon that died up at Kilcolman 
 fifteen years ago." 
 
 Yes, they all remembered; and Tade had 
 another story, which, however, did not at all 
 illustrate what he said. 
 
 "We all know ould Ned Condon was a miser, 
 God forgive me for sayin' anything bad o' the 
 dead! But it's no sacret that he was close-fisted 
 
 [1171 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 and stingy, though he had plenty and more o' 
 the world's goods. He never would let his wife 
 give an apronful o' praties nor a dish o* flour 
 to a beggar. He wouldn't let his five childer go 
 to school, but kep' thim at home to slave an' 
 dhrag for him out in the garden. An' while the 
 childer of other people wint off with their strap 
 o' books in the mornin', ould Ned Condon kep' 
 his childer out workin' from early to late. An' 
 the priest tould him to give his family an edu- 
 cation; but he wouldn't be said or led by the 
 priest, but spint his days heapin' up money 
 and his nights countin' it, an' made slaves of his 
 childer. Thin he died of a strange disase, an* 
 the best docthor in Limerick couldn't tell what 
 it was. An' the divil a much o' funeral he had, 
 an' ne'er a wake at all. An' whin he was gone, 
 the childer who had grown up not able to write 
 their names hated the mention o' their ould father. 
 The little woman died heartbroken at the wicked 
 ways o' thim; but she had the priest an' was 
 buried dacent. When she wint, the boys an' the 
 girls were worse than ever, havin' no human 
 voice now to gainsay or advise thim. The boys 
 dhrank an' the girls were rough in their manners. 
 The money ould Ned Condon coimted night 
 afther night wint like wather through a sieve; 
 an' 'tis a known fact, as twenty min o' the parish 
 could tell ye, night afther night, whin the boys 
 an' girls were away, the ghost o' the miser would 
 sit on the stile at the back of his house, moanin' 
 and lamentin' the loss of his money. An' many a 
 
 [iiS] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 time I heard him meself, but I never saw him, for 
 he was not allowed to appear. The boys an' 
 the girls are all gone now, an' the farm belongs 
 to other people. But the house is haunted; for 
 hardly a night goes by they don't hear strange 
 noises an' the moanin' and wailin' o' Ned Condon 
 the miser." 
 
 "To bed with ye, childer, an' don't mind yer 
 father fillin' yer heads Avith his wild tales!" Mrs. 
 Clancy admonished the four privileged ones, with 
 a yawn; for she was tired herself, poor woman! 
 When the children had gone up to bed, Tade 
 took issue with his helpmate. 
 
 "Woman, you talk in a sthrange way o' thim 
 that be dead; an' 'tisn't right to make little o' 
 holy subjects." 
 
 "Faix, Tade, you're not the Pope o' Rome yet, 
 that we have to believe every word you say. An' 
 you're not the bishop o' Limerick either." 
 
 Then the man of ghosts turned and addressed 
 his wife, while she still held her hand on the 
 knob of the door through which she would presently 
 enter her room. 
 
 "Woman, I'm not Pope nor bishop, but answer 
 me this. Didn't they find Mick Hannon dead 
 in the mornin' with money in his pocket, as I 
 tould you?" 
 
 "They did." 
 
 "An', later on, didn't ould Hasset an' his 
 servant die as I mentioned?" 
 
 "They did." 
 
 "An' didn't I tell you I saw the ghost o' Mick 
 Hannon?" [119] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "You did." 
 
 "An' didn't I see the ghost?" 
 
 "That I don't know, Tade; for I wasn't there 
 to see. An' all that you tould me could happen, 
 an' still you might not see the ghost o' Mick 
 Hannon. I never saw ghosts meself an' I never 
 want to see any. Our Lord and His Blessed 
 Mother an' the holy angels an' saints are enough 
 for me." With that Mrs. Clancy quietly closed 
 the door behind her, said her prayers, and sought 
 a quiet rest from her hard, patient toil of the 
 long day. 
 
 The mystic circle was broken. Tade Clancy's 
 mood was gone. The veil of mystery that sur- 
 rounded him was thrown apart for the present. 
 Whether he saw and spoke with spirits one does 
 not know for a certainty. But there were times 
 when circumstances and coincidences were strange 
 and difficult to explain. Withal, it was well for 
 him to have so sensible and so practical a wife 
 to keep his feet on the ground when his dreams 
 lifted him too high among the hills. It was well 
 for his well-kept and well-fed children, too, that 
 God blessed them with a mother whose ways 
 were not too remote from the workaday ways 
 of earth. For while it might be well to have a 
 father who half lived in spirit-land and shared of 
 his visions with them, still they needed the 
 practical head and the practised hand of a mother 
 to teach them the good and the useful lessons 
 of life. 
 
 The circle was broken; the mood was gone. 
 
 [ 120] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 The men lit their pipes anew and passed out to 
 their homes. Tade bade them good-night and 
 safe journey and bolted the kitchen door. He 
 raked the ashes on the fire, which now burned 
 low. He varied his prayers from audible excla- 
 mations to gentle whispers; then blessed himself 
 piously, kissed the crucifix on his beads and put 
 out the light. The wind still moaned among the 
 tree limbs and the rain swished with every gust. 
 Every human voice was stilled within the house, 
 and the beasts without were safe in their bedding 
 of straw. The moon and stars were still im- 
 prisoned behind the black clouds, but the angels 
 of God were keeping the watches of the night. 
 
 [I2I] 
 
MOLL MAGEE. 
 
 OLL MAGEE was a polite beggar with a 
 distinct personality. This is important when 
 you come to know that nearly all Irish beggar 
 women are of a mould. They travel from house 
 to house in humble fashion, thankful if they 
 get little, and decidedly thankful if they get 
 much, — ''Then pray a string of prayers," Jim 
 Donnelly used to say, "as long as from Belfast 
 Lough to Bantry Bay, an' you never can tell 
 whether they mane thim or not." Probably 
 Jim was wrong in this instance; for there is very 
 little doubt that every beggar woman who lifted 
 her voice, lifted her heart also. 
 
 Moll Magee had a personality; and because 
 of her personality, and not because of her prayers, 
 she was known from Abbeyfeale to Cappamore. 
 She dropped in to see Johnny Delaney, a bachelor 
 of forty-five, who had a snug house and a snug 
 farm. His sister, a woman of thirty-seven, "kept 
 the house" and Johnny kept the farm. 
 
 "Yerra, Johnny," Moll said, "aren't you 
 married yet ? ' ' 
 
 Johnny abbreviated the first person of the 
 verb and answered: 
 
 [ 122 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "I aran't." 
 
 "An' why?" 
 
 "They don't come to me." 
 
 "Then why don't you go after thim?" 
 
 "Herself is here." 
 
 "Manin' your sister Kate?" 
 
 "Ay!" 
 
 "An' why doesn't Kate get married?" 
 
 "Yerra, why? Tell me, an' I'll tell you." 
 
 "Kate!" Moll called. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Come out here." 
 
 Kate came out from one of the rooms where 
 she had been busy sewing. It may seem strange 
 that Moll Magee, a beggar woman, could so 
 order people about in their own houses. But 
 Moll Magee had a personality. 
 
 "Kate, aren't you married yet?" 
 
 Kate abbreviated the second person of the verb 
 and answered: 
 
 "I aren't." 
 
 "An' why?" 
 
 "Because nobody asks." 
 
 "They would if you wanted." 
 
 "Yes,^ but he's here." 
 
 "Manin' Johnny?" 
 
 "Ay!" 
 
 Johnny had already gone out to the apple 
 orchard. 
 
 "An' why doesn't Johnny get married?" 
 
 " 'Tis a wise man could tell you that." 
 
 "Now, Kate, throve is comin'. An' you'll be 
 
 [ 123] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 waitin* an* waitin' till you're an ould woman 
 like me; an' Johnny will be waitin' till he's as 
 ould as me ould man when he died, — the heavens 
 be his bed this day! Let ye hurry up the both 
 o' ye, an' Father Tracey will be mighty glad of 
 a double weddin'." 
 
 Now, it never entered the head of honest Kate 
 Delaney that Moll was winning her way by the 
 subtlest kind of flattery; for Kate was a simple 
 girl even if she was burdened with a few extra 
 years. People like to be flattered, if one knows 
 how. Kate had a good heart, and never let a 
 beggar pass out over the threshold with an empty 
 sack. For all that, Moll exercised the gentle art, 
 and, by the same token, got more than any four 
 others combined. So when Kate gave her flour 
 and potatoes and some ripe apples and a little 
 package of tea, Moll ejaculated: 
 
 "Wisha, may God Almighty bless an' keep 
 you, child! An' may the Holy Mother look down 
 on you with love from heaven!" 
 
 However m.uch or little Moll received, this vv^as 
 the sum and substance of her prayer. And when 
 one vStops to consider, brief as her prayer was, 
 she asked for much. 
 
 To tell the truth, Moll never looked like a 
 woman who could make prayers. No doubt 
 she had faith, but her faith was down in the 
 deeps and rarely floated on the surface. She must 
 have been sixty years, although she could be 
 ten less. She was a beggar partly by necessity, 
 partly by choice. When she was a young girl 
 
 [ 124 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 she married a soldier in the Enghsh army, — a 
 rare occurrence among Irish girls. Her husband 
 was a good enough man, but a private soldier 
 does not save money. He gets so little, it is 
 hardly worth while. Moll travelled through 
 England, was with him in Africa and India; 
 and if she was not rich, at least she saw the world. 
 Let it be said, too, that her soldier husband 
 never drank or gambled, and was kind to his 
 young Irish wife. He got old and was pensioned. 
 Moll had a longing for the land she had left, 
 and, by some strange freak of fortune, they 
 settled down in the little village of Knockfeen. 
 The single pension was just enough to keep 
 both, and they lived on happily enough till the 
 "ould man" died of what Moll announced as 
 "decline." The lone widow was a wanderer by 
 nature; she had never learned to do any kind 
 of work, so she did what was probably the best 
 under the circumstances — became a sort of polite 
 beggar. 
 
 Moll was tall and rather erect for her years. 
 She had a thin white face that gave evidence of 
 refinement, and grey eyes that could shoot sparks 
 of fire on occasion. Her hands showed no traces 
 of work or weather; her fingers were long and 
 slender. She always wore her plain gold marriage 
 ring. 
 
 Her wandering nature carried her over a vast 
 stretch of country, so that she hardly ever called 
 at the same place more than once a year. Then, 
 too, people grew so fond of her wit and drollery 
 
 [125] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 she found it hard to make many calls during 
 the course of a day. If she was successful in 
 getting, it is sweet to remember that she was 
 also generous in giving. 
 
 Once she met poor Dave Morgan, the Dummy 
 of the Pike Road, coming home from the fair 
 of Ardee. He looked so wan and worn, and his 
 clothes were so tattered after his long day of un- 
 successful broom-selling, that her heart melted. 
 But she had her own breezy way of expressing 
 it. 
 
 "Dave, you look like the scarecrow out in 
 Hartigan's garden. You should get married an' 
 settle down, an' not be wearin' your life away 
 with thim brooms." 
 
 Then when Dave did not answer she added: 
 
 "God forgive me! I forgot the poor man was 
 deaf as well as dumb." 
 
 She walked the remainder of the journey home 
 with Dave, and gave him the flour and potatoes 
 she had collected during the day, keeping just 
 enough for her own "bite" that evening. Dave 
 protested b}^ gesture, but she brushed him aside, 
 saying: 
 
 "Whist, you anashore! Sure I have a tongue 
 that's a mile too long, an' can ask for more. 
 But you have neither tongue nor ear." 
 
 Many another brisk deed of charity could be 
 told of Moll Magee; but they are all recorded 
 in heaven, in that book where the writing is never 
 effaced. 
 
 To Father Tracey, Moll was the source of 
 
 [ 126] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 unfailing delight. Wherever and whenever he 
 met her, he had to stop for a little banter, to 
 which she always replied — with courteous dispatch. 
 
 "Moll, I declare you're looking younger every 
 day." He paid this compliment one Friday 
 morning when he met her during his walk. 
 
 "Faith, then, your reverence, 'tis just like you 
 to remark on good looks." 
 
 "I hear you were up at Johnny Delaney's 
 yesterday." 
 
 "I was, then, though I didn't think your 
 reverence would know it so soon." 
 
 "And, Moll, is there any truth in it?" Father 
 Tracey asked, with an air of mystery. 
 
 " Yerra, what do you mane, Father Tracey?" 
 
 "Faith, you know well enough what I mean, 
 Moll," Father Tracey declared. 
 
 "Indeed then I don't, your reverence. An' if 
 you say what it is I'll tell you." 
 
 "Well, I mean the match." 
 
 "Wisha, glory be to God! An' what match do 
 you have in mind?" 
 
 "Between yourself and Johnny Delaney, of 
 course. Sure all the parish is talking about it." 
 
 "Wisha, God forgive you. Father Tracey, an' 
 to mention marriage between Moll Magee an' 
 that little anashore! Sure I was married to me 
 ould man once, an' that's enough. An' if I'd 
 marry Johnny Delaney, I'd make him sell his 
 farm an' buy ould horses an' a scrawny pony, an' 
 then we'd go off an' be gypsies. Now, your 
 reverence wouldn't like that; for Johnny is a 
 
 [ 127 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 good little man, an' goes to his duties, an* pays 
 at all the collections." 
 
 "Speaking of duties, Moll, have you been to 
 the 'railing' lately?" 
 
 "I was, then, just a month ago Sunday, your 
 reverence." 
 
 "That's a long time ago, Moll." 
 
 *'Yerra, your reverence wants to make a saint 
 out of me, like Mary Connelly as goes every day 
 since she lost her sight!" 
 
 The very idea of being a saint was terrible to 
 Moll. 
 
 "Saint or no saint, come over Saturday." 
 
 "Rut to-day is PMday, an' it always takes a 
 week to prepare." 
 
 "Well, start in to-night and be over to-morrow. 
 That's the long and the short of it." 
 
 As she walked home to her little cabin, Moll 
 declared to herself: 
 
 "Wisha, Father Tracey is getting very quare 
 of late. After a while every dacent woman in 
 the parish will be a saint." 
 
 Saturday, however, found Moll's tall form 
 waiting her turn to undergo the ordeal of saintship. 
 
 The following M^onday she had to leave for a 
 long tour back in the mountains. She called in 
 to Micky, the Fenian, on her way through Athery, 
 for a pair of boots she had left him to repair. 
 He had promised to have them ready by eight 
 o'clock that morning; but, as usual, they were 
 not ready, nor was Micky in any special hurry 
 with them either. Micky and Father Tracey 
 
 [128] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 were the only two on earth to whom Moll spoke 
 with guarded tongue. This morning her ire was 
 up, however, and even with Micky she was not 
 so guarded. 
 
 "Micky, an' if you'd stop your ould gab and 
 your yarnin' with thim boys as comes in here, 
 maybe you'd attend to the work of dacent people." 
 
 "Faith, Moll, you were at confession Saturday 
 evenin', I hear, but you don't seem to be much 
 the betther for it Monday mornin'." 
 
 Micky's remark was intended as a corrective, 
 but it failed entirely. 
 
 "Micky, an' if I wasn't to confession Saturday, 
 I'd give you another hump on your back, an' 
 then you'd have two." 
 
 "If you keep on talkin' like that, Moll, you'll 
 have a tongue on you as long as the handle o' 
 Mike Hartigan's spade." 
 
 Moll had no time for debate, so she called for 
 the previous question. 
 
 "Micky, why haven't you done me boots?" 
 
 "There's lots o' raison, Moll," answered Micky, 
 hoping in the meantime to find one. 
 
 "Yerra, Micky, what raisons can you have? 
 I have your word, haven't I?" 
 
 "You have," Micky agreed, thankful that he 
 had yet another pause to search for a "raison." 
 
 "An' isn't your word your word?" 
 
 "Of course, woman, — of course!" 
 
 "Then why haven't you done me boots?" 
 
 "Tim.e, for one thing," Micky declared, with 
 a business air. 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "Time!" echoed Moll^ with scorn. ''What is 
 time to you, I'd like to know? Don't you murther 
 it by the minute an' by the hour an' by the day 
 telHn' your ould lies to thim boys?" 
 
 Micky lost control, and presently the scene of 
 battle changed from Micky's cobbling to Micky's 
 veracity. 
 
 "They aren't lies, an' you know it." 
 
 "They are lies, an' you know betther." 
 
 "Moll Magee, I'm not goin' to let you assail 
 me in me private character." 
 
 Micky's splendor of diction here shone out 
 with conspicuous distinction. 
 
 "Who's assailin' what you call your 'private 
 character' ? ' ' 
 
 "You are, who should know betther," answered 
 Micky, his voice carrying the note of wounded 
 feeling. 
 
 "Micky the Fenian," declared Moll, solemnly, 
 "you know very well I didn't assail your char- 
 acter, as you say. I'm a dacent woman as never 
 assails anybody. An' if you'll give me me boots, 
 I'll go out and lave you." 
 
 "Woman, I forgive you!" Micky declared, with 
 rare magnanimity. "Sit down there and I'll 
 have thim done in two shakes of a lamb's tail." 
 
 Moll sat and Micky worked. Both kept silence 
 by mutual compact. One must be truthful and 
 say that a lamb might have shaken its tail many 
 times before Micky finally said with triumph: 
 
 "Here you are, Moll, an* 'tis a long time since 
 I worked so fasht!" 
 
 [ 130] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "An' long till you will again. What's the price?" 
 
 "Sixpence, but I won't take it." 
 
 "You won't take it? An' why won't you take 
 it?" 
 
 "You're of me profession, Moll, an' me service 
 to you is what the docthers call professional 
 coortesy." (Micky waved his hand with a grand 
 flourish.) "You see, your ould man was a sojer — 
 in the English army, but sthill a sojer; an' I was 
 a Fenian, a sojer of Ireland. An', though he was 
 the inimy of me land, I'll rinder him an' his 
 mournin' widow the professional coortesy." 
 
 "Wisha, the divil run off with your brag an' 
 your professional coortesy, Micky! But if you 
 don't want the sixpence, I'll give it to thim that 
 do." 
 
 As a matter of fact, when she went by the 
 chapel on her way to the west, she put the coin 
 in the poor box; then, strange as it may seem, 
 she knelt down and said an "Our Father" and a 
 "Hail Mary" for Micky. 
 
 All told, Moll Magee was an odd mixture. 
 Yet the compound was not unpleasant. If she 
 had a racy tongue, she had a generous heart. 
 If she could be sharp on occasion, she could also 
 be exceedingly tender. When she flattered, it 
 was more for the pleasure it gave her than for 
 anything else. She could see the odd or the 
 foolish, but she never played unduly upon it. In 
 a word, she was a type of the race, of which there 
 are many. And variety is the spice of a people 
 as well as of life. 
 
 [131I 
 
GOD REvST HIM, PADDY OWEN! 
 
 HIS full name was Patrick Owen MacMahon; 
 Paddy Owen he was called. He was named 
 Owen in Confirmation, although in Ireland the 
 Confirmation name in spoken speech is as useless 
 as the letter p in pneumonia. If you called your- 
 self John Joseph or Michael Aloysius or Patrick 
 Thomas, people would think 3^ou were going to 
 start off to the seaside the next summer; and 
 if you had such a combination as Alfred Wellington, 
 they would say you were aiming at an English 
 peerage. You were John, Joseph or Patrick when 
 called upon to answer to your name in any official 
 capacity; you were Johnny or Jack, Joe, Pat or 
 Paddy in conversation with your equals and 
 those above or below you. 
 
 Paddy Owen's mother had aspirations. She 
 declared time and again in the hearing of the 
 high and the low that her husband was a lineal 
 descendant of the late distinguished Marshal 
 MacMahon. There was no one in the north section 
 of the county learned enough in pedigree to dispute 
 her claim, although Micky the Fenian said he 
 could. Mrs. MacMahon's own father's Christian 
 name was Owen. Hence the name of the sainted 
 
 [ 132] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Apostle of Ireland and her father's name and the 
 name of the noted soldier seemed a worthy 
 trinity with which to distinguish her first-born. 
 She was a good woman, even if she did have 
 aspirations. Aspirations are not sinful, but the 
 Irish will overlook a big sin seven times a day 
 and will not overlook a social aspiration once 
 in seven years. 
 
 Mrs. MacMahon's life aim for her son was to 
 preserve his name intact. 
 
 "Patrick Owen MacMahon," she would remark, 
 "did you lunch this noon?" 
 
 The men resting a little out in the "haggard," 
 before beginning the after-dinner threshing would 
 joke and jibe till one got tired from laughing 
 at them. 
 
 "Patrick Owen MacMahon," Jim Walsh would 
 mimic, "did you ate a head of cabbage for your 
 lunch this noon?" Another, in a falsetto voice, 
 would add: "Patrick Owen MacMahon, will you 
 tell your 'mamma' to come out here and rip the 
 shaves of whate for the machine?" And finally: 
 "Patrick Owen MacMahon, ye can all go to the 
 ould boy with yer consate!" 
 
 There were three distinct stages in the retro- 
 grade movement of Paddy Owen's name. First, 
 there was Patrick Owen MacMahon, which 
 endured some six weeks; second, Paddy Owen 
 Mac, which endured six months; third, Paddy 
 Owen which endured ever after. His mother 
 and a few friends of hers always clung to Patrick 
 Owen MacMahon. It was purely of scientific 
 
 [^33] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 interest, however, like the names which botanists 
 tag on to flowers. 
 
 In the after years Paddy Owen married and 
 had one daughter who was called Catherine 
 MacMahon. But tradition is as tenacious as 
 tar, and Catherine MacMahon was changed to 
 Kitty Owen. Kitty married a man from the 
 "mountains." They lived happily enough, though 
 not blessed with children, Paddy remaining with 
 them till near the completion of his hundredth 
 year, when God called him home. It is here our 
 story opens. 
 
 To tell the truth, when the news that Paddy 
 Owen was dead got abroad, there was no such 
 sorrow as one feels over the loss of a young mother 
 who leaves six or seven little ones after her. 
 When a man reaches close to a hundred years 
 he has lived long. He has had a full measure 
 of time, and should be prepared to pass out to 
 eternity. All credit to Paddy Owen, for he left 
 life without a sigh or a tear. He ''had the 
 priest," and no rite was wanting that helps to 
 mellow and sweeten death. The neighbors near 
 about quit cutting the hay, or whatever other 
 early summxcr work they v/ere at. 
 
 There was a warm sun the day he died. The 
 crows loafed in the air, the cattle loafed in the 
 fields, the stream loafed as it stole between its 
 sedge-grown banks to the lazy river. And, between 
 ourselves, the men round about were glad (since 
 it had to be) that Paddy Owen was dead, so they 
 themselves could loaf for a day. 
 
 [134] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Though the bishops and the priests were even 
 then opposed to all manner of wakes, still, a 
 man doesn't often get close to a hundred years. 
 Yes, it seemed quite proper to evade the law 
 just this once, in some legitimate way, and hold 
 a wake. To make a long story short, they got 
 around the law somehow — one doesn't remember 
 now, for 'twasn't important then, — and Paddy 
 Owen had a wake. To speak more correctly, 
 there were two wakes. That is to say, Paddy 
 died in the morning, and that same night there 
 was held what one might call the eve of the wake 
 proper. Liturgically speaking, therefore, the 
 funeral was a double of the first class, second class 
 funerals having only one wake. The first wake 
 was a rather private mourning, to which only 
 relatives, friends, and near neighbors came. The 
 second assumed a more general character, and 
 may admit of brief description before the scene 
 and the setting pass beyond the regions of memory. 
 
 One wishes there were some sort of Literary 
 Holy Office to order burned some two dozen or 
 so books on Irish life and character. One would 
 dance with blessed glee around the funeral pyre. 
 And one may add that a few books one remembers 
 by Catholic writers would serve the only good 
 turn they can ever serve if they were added to 
 the flames. In some of these books the Irish 
 wake has been travestied into a drunken orgy 
 that would disgrace a pagan, not to speak of a 
 Christian people at all. How one scolds! 
 
 At the principal wake the men sat in the large 
 
 [ 135 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 kitchen on improvised seats; the women occupied 
 one of the inner rooms. The corpse, clothed in a 
 shroud that looked like the habit of the Third 
 Order of St. Francis, was laid out in a room 
 beyond that occupied by the women. Pipes and 
 tobacco were passed around, and the men smoked 
 in leisurely fashion and conversed in quiet tones. 
 Toward midnight the women drank tea and the 
 men drank a measure of whiskey, — that is, those 
 who wished it. As each woman took her cup of 
 tea, and as each man took his glass of whiskey, 
 they ejaculated, "God rest him!" or "God have 
 mercy on his sowl!" Later on Mrs. Conway 
 led the Rosary for the women, and Tade Clancy 
 led it for the men. Mrs. Conway was reasonably 
 brief with her prayers, and the women were 
 soon free to chat again. Tade Clancy went very 
 leisurely and said every "Our Father" and "Hail 
 Mary" with great unction. Then he had fifteen 
 special intentions to add and several prayers of 
 his own one could never find in the prayer-book. 
 At last they were ended. 
 
 "By gor, Tade, you're longer than if 'twas the 
 Mass you wor sayin'," Jim Shanahan remarked. 
 
 "Jim, prayer never hurts anny man, and 'tis 
 betther to be prayin' than sinnin'," came Tade's 
 answer. 
 
 "So 'tis, Tade; but a man's knees aren't iron." 
 
 "Sure, Jim, the Rosary won't ever wear a 
 man's knees away." 
 
 "Yerra, 'tisn't the Rosary I mind at all, Tade. 
 'Tis the thrimmin's you put on. If you'd say 
 
 [136] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 the Rosary and sthop, 'twould be well and good. 
 But you have your own prayers, an' they're as 
 long as Jackeen Hogan's song that has thirty- 
 seven verses." 
 
 " 'Tis for the dead, boys. Don't ye complain. 
 Thim that's gone will thank ye for it." 
 
 Then Tade, in weird, far-off tones, told a ghost 
 story, and every ear listened and every imagina- 
 tion quickened as he placed the setting and the 
 time, and set forth every circumstance as if it 
 were of vital importance to remember and narrate. 
 Micky the Fenian told one right after; John 
 Conway followed; and so on like a company of 
 competing troubadours. There was no incredulity 
 in the minds of the listeners, no want of certitude 
 in those who narrated. 
 
 Already in those days the practice of keening 
 was fast passing out. The keen itself goes far 
 back into Irish history, and of course comes from 
 the East. Paddy Owen was good and respected 
 and belonged to the bygone days. It was fitting 
 his wake should be honored by the keen. Three 
 old women, who did not practise keening as a 
 profession, but remembered or learned the art 
 from those who did, stood over the corpse and 
 began a sort of half -singing, half -moaning dirge, 
 in which the general goodness of the dead man 
 was lauded and his special and particular virtues 
 repeatedly mentioned. Their bodies swayed back 
 and forth rhythmically as they wailed out the 
 phrases. There was no set form of words, no 
 attempt at continuity of thought, no effort at 
 
 [ 137] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 composition. Indeed, one would find it difficult 
 to catch the words, though the general meaning 
 was unmistakable. There was no special attention 
 given to the keening women. Those attending 
 the wake chatted and smoked just the same as 
 if no dirge were sent up for the departed Paddy 
 Owen. If you cared to listen, you could do so; 
 if you had a mind to go nearer for the purpose 
 of catching the words, you were equally free. 
 Although the keen was even then passing out, 
 people took the present instance as a matter of 
 course. 
 
 No doubt to many in this modern life the wake 
 and the keen and the smoking and the story- 
 telling will seem ludicrous enough. Every people, 
 however, has peculiar customs that rise out of 
 the remote past. And it is a sure sign of shallow- 
 ness to laugh at modes and conditions of life 
 that dijffer widely from those to which one is 
 accustomed, 
 
 Paddy Owen had a great funeral the following 
 day. There was Mass at the house in the morning, 
 which the specially invited attended ; the priest 
 took breakfast, and those who were very specially 
 invited took breakfast with him. About three 
 o'clock in the afternoon the hearse, drawn by two 
 black-draped horses, came up from Athery and 
 waited out on the road at the end of the boreen. 
 The body was placed in the yellow coffin with 
 brass handles. There was some crying as a 
 matter of course; for it would not be a funeral 
 without that. The body was borne through the 
 
 [138] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 door that must never open or shut to it again. 
 Four men placed the coffin on their shoulders 
 and began the procession out to the road. After 
 some time four others relieved them. It is a 
 sign of signal honor for the men to carry the 
 coffin on their shoulders to the graveyard. 
 
 But Knockf alien graveyard was a long eight 
 Irish miles away, and the sun was already far in 
 the west; so the coffin was placed in the hearse 
 and the great last march began. First there were 
 two priests in a side car, each with a large band 
 of white linen around his hat, and another band 
 over the left shoulder after the manner of a 
 deacon's stole. The hearse followed, then the 
 immediate mourners; the near relatives and the 
 more distant; neighbors and friends; people 
 who knew the family, people who knew relatives 
 of the family; people in the city with whom the 
 family did business, and on, and on, and on, 
 till a number of men on horseback brought up 
 the rear. 
 
 It was a long journey, and though they went 
 as fast as funeral proprieties would permit, the 
 shadows Avere gathering when they reached the 
 place of burial. The same four men who first 
 took the coffin on their shoulders when the body 
 was borne from the house took it again now, and, 
 preceded by the priests who said the prayers 
 of the ritual, circled the entire graveyard. It is 
 difficult to discover the origin of this custom, 
 though one may surmise it is done as a mark of 
 honor to the dead. The body was placed in the 
 
 [ 139] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 grave, the earth was heaved in upon the coffin, 
 and one of the priests said five ''Our Fathers" 
 and five "Hail Marys" for the departed soul. 
 The people scattered till at last only Tade Clancy 
 and John Conway remained with the men who 
 were shovelling in the dark earth. 
 
 "Tade, he lived a long life. 'Twon't be so long 
 with us," said John Conway. 
 
 " 'Twon't, John, — indeed 'twon't. Long or 
 short, it don't make so much difference, anyway. 
 'Tis all in the way a man lives." 
 
 " 'Tis, Tade, — indeed 'tis. But Paddy Owen 
 was a good boy, although thim that know say 
 his mother had high notions." 
 
 "Faith so she had, but she was a good woman 
 for all that, an' raised a fine family. An' Paddy 
 Owen was good as a boy, an' good as a man, an* 
 was good always." 
 
 "He was, Tade, so he was, — a good boy an* 
 a good man. An' now he's dead an' gone. God 
 rest him, Paddy Owen!" 
 
 [ 140] 
 
WICKED DANAWEE. 
 
 IF you walk the "cross cut" from the north 
 side of the parish to Knockfeen chapel, midway 
 on your journey you will see to your right the 
 ruins of some forty-five or fifty houses. Only 
 bare walls, many of which are fallen, point to 
 where men lived in the misty past. There is 
 now no family living anywhere near, as the land 
 round about is owned by a rich Protestant from 
 the North of Ireland. He has a care-taker who 
 looks after the cows, sheep, and horses, that 
 wander as they will about the deserted acres. 
 If you stray in among the ruins of a summer 
 day, when the sun is v/arm and the air still, you 
 will catch the spirit of the place. For any man v/ith 
 a fancy who stands amid ruins, with the silence 
 of death all around, must lose himself in the 
 mazes of the past to follow the winding pathway 
 of his dreams. 
 
 Here is a house, with one gable still standing, 
 in which a window looked to the west. The other 
 three walls are in part fallen; and between the 
 fallen stones, nettles and thistles grow tall and 
 strong. As you look through the space where the 
 door once was, you notice a cairn on a rise of 
 
 [141] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 ground a short distance away. A solitary cow 
 wanders in, looks at you, then at the crumbling 
 walls, exhales a great, relieving breath, whisks 
 her tail, and walks away to where the grass is 
 rich and green. A bumblebee buzzes by, hovers 
 for a little over the thistles and nettles, rises and 
 vanishes through the vacant window. Down 
 among the stones, the frog and lizard are in the 
 damp places; while above you a lone crow is 
 perched on the top of the gable, turning around 
 suspiciously; for experience has taught the crow 
 to be cautious. 
 
 Outside runs what was once a village street, 
 called the "King's Journey"; for tradition holds 
 that one of the Irish kings went by there once 
 upon a time, on his way to the more southerly 
 portion of his province. There is a stone at the 
 end of the street called the "King's Chair," 
 where the king rested for want of a better seat. 
 To tell the truth, the stone bears no special 
 resemblance to a chair; but 'tis called the "King's 
 Chair" anyhow, so that ends it. A short distance 
 from this chair a flagstone is buried deep in the 
 earth, with only its rain-stained upper surface 
 showing. In this stone there are two holes, some- 
 what resembling two saucers. It is called the 
 "Monk's Kneeling Place." A monk from Mungret 
 once made a pilgrimage to the village, and spent 
 the night kneeling on the stone praying for the 
 villagers. Where he knelt is marked forever on 
 the flat surface. 
 
 The street is grass-grown as far back as the 
 
 [ 142 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 memory of present-day people goes; but ruined 
 houses are lined up at either side of it, to prove 
 that men walked over a gravelled surface once 
 upon a time. A short distance outside the ruins, 
 you can trace the foundations of what was a 
 rectangular building; and at the south end, three 
 feet of wall still stand. Out from this wall, but 
 attached to it, is a sort of stone bracket. On 
 the rectangular foundations which you trace 
 beneath the tall gtass, was erected the village 
 chapel, and the stone bracket is all that remains 
 of what was once an altar. 
 
 But how came the ruins? And the people, 
 what became of them? That is "a very strange 
 story entirely"; and Grandma Hogan, who lives 
 by herself in a bit of a house near the Athery 
 road, will have to tell us. She is gathering nettles 
 for her young turkeys in one of the ruins, and 
 she will be glad to rest a bit and give us the 
 narrative. 
 
 She is a small woman, wearing a white cap, 
 neatly frilled around the border, and caught 
 under her chin with linen strips. A dear little 
 old lady is Grandma Hogan, with her check 
 apron, and her gray shawl gathered snugly over 
 her shoulders and pinned at the breast. She carries 
 on her marriage finger a plain gold wedding ring, 
 which she has worn for fifty odd years, and which 
 she will wear till the day she dies. And, please 
 God, she will wear it to Kilmeedy graveyard, where 
 she will be laid down beside Owen, — him that 
 went from her twenty-five years before. Owen — 
 
 [ 143 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 God rest him ! — and she hved a happy life together 
 back there among the turf fields of Ballyfm. But 
 that's another story. 
 
 "God save you, grandma!" 
 
 "Wisha, God save you kindly! An* isn't it 
 fine weather we're havin', praise be to God!" 
 
 "Indeed it is, grandma." Then after a pause: 
 "So you're plucking nettles here in this lonesome 
 place?" 
 
 "Faix 'tis lonesome enough, sure. But the 
 dead an' thim that's gone don't do any harm to 
 people as don't interfere with thim." 
 
 "This must be an old, old place, grandma?" 
 
 "Oh, indeed it is! 'Tis hundreds of years ago 
 since people lived here, but they're all dead an' 
 gone now, so they are." 
 
 "Doesn't anybody here know anything about 
 them?" 
 
 " O faix they do! Paddy the Thatcher, who used 
 to live down near Ballysteen, told us the story 
 many a time whin I was a little girl about that 
 high." Then the dear old lady held her hand two 
 feet above the ground to show how tall she was. 
 
 "Maybe you'd have time to tell us, grandma? 
 It must be a strange story entirely." 
 
 "I have a little time, thin; an' if you sit down 
 opposite me on that stone over there, I'll tell it 
 to you — lastewise so far as I can remimber." 
 
 She sat down herself too, paused for a little, 
 and began: 
 
 "The name of the village which used to be 
 here long, long ago was Danawee. Now, what 
 
 [ 144] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Danawee manes I don't know, no more do you, 
 nor any one else. 'Tis a strange name, anyhow. 
 The people o' the village were a wild an' wicked 
 set, so that the divil himself couldn't keep up 
 with thim. They were converted Danes who 
 came out from Limerick an' settled here. But, 
 the story goes, they weren't converted at all, 
 only pretended to be. They were drunk all the 
 time — at laste the min were; an' by all accounts 
 the women weren't much better. An' that's 
 why we say of a man who can't lave the liquor 
 alone, 'He drinks like a Dane.' But they weren't 
 true Christians nor Irish, so 'tis all equal about 
 thim. They had a chapel, but the priest couldn't 
 live in the village with thim, an' the Holy Sacra- 
 ment wasn't kep' there at all. 
 
 "There was a monk in Mungret who was a 
 very holy man, an' he heard about wicked Dana- 
 wee. So he promised the Lord God on his binded 
 knees that he'd make a pilgrimage out here to 
 convert the sinful people. He came the long 
 journey on foot, an' reached the village at mid- 
 night. He spint the rest o' the night kneelin' 
 on the stone over there, prayin' for the conversion 
 o' the people. In the mornin' whin they woke 
 up an' opened their eyes they saw the man o' 
 God kneelin' on the stone, with his cowl over 
 his head an' his face raised to heaven. A big 
 crowd gathered round him in a little while, an' 
 the leader o' thim said: 
 
 ' ' ' What are you doin' here ? ' 
 
 "'Prayin' for ye, that the thunderbolts o' God 
 may not strike ye.' [ 145 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "*We don't care for you nor for God's thunder 
 aither.' 
 
 '"Take back those wicked words, you wicked 
 man, or God's finger will fall heavy here,* said the 
 monk. 
 
 "'To show you how little we fear your threats, 
 you fool monk from Mungret, we'll take you 
 down the street by a halter.' 
 
 "An' thin the crowd howled like demons, an' 
 got a rope an' put it around the neck o' the man 
 that prayed for thim all night on the hard flag. 
 Thin they led him out the village street, an' each 
 one picked up a big stone as they wint; an' whin 
 they reached the top o' the hill over there, they 
 piled the stones together, and that cairn above 
 there is the very same heap they made. Thin 
 they placed the poor monk on top o' the cairn, 
 and wint around it; an' as they passed one by 
 one in front o' him, they struck him on the face 
 with the palm o' their hands. Thin they led him 
 down an' took off the halter, an' the leader said: 
 
 "'Go back now, you fool monk o' Mungret, an* 
 always remimber Danawee!* 
 
 "'Yes, I'll remimber,' says the monk; 'an' God 
 will remimber, an' all Ireland will remimber Dana- 
 wee for a thousand years an' tin. An' the grass 
 will grow on yer street, an' the crow an' the bat 
 'will fly through yer windows, an' the frog an* 
 the lizard will lie in the damp of yer vacant 
 hearths, an' the wild ivy will cling to yer fallin' 
 walls, an' the place where I knelt will be marked 
 for the mimory of yer wickedness, an' the cairn 
 
 [146] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 o' stones will spake of yer sin; for the finger o' 
 God will fall heavy here!' An' he shook the dust 
 of his sandals upon thim, an' wint his way. 
 
 "The next night, whin all Ireland was asleep, 
 the heavens grew dark over Danawee. Thin the 
 thunder rumbled an' the lightnin' flashed as if 
 hell itself was open. The rain fell, like if you were 
 lettin' it down through a sieve; an' the wind 
 came from Kerry Head an' roared as loud as the 
 thunder. The earth thrimbled, an' the houses 
 began to fall, an' the roofs were blown away. 
 An* the people who tried to run down the street 
 were struck by the lightnin', an' the people who 
 stayed within the houses were buried under the 
 fallin' walls. An' many cried out: 
 
 ***Come back to us, monk o' Mungret, an' 
 lift off the curse o' the Lord!' 
 
 "But only the ragin' wind an' thunder an- 
 swered thim; for the monk o' Mungret was gone 
 away. An' they were all killed that night, while 
 the rest of Ireland were sleepin' with the moon 
 an' stars above thim. Their bodies were buried 
 under the ground, so that no one ever found 
 thim; an' their fires were put out, an' were 
 never lighted; an' the walls fell, an' were never 
 again built. The grass grows on the street as 
 you see, an' the frog an' the lizard are in the 
 damp below the stones; an' the bat an' the crow 
 fly through the windows, an' the cairn of stones 
 is still standin' over there on the hill. Min came 
 an' saw an' blessed thimselves, but no man ever 
 after lived at Danawee." 
 
 [ 147 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 The long shadows are on the fields as grandma 
 picks up her basket of nettles and takes her way 
 home to the west. The lone crow on the gable 
 wings itself eastward, where the forest trees 
 join their arms and make a perpetual gloom. 
 The voice of the gentle old lady still lingers long 
 after she is gone. Perhaps her story is legend or 
 fiction or fact. Is it so important? A race of 
 poets and story-makers weave their dreams 
 out of a meagre happening or a shadowy place. 
 They take us back over time, and make us forget 
 for a little the stress of the present. They fill 
 the hollow places of the day, where fancy may 
 rest when we have grown aweary of hearing the 
 endless march of men. 
 
 Danawee is very still now. There is no dark 
 sky, no roll of thunder, no flash of lightning, no 
 roaring wind from Kerry Head. God's anger 
 is past, though the ruins of His vengeance still 
 remain. 
 
 [148] 
 
JOHN KENNEDY'S RESOLVE. 
 
 HE'S as good a man as any in the parish, if 
 he'd only lave the drink alone," declared 
 Mrs. Madigan one day to Mrs. Meehan, who 
 kept a small grocery store at the five-cross roads 
 below Ardee. Mrs. Madigan was on her way 
 home from the Tuesday market, and had pulled 
 up her donkey outside the shop. The two women 
 shot at telegraphic speed from topic to topic, 
 till Mrs. Madigan dispatched her tender message 
 about John Kennedy. That .stayed the wandering 
 character of their conversation for a little. 
 
 "Wisha, 'tis too bad about John, an' a young 
 wife an' four little childer dependin' on him," 
 came Mrs. Meehan's sympathetic rejoinder. 
 
 " 'Tis so indeed, Mrs. Meehan; an' a lovely 
 girl Mary Nolan was before she met poor John. 
 Not a finer young lady passed through the gates 
 of Knockfeen chapel yard." 
 
 "An' what nice childer she has!" added the 
 other woman. "An' she fustherin' an' draggin', 
 tryin' to keep thim nate an' tidy an' he drinkin' 
 all their little manes." 
 
 "Wisha, God help the poor woman!" sighed 
 Mrs. Madigan, with feeling. 
 
 [ 149] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 When John Kennedy began his apprenticeship 
 at Hartigan's forge, Ardee, for which apprentice- 
 ship his father paid a good five pounds, every 
 growing boy in Knockfeen parish envied John 
 his happy lot. For he was taken out of the wind, 
 rain and cold of the farm to learn an honest trade 
 which in time would bring him "piles o' money." 
 John himself was thankful for the good fortune 
 which opened the gates to a successful future. 
 He was a steady, observant boy, had some 
 schooling, was well-mannered, and soon won the 
 good will of everybody. 
 
 "That young Kennedy," Tom Hartigan the 
 blacksmith would say, when John was out of 
 hearing, "is a boy with a quiet tongue an' a 
 quick eye. He'll make his mark some day. See 
 if he don't." 
 
 Mrs. Hartigan would declare to a caller: 
 
 "Johnny Kennedy is the nicest boy we ever 
 had around the house. Of an evenin' whin we 
 want a bucket o' water he just seems to know 
 it, an' before you have time to say 'How do ye 
 do!' there it is on the floor opposite you. Whin 
 the childer are annoyin' me an' I tryin' to get 
 supper, he coaxes thim out to the little lawn 
 back o' the haggard, an' runs around an' plays 
 with thim till they're good an' tired an' ready 
 enough to be quiet." 
 
 John's years of apprenticeship over, he became 
 a regular journeyman in the forge at a wage of 
 sixteen shillings a week. He was as honest as he 
 was skilled, and did not need the eye of a master 
 
 [ 150] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 to keep him at work. How the iron rang beneath 
 the blows of his hammer! How hot and treacher- 
 ous, it writhed like a snake; and then, tamed into 
 submission, assumed the shape the workman 
 intended! With what ease he lifted the horse's 
 hoof into his long leather apron! What a power 
 of command when he said, ' Ho there ! ' to the 
 fidgety animal! To watch him prepare the hoof, 
 and fit the shoe, and send every nail home and 
 make it secure, was an object lesson on the dignity 
 of labor. 
 
 Many a man from Knockfeen parish, when his 
 cattle were sold of a fair-day, dropped into the 
 Ardee forge just to bid John Kennedy the time 
 of the day, and to enjoy a sense of triumph in 
 the thought that this giant was from his part 
 of the county. So it was no wonder Tom Hartigan 
 was sad and sorry the day when John Kennedy 
 said he was going to start out in life for himself. 
 
 "Maybe 'tis a raise in wages you're wantin', 
 John? If so, say the word," declared Hartigan, 
 when John broke the news. 
 
 " 'Tisn't a matter o' wages, Mr. Hartigan." 
 (He always said "Mr." when speaking to or of 
 his employer.) "You've given me all I've ever 
 asked for and all I'm worth. But you see I'm 
 tAventy-four now, and there's an openin' down at 
 the crossroads below Knockfeen. I'm well known 
 b}^ the people around, and I'd best begin for 
 myself now, before somebody else gets in 
 there." 
 
 "Well, if 'tis to be, John, it will. But I'll miss 
 
 [ 151 1 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 you many a day; an' so will Mary, you were so 
 good to the childer. An' I hope God 'ill bless you 
 and keep you, John!" 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Hartigan, — thank you!" 
 answered John, with a full heart. 
 
 Some few weeks later John Kennedy opened 
 his forge at the crossroads below Knockfeen. A 
 year later he was able to build a neat house some 
 short distance from the forge, where he lived 
 alone ; for his brothers and sisters were in America 
 or married and settled down for themselves. 
 Perhaps this was the beginning of John's trouble; 
 for when the day's work was over, and he was 
 through with his oftentimes cold and ill-prepared 
 supper, the house w^as lonesome. For all the 
 talk about solitude, a man does not like to be 
 always alone. So John in the still of the evening 
 walked down the quiet road to Athery, whistling 
 the "Blackbird" or maybe "Garryown." 
 
 No man becomes a drunkard in an hour. The 
 habit of coaxing, persuading, and minimizing the 
 evil — the "sure-what-harm-in-a-little-drop argu- 
 ment" — has been at the root of much drunken- 
 ness in Ireland. As a rule, men get drunk alone 
 only when they are confirmed drunkards. How- 
 ever it may be with other races, this is surely 
 true of the Celt. His drinking is purely social, 
 until he has acquired the liquor mania. And 
 we know that men with a mania are much the same 
 the world over. 
 
 When John met the boys down at Athery of 
 an evening, there was a treat first by this one 
 
 [ 152] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 and then by that, and so on until the circle was 
 completed. It is only fair to say that there was 
 no drunken man among them when the party 
 broke up, about ten or eleven o'clock. It is only 
 fair to say, too, that John did not go every night; 
 yet he felt lonesome the nights he stayed home. 
 One should not follow with a morbid curiosity 
 the steps that trace the way to a man's downfall. 
 In a short year or so John was what the world 
 calls a drinking man, although he was not a 
 drunkard. He drank in his hours of leisure "with 
 the boys," as they say. It was not one night a 
 week, nor two, but every night except Sunday, 
 when the public houses were closed. Still he 
 was at work in his forge the whole of the long 
 day, and to all appearances had lost none of his 
 strength or skill. Nor did any gossip go abroad 
 about his pleasant evenings down at Athery. 
 
 Mary Nolan and John had grown up together 
 from childhood. They were in the same classes 
 at school, received First Communion and Con- 
 firmation at the same time; and, when they 
 grew older, went in each other's company to the 
 races of Newcastle, or maybe to a quiet dance 
 at one of the neighbor's houses. To speak the 
 whole truth, John intended to ask Mary to marry 
 him just after he had completed his house. But 
 it "cost him a penny" to build a home and 
 furnish it. So he said to himself: "I'll wait a year, 
 an' when Mary comes into me I'll have more 
 than a house to offer her." So he waited, and met 
 the boys, and was, as they say, a drinking man 
 
 [153] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 when Mary became his for always in the sun- 
 shine of a June morning a year later. 
 
 He kept the straight and the safe road for a 
 couple of years after they were married, and 
 the eyes of a man could hardly see a finer couple 
 as the two went together to first Mass of a Sunday 
 morning. John was tall and muscular, and when 
 the dust and smoke of the working week were 
 washed away v/ith the cleansing waters on Satur- 
 day evening, when he wore his collar and tie and 
 his well-kept new suit of clothes and his soft hat, 
 you would think he was an attorney from lyimerick 
 or a Member of Parliament. Mary Nolan, who 
 walked at his side, was "a lady born," as Mrs. 
 Sheahan put it. She carried herself with an 
 easy grace, was cheerful in conversation, and 
 strikingly gentle in her manners. 
 
 The birth of the first baby boy, sad to say, 
 proved the occasion of John's fall from grace. 
 There were neighbors, friends, and relatives at 
 the christening, and the joy of the time was in 
 full accord with the greatness of the event. John 
 proved a splendid host, passing around among 
 his guests, encouraging here, and insisting there 
 that "joy be unrestrained," as one of the poets 
 has it. He drank much himself- — more than was 
 good for him by a great deal, — and, after the 
 festivities were over in the early morning, spent 
 the day in bed. The next night he continued the 
 festivities, though there were no visitors or friends 
 to encourage him. 
 
 From that night on John Kennedy was a 
 
 [ 154 1 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 drunkard, carrying with him all the vain hopes, 
 maudlin regrets, and weak promises of the slave 
 of alcohol. If you had known this giant in younger 
 years, if you had ever seen his eyes quick with 
 intelligence, his hand strong with manhood's 
 strength, his forehead on which stood out the 
 sweat of honest labor, — if vou had seen him then 
 you would not know the wreck of later years. 
 The fire, too, over which he worked was a heap 
 of embers long since grown cold; his hammers, 
 that rang like bells over the air of the quiet 
 country, were thrown about the floor of the forge, 
 silent as death. Upturned plows with new socks 
 only half fitted, wheels with the rust gathered on 
 their bands, pieces of old and new iron, house- 
 wives' broken tongs or pot-hangers, wxre scattered 
 all about in disorder; while the door of the forge 
 lay open, awaiting for footsteps that did not 
 come. 
 
 Down at Athery was the wreck of John 
 Kennedy, a common hanger-on, — watching, like 
 a hound for a whistle, to be offered a drink. When 
 the night was far spent and the shop closed, he 
 slouched back to the home where the ghost of 
 the Mary Nolan that used to be, starved to save 
 her little ones. Many a night when he came 
 home she would be up to meet him; but she was 
 silent then, for it is little use to reason with a 
 drunken man. But late in the morning when 
 he got up, his eyes bloodshot, his hands shaking, 
 she would say to him: 
 
 "O John, John, for love of the old days, for 
 
 [155I 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 love of the old life, for love of what once was 
 and isn't any more, give it up! God will help 
 you if you try. Think of the little ones, John. 
 You're making them paupers." 
 
 And then the great tears would gush out of 
 his eyes and he would sob as if his heart were 
 breaking. In your pity you would have felt 
 inclined to cry with him. 
 
 "As God sees me, Mary, I will! I know I'm 
 doing wrong. I'm crushing the pure heart that 
 is in you. I know I'm starving my little children. 
 God helping me, to-day I'll begin!" 
 
 vSometimes he went straight to Father Tracey, 
 took the pledge and received such words of 
 counsel and hope as that good priest could give. 
 Maybe he kept his resolve for a day or two, 
 during which he worked; but even in his labor 
 he was struggling with the thirst that kills. 
 Many a time he dropped his tools, ran up to his 
 house and took up the latest born child in his 
 arms. He held it to his hot face a,s a drowning 
 man holds to a plank; he kissed the little red 
 lips, as if to slake his thirst with their soft, cooling 
 touch. But, for all the pledges, promises, tears, 
 safeguards, and encouragement, he fell back again 
 into the old sin. 
 
 John Kennedy was standing at the far end of 
 Jarnes Freeman's public house at Athery one 
 October afternoon just when the four v\^ell-kept 
 children of the publican returned from school. 
 Perhaps John thought of his own children at 
 
 [156] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 home. They might be as well dressed and as 
 rosy-faced as these. His wife was a beautiful 
 woman, and he was a strong, well-knit man in 
 other years. Now his children were paupers, and 
 his wife had grown thin with trouble. 
 
 While he was lost in his reflections, the mother 
 of the four children brought some fresh cuts of 
 buttered bread which she placed on a small 
 table near by. Then she went back to the kitchen 
 for a tablespoon with which to measure out some 
 jam to one of the children who did not relish 
 butter. John noticed the buttered bread, and the 
 sight of it quickened his appetite. With the 
 familiarity of a frequent visitor, he went over 
 to the table to take one of the buttered pieces. 
 Just as he was about to help himself the mother 
 re-entered. She walked straight over to where 
 he was, lifted the spoon and rapped the back of 
 his hand with it sharply. 
 
 "You filthy loafer! How dare you take such 
 liberties in my house! How dare you take the 
 bread from my children!" 
 
 John received the insult like one who deserved 
 it. 
 
 "Yes, but you have taken the bread from 
 mine," he said brokenly. 
 
 "Get out, you insulting fellow!" 
 
 "I deserve it, — a fool deserves anything," John 
 commented meekly. 
 
 The publican, who was near the street end of 
 the house, heard the high-pitched voice of his 
 wife. He rushed back and inquired the cause of 
 the trouble. [ 157 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "This drunken blacksmith has tried to take 
 the children's lunch, and then insulted me." 
 
 " Kennedy, out with you!" the publican shouted, 
 much as if he were addressing a dog. 
 
 "Jim Freeman, listen to me!" 
 
 "Out with you, I tell j^ou! Do you want me 
 to kick you out?" 
 
 John Kennedy straightened up. His eyes 
 blazed like the eyes of old. He was dangerous 
 now. 
 
 "Don't do that, Freeman. Hear me first. Then 
 I'll go." 
 
 Freeman and his wife listened, for the publican 
 knew the power that still lurked in the giant form 
 of the unfortunate blacksmith. 
 
 "Freeman, your wife hit my hand a while ago 
 for taking a piece of bread intended for your 
 children. For eight years you an' she have taken 
 the bread from me, an' I never complained. You 
 call me a loafer, a drunkard, a dog fit to kick. 
 So I am. But, Jim Freeman, an' you mam, 
 listen. John Kenned}^ will go home now an' 
 never feed your children again. An' this I tell 
 ye by the truth o' God!" 
 
 From the public house he went to his forge 
 that afternoon and put everything in shape for 
 the next day's w^ork. He had little to say to his 
 wife, little to his children when he got home. 
 There was no weeping, no promises. Next day 
 he went to work, and next day, and the next. 
 Meantime such prayers as pierce the clouds were 
 being offered for him by those who loved him 
 
 [158] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 best. On the last Sunday of October he and 
 Mary walked up the quiet road to Knockfeen 
 chapel. They went early, for John wished to go 
 to confession. He was some time in the "box"; 
 and then came the Ego te ahsolvo from Father 
 Tracey, with unction, one may be sure. Mary 
 confessed too, and husband and wife knelt side 
 by side when receiving Holy Communion. 
 
 "John," Mary said quietly some days later, 
 "it looks like the old life come back again. Praise 
 be to God, and thanks to His Blessed Mother!" 
 
 John held her in his arms and kissed her with 
 tenderness. 
 
 "Forgive the eight years, my true wife, and my 
 heart'll be at rest!" 
 
 For answer she kissed him again and again. 
 Ever after John Kennedy loved and labored for 
 his own. 
 
 [159] 
 
THE SAD SUNDAY. 
 
 IT was seven years since Maurice O'Connor left 
 Ireland, and, after many wanderings, took a 
 job as a plain cowboy on a Texas ranch. He 
 might have found employment in a city more to 
 the North and more to the East, where he would 
 be nearer to the gray Atlantic, whose waves 
 touched his native Ireland. But that would only 
 awaken the deep longing, would only quicken the 
 strange, slow pain that lies down in the heart 
 when one has the yearning for home. So he 
 moved out West, and then down South, and 
 sought oblivion on wide, imfenced acres, among 
 wandering cattle, under a high sky and a blazing 
 sun. 
 
 Maurice O'Connor and Terence O'Donnell — 
 or "Terr," as he was familiarly called — were the 
 two best friends in all Co. Limerick. They hunted 
 hares of a Sunda}'' or fished in the Deel; they 
 went swimming in summer and drove to the 
 races in early autumn; threw "maggie" sticks 
 at the "pathern," and helped each other cutting 
 the hay or drawing home the turf or the seaweed. 
 'Twas Maurice and Terr, and Terr and Maurice, 
 spring, summer, autum^n, and winter. By the 
 
 [ i6o] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 same token, each boy had a grown sister — Kathel 
 O'Connor and AHce O'Donnell, — who were great 
 friends, too. They went to Mass together, and 
 to confession the same Saturday, and to the 
 "raiUng" the same Sunday. They walked to 
 the dance at Curaheen; they dressed ahke, were 
 about the same height, and never had a hard 
 word with each other in all their lives. 
 
 "Sure, there'll be a double wedding when the 
 time comes at O'Donnells' and O'Connors'," 
 Johnny Mangan said knowingly to the boys one 
 Sunday at the chapel gate before Mass. 
 
 "Faix, I hope so," Tade Clancy added; "for 
 they're two as dacent boys and two as fine girls 
 as any in Ireland." 
 
 So the talk went around about a double match 
 and a "great time entirely" when next Shrove 
 would come; or, if not the next, then surely the 
 one after. But 'tis a strange world, and you can 
 never tell what may happen from one day to the 
 next. Anyhow, the wedding was not that Shrove 
 nor the Shrove after. 
 
 One Sunday, after the last Mass, Maurice and 
 Terr took their guns and sauntered over to the 
 Curaheen bogs to shoot ducks. The rain of the 
 early day had ceased, but the water still clung 
 to the whitethorn hedges and fell with a swish 
 when the wind shook the branches. The damp 
 grass wet the shoes of the hunters, and the 
 **thraneens" made their trousers, from the knees 
 down, look as if they had been pulled out of the 
 river. 
 
 [ 161I 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "Wisha, Terr," warned Mrs. O'Donnell with 
 solicitude when her boy was starting out, "be 
 careful and don't get your feet wet crossing the 
 fields." 
 
 "I'll be careful, mother," Terr answered, as 
 he swung his gun on his shoulder. 
 
 "Yes, alanna!" the good woman added by way 
 of commendation and affection. 
 
 But when the two boys got together, and took 
 long strides across meadows, and jumped over 
 ditches, and went up hills and down hollows, 
 they never thought at all about wind, wet, or 
 weather. It is one of the joys of the young who 
 live in the country to have good health as a 
 matter of course, and to be no more conscious of 
 it than one is of the march of time in pleasant 
 compan)^. So when the boys reached the bog 
 their heads were full of wild ducks, and 'twas 
 small blame to them that they forgot a trifling 
 admonition about damp grass and wet feet. 
 
 About three o'clock in the afternoon Terr was 
 hiding behind a clump of rushes, waiting for a 
 couple of ducks that were flying low in his direction. 
 Right behind the rushes a bird arose with a whir 
 of wings. Maurice, who was some short distance 
 farther back, fired. The shot went through the 
 rushes and O'Connor saw his comrade fall over 
 on his face. 
 
 "God in heaven!" he cried as he rushed to him. 
 "O Terr, for the love o' God, speak! Only say 
 I haven't killed you!" He turned the companion 
 of a lifetime over on his back. "O Terr, Terr, 
 
 [162] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 can't you say you're alive? Won't you look at 
 me? Won't you say one word?" 
 
 vSlowly the fallen man opened his eyes. 
 
 " 'Tis here, Maurice, — 'tis here!" He placed 
 a languid hand on his breast. 
 
 Crazed with fright and anguish, O'Connor tore 
 open the waistcoat, and there was the white shirt 
 soaked with blood. The scattered shot had 
 entered breast and stomach. 
 
 "O God! O God!" moaned poor Maurice, 
 helpless and distracted. 
 
 "Maurice, I'm goin' — I — I — my — breath — I — " 
 
 Then O'Connor held up the tossing head 
 between his hands. The breath came easier now. 
 
 "Maurice, 'twas no fault of yours!" 
 
 "O Terr, for the love o' God, live! For the—" 
 
 "I'm — goin' — 'tis catchin' at me — here! O my 
 God — I am sorry — for all — my sins! Have — 
 mercy on — me!" 
 
 Across the fields ran a crazed man, telling the 
 neighbors to hurry to the bog. And at the bog, 
 below a clump of rushes, a young man was 
 stretched on his back. The red blood of his strong, 
 graceful body was on the white shirt he had put 
 on that morning. His left hand was extended 
 limp on the grass, his right on his breast where 
 the blood was. The rushes, bending toward him, 
 waved gently; the green fields over which he had 
 so often wandered were around him; the sky, 
 save where the white clouds still lingered, was the 
 blue of hope; his face, white and very still, was 
 turned toward the sky. 
 
 [ 163 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Those were long and terrible days for Maurice 
 O'Connor. To see the friend of all his years 
 stretched dead on the field, and then on the bed, — 
 it was a sight that lived with him for long, long 
 years. And, then, there was the mother, who 
 never, in all her anguish, uttered a word of 
 reproach. 
 
 "Sure, Maurice asthore, 'tisn't you would hurt 
 a hair on the head of man, woman, or child, let 
 alone Terr, who was like a brother to you." 
 
 Then Alice consoled him, though her own heart 
 was breaking and her eyes red from weeping. 
 
 "Maurice, 'tis hard, I know; but God knows 
 best. We must all try to bear it as He wishes, for 
 'tis His will." 
 
 The funeral was over; the days grew to weeks, 
 the weeks to months. But Maurice O'Connor 
 lost his hold on the life around him. He was 
 silent, gloomy, and he had terrible dreams. One 
 doctor said this and another that; one prescribed 
 one kind of medicine, another prescribed another 
 kind. A year went by, and people began to fear 
 for the young man's mind. 
 
 One Saturday when he was at Knockfeen to 
 confession. Father Tracey walked up and down 
 the chapel yard with him for a short time. 
 
 "Maurice, you're not getting better at all, — 
 I can see that." 
 
 "No, Father. I'm never goin' to be well again. 
 My heart is broken." 
 
 "Whist!" commanded Father Tracey. 
 
 "Father, 'tis the truth I'm tellin'!" 
 
 [164] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "1 told you to whist, poor boy. Listen to me 
 now." 
 
 Maurice listened. 
 
 "I want you to start off for America just as 
 soon as you get ready; see that great country 
 and its strange ways. Don't mope around here 
 any longer. Get away; live for yourself and for 
 your own; and for her, and for him that is gone. 
 Maybe in two or in five or in six years you'll get 
 settled and be your own self. Then come back 
 and take Alice; she'll be waiting for you." 
 
 Father Tracey smiled in his quiet way. Maurice 
 promised and obeyed. 
 
 Pleasure did not help him to forget; for he 
 was too well schooled in his Faith to taste of the 
 joys which, they tell us, bring a mist over memory. 
 But hard work on the ranch — rounding up the 
 cattle all day on the saddle, and branding them, 
 and driving them across wide acres, — all this 
 brought calmer thoughts by day, and a dreamless 
 sleep by night. The men with whom he lived 
 were different from the men he had known, — 
 rough, irreverent, hot-tempered, ready to "drop" 
 a man with a six-shooter on slight provocation. 
 They were not the kindly, bid-you-the-time-o'- 
 the-day men whom he had known and lived with 
 in Ireland. For all that, the Texas cowboy has 
 a kindly heart; and, as Maurice minded his 
 business and never made trouble for anybody, 
 he got on as well as he could wish. 
 
 Halsey Tucker was a lad on the ranch he had 
 grown to like. Tucker was a Catholic, who, in 
 
 [165] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 spite of temptation and bad example and the 
 thousand wiles that lure a man from the strait 
 and narrow way, looked neither to the right 
 nor to the left, but walked the road of faith and 
 honor. Maurice and Tucker became genuine 
 friends. It was not the old friendship which had 
 bound him to the dead Terr O'Donnell. A fatherly 
 interest in the lad, who grew as good and clean 
 and true as a flower in the desert, was the feeling 
 that drew Maurice to him. Many a Sunday 
 they both rode over the prairies to a little church, 
 where the priest said Mass every month. Then 
 before Mass they had a "round up," which was 
 young Tucker's word for confession; and after- 
 ward received Holy Communion. 
 
 And now Maurice was going home. The old 
 mad pain and the wild dreams were all gone, 
 and only tender memories filled up the hollows 
 of his heart. He was at the little station some 
 twenty miles from the ranch, waiting for the 
 night train from San Antonio on its way to St. 
 Louis. Young Tucker was with him to see him 
 off. 
 
 "I'm sorry to see you leavin'," said the young 
 Texan, aiming with his whip at a cinder on the 
 platform. 
 
 "Well, Tuck, I'm sorry too. I'm leaving you, 
 for one thing, and that's hard." 
 
 "Ha'd! I should say so! Heah am I all 'lone 
 now, with no one to caah for me in this heah 
 ranch. I tell you 'taint so easy to be on the 
 squaah all the time!" 
 
 [i66] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "But you will, — won't you, Tuck?" 
 
 "I reckon so. I'll be bettah all my life for 
 knowin' you. I ain't goin' to stay heah. I'm 
 goin' back to Houston." 
 
 "Good, Tuck! You'll be better off there. And 
 you'll go to church?" 
 
 "I should say so!'' 
 
 "And to round up?" 
 
 "Well, I reckon I will!" 
 
 Then the train puffed over the prairie toward 
 the station. 
 
 "Good-bye, Tuck, and God keep you!" 
 
 Maurice held the lad in his arms for a moment. 
 Out of the Southern eyes, as blue as the Southern 
 skies, the tears came and flowed softly down the 
 young face. 
 
 "I'll think of you, Tuck. Do write!" 
 
 "I'll" (then a great sob),— "I'll suah be lone- 
 some for you." 
 
 "I'll write to you often, Tuck. Good-bye, — 
 good-bye!" 
 
 Maurice O'Connor looked through the window 
 of the Pullman sleeper, watching the vanishing 
 fields and the Negro shanties, and here and there 
 an odd ranch house. Halsey Tucker was still 
 standing at the station, with folded arms, watching 
 the smoke fade on the wake of the now unseen 
 train. 
 
 "He was suah one good man; and now he's 
 goin' back to that green Ireland of his. Reckon 
 I'll start for Houston to-morrow." 
 
 The rest is soon told. Maurice and Alice 
 
 [ 167 1 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 O'Donnell were married the following Shrove, 
 and his sister Kathel lived with her mother. 
 Then in a few years the mother died, and Maurice 
 and Alice insisted that Kathel come to them. 
 The children always called her "Auntie," and 
 hung around her morning, noon and night. She 
 loved them all, but little Terr was her favorite. 
 
 "I suppose you won't ever marry, Kathel?" 
 Father Tracey asked her one day, with the 
 freedom which his position justified. 
 
 "No, Father: I'll remain single." 
 
 "And you don't feel drawn to the convent?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Maybe you're wise, child! Maybe 'tis God's 
 will in your regard. He leads us in wondrous ways, 
 and in the end to heaven. ' In My Father's house 
 there are many mansions.'" 
 
 [ i68] 
 
HOW THE CURSE WAS LIFTED. 
 
 THE Creegans were the richest people in oiir 
 parish, — as rich beyond all the other families 
 as the highest peak of the Galties is above the 
 lesser peaks that cluster at its base. They were 
 simple people for all that, without any affectations. 
 The boys never wore brown leather leggings nor 
 topcoats; they never rode after the hunt, nor 
 blew the dust into your eyes speeding by on 
 sidecars. The girls — three of them — never went 
 to France for the winter, nor to Kilkee for the 
 summer. They gave no balls or parties when they 
 became of age. In fact, the Creegans were very 
 much like the rest of the parish, except the 
 Hartigans, who were "out-and-out grandees 
 entirely." 
 
 For all their goodness and kindness and simple 
 w^ays, the Creegans never seemed to have luck. 
 One of the boys was lame; John, the second son, 
 had spinal trouble, so that he could never stand 
 up straight like a healthy man; Margaret was 
 bedridden; and Catherine, the second sister, 
 was a w^ee bit of a creature, that stopped growing 
 when she was ten years of age. She and Mrs. 
 Walsh of Grageen were the two saints of the 
 
 [169] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 parish, who made the Stations and always said 
 "two rounds of the Beads" every Sunday before 
 first Mass. 
 
 Well, the reason the Creegans never had luck 
 was due to the "blood money" which was in the 
 family. In the days of the Fenians, a great-great- 
 grandfather of the present head of the house 
 betrayed a couple of the "boys" who were hiding 
 from the "peelers," for which he received a good 
 sum of money by way of reward. Thereafter, 
 "blood money" was in the family. Usually 
 people thus tainted are left to themselves. The 
 neighbors do not visit them, nor ever borrow a 
 spade or a pitchfork of them; nor do they lean 
 over the half -door and say, "God bless all here!" 
 when passing by the house in the morning. 
 
 But it was different with the Creegans. They 
 were honest people, who would not take a sloe 
 out of a bush that did not belong to them — 
 except the man that took the money long ago, 
 and they could not help that, after all. So every- 
 body had a kindly feeling toward the Creegans; 
 and the boys dropped in of an evening sometimes, 
 and the neighbors gave them a "lift" when making 
 the turf or threshing the oats. And everybody 
 kept hoping that the curse would soon be lifted, 
 and that the next generation would not have to 
 suffer for the wrongdoing of a long-dead ancestor. 
 
 There was good foundation for the hope too; 
 for the third son, Maurice, the only healthy one, 
 was in his second year at Maynooth and would 
 soon be "priested." There was no doubt at all 
 
 [ 170] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 but that a priest in the family would "lift the 
 curse." 
 
 When he came home every summer, Maurice 
 went to early Mass and received Holy Communion. 
 He wore a black suit, and, except for the lack of 
 the tall hat, you would take him for a priest 
 anywhere. He was a thin man, with hands like 
 a lady's and a face as smooth as a boy's. He 
 was always accompanied to the chapel by two 
 of his sisters, w^ho clung to him tenderly because 
 they loved him with a real love, and because he 
 would soon be a priest of God and an honor to 
 the family. 
 
 The boys of the parish were out at the chapel 
 gate one Sunday in summer, waiting for the "last" 
 bell to ring. By the same token, many a time 
 Father Tracey ordered them in to say a few extra 
 prayers before Mass. They went in for a Sunday 
 or two; then there was a notice on the chapel 
 gate about an auction or a meeting, or sports 
 up at Ballingarry. Mick Sheahan stopped to 
 read it, and the others gathered around. When 
 they were done reading, they began talking, and 
 so they fell again into the old rut. 
 
 "I see Mr. Creegan is back for his vacation," 
 commented Jack Hogan. 
 
 "So he is. He spoke to me yesterday as I was 
 coming hether from Madigans' forge," Jim Don- 
 nelly agreed, taking a "shock o' the pipe" in the 
 few minutes that remained. 
 
 "He's a lovely man and as gintle as a lady." 
 
 "He is that, Johnny Mangan; an' I hope God 
 
 [171] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 will give him good health to finish, for he does be 
 very frail-lookin'." 
 
 It was Mick Sheahan who spoke, leaning against 
 the gate pier. 
 
 In the chapel Maurice and his sisters were 
 kneeling at the railing. Catherine was praying 
 before Our Lady's altar, asking the Blessed Mother 
 to keep Maurice well through the long, difficult, 
 searching years of the Maynooth course. No 
 doubt, Mary, the youngest daughter, was making 
 a like petition from where she knelt before the 
 main altar. 
 
 During the weekdays Maurice was accustomed 
 to go down among the boys in the hayfields or at 
 banking the potato drills or at cutting the oats. 
 Brought up in the fields and among the men of 
 the fields, he never sought other scenery or other 
 society. When Dick Fitz, forgetting himself, 
 cursed old "Bill," the gray horse, because "Bill" 
 did not "whoa" when ordered, Maurice seemed 
 only to notice Dick's embarrassment. He liked 
 to hear Tade Clancy tell stories, especially when 
 Jim Donnelly was present to contradict. He 
 would follow for hours the mowers, their bodies 
 swaying right and left, leaving great rows of hay 
 in their wake. 
 
 Sometimes he took three or four schoolboys 
 back to the Deel for a day's fishing; and while 
 they talked among themselves and waited anxiously 
 for a bite, he watched the gliding waters and 
 began to dream. He lived over again the day when 
 for the first time he took the train at the little 
 
 [ 172] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 station and went away to Dublin. The years were 
 long and uneventful since then. College life and 
 the changeless round of classes, and a discipline 
 that held him close within walls, had little charm 
 for him. He went through it as one goes through 
 a disagreeable journey to a desired place. It 
 was prosy and monotonous, and— well, he was 
 glad college was over; and he would be glad, 
 too, when he could say "Good-bye!" to the 
 theological seminary at Maynooth. He liked the 
 free air and the soft grass and the murmuring 
 streams, and the care-free life of Knockfeen parish. 
 It was his home, and he never found that college 
 or seminary life could fill up the void when he 
 was away from the places and people he knew 
 and loved. 
 
 Maurice Creegan was in his last year of theology ; 
 and at the end of the school year he would be 
 "priested," as the people put it. After that 
 he might be lent out for a couple of years to one 
 of the English dioceses where priests are scarce. 
 The wait till a young priest becomes a parish 
 priest is long, very long, in Ireland. But the 
 Creegans wanted to see Maurice ordained, and 
 gave no thought at all to promotion. Just to see 
 him a priest, so he would bless them and remove 
 the curse, was the desire of their hearts. 
 
 About mid-May of that last year — with ordina- 
 tion a little more than a month away — a boy 
 went down across the fields from Knockfeen 
 station, bearing a blue envelope in his hand. He 
 was the station-master's son, carrying a telegram 
 
 [ 173 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 to the Creegans. A telegram to the country 
 districts in Ireland means, as a rule, bad news 
 of some kind. Business among the people is not 
 of so hurried or complex a character as to be 
 transacted over the wires. When, once in a year 
 or so, the station-master's son bore a message to 
 a family, one wondered who was dying or dead. 
 And when Catherine Creegan saw the boy coming 
 across the field to the front of the house, she sat 
 back in a chair from sheer Y/eakness and exclaimed : 
 "My God, something is wrong with Maurice!" 
 The boy handed her the envelope, and, lifting 
 his cap respectfully, walked aw^ay quickly, as he 
 had been instructed to do by his father, who 
 well knew people do not desire witnesses during 
 the first moments of a crushing sorrow. Catherine 
 broke open the seal and read: 
 
 Maurice Creegan, Esq., 
 Cronagh, Knockfeen, 
 Co. Limerick. 
 Your son had hemorrhage this morning. Condition 
 critical but not hopeless. Come. 
 
 The message was sent by the president of the 
 seminary. 
 
 Strange to say, the only comment that passed 
 the girl's lips was: 
 
 "I felt it, — I felt it was coming always. We 
 are not worthy. We must suffer yet." 
 
 Maurice died at two o'clock that afternoon, while 
 the father was on his way to Dublin. When he 
 reached Maynooth, it was to find the hope of the 
 family white and very still in one of the infirmary 
 
 [174] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 rooms. Next day the coffin was taken out of the 
 van at Knockfeen station, and one of the largest 
 gatherings of people ever seen there met the 
 remains. They came in such great numbers to 
 show their sympathy that the boy did not live 
 to be "priested," so that the curse might be lifted. 
 
 After the funeral, they chatted here and there 
 among themselves by the fireside or when out 
 working in the gardens. 
 
 One said: 
 
 "By gor, 'tis hard, after all, the poor boy wasn't 
 'priested,' and that he's now lyin' in the 
 churchyard." 
 
 " 'Tis, — indeed 'tis. Sure everyone was hopin' 
 an' prayin' he'd live an' finish, and so lift the curse 
 that hangs over thim." 
 
 Father Tracey heard of this gossip, and spoke 
 about it from the altar. 
 
 "You talk about a priest being ordained as 
 the only way of lifting a curse from a family, if 
 curse there be. But God can work His will in 
 many ways; for His arm is not shortened, and 
 He can do what He wishes in His own blessed 
 time. Therefore, let us stop talking and gossiping 
 among ourselves about works that are divine, and 
 therefore far beyond us. The Lord gave, the Lord 
 took away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!" 
 
 They all knew what was meant, and kept 
 silent ever after. 
 
 There is a new generation of Creegans now. 
 The youngest boy, who used to be afflicted with 
 strange attacks of melancholy, got well gradually 
 
 [175] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 and then married a girl from Adare. Their five 
 children are strong and hearty-looking, and fill 
 the house with the music of their laughter. Mar- 
 garet, the invalid sister, and Catherine who never 
 grew to full womanhood, are living with their 
 brother, and find their joy with the children. 
 John, who had spinal trouble, died in Limerick 
 hospital; and the lame boy has some position 
 with the Government in Dublin. The father and 
 mother are both "gone home." 
 
 "The Creegans were always good, dacent 
 people," said Tade Clancy, "only for that ould 
 lad o' thim that took the money long ago." 
 
 "They were, — indeed, they were," added John 
 Conway. "I was sorry whin the boy died that 
 time, an' he so near bein' 'priested.' But 'twas 
 God's will, an' the curse is lifted anyway, now." 
 
 "Yes," added Tade; "an' it was as Father 
 Tracey said at the chapel during Mass, ' God can 
 work as He will.' Maybe 'twas to reward thim 
 for their resignation and patience, and to com- 
 pinsate them for their sorrow, that He lifted the 
 curse whin Maurice — peace to him! — wint away." 
 
 [ 176 ] 
 
THE TRUE LOVE OF MAGGIE MAY. 
 
 SHE was the lone sister of six brothers, but 
 for all that Maggie May Conway was not a 
 spoiled girl. To be sure, she was her father's 
 "pet" and her mother's "treasure" and the idol 
 of those six boys. But, in spite of the praising 
 and petting and idolizing, Maggie May was the 
 gentlest girl in Co. Limerick. Her father. Dr. 
 John Conway, was the physician of Knockfeen 
 village, with a practice that took him into the 
 country for miles around. He was a good family 
 doctor, disposed to be cheerful and sympathetic 
 with his patients. He was especially kind to the 
 poor, following out the maxim which Father 
 Tracey had given him years before: "What a 
 man gives to the poor will come back double." 
 Maggie May was nearly twenty-one, "tall and 
 well-proportioned," as the people about put it. 
 Her rich growth of hair was gold colored, and, as 
 one of the Celtic bards said of a lady of his time, 
 "every strand was a ray borrowed from the 
 sun." Her features were long, her eyes mild and 
 full of expression. Indeed, if you saw her in the 
 still of a summer morning, as she walked down the 
 village to Mass, you would say she was the most 
 beautiful girl you ever laid your eyes on. 
 
 [ 177 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Hers was not merely a physical beauty, however, 
 which will spoil a girl who has not the good sense 
 to keep her feet on the ground. Maggie May 
 had a ripe mind. She had been going to school 
 to the nuns ever since she was able to walk; and 
 then she went to Newtownbarry, Co. Wexford, 
 for an advanced course in the convent there. She 
 could talk with her father about the Celtic move- 
 ment in literature, and often had the better of 
 the argument, though she rarely pressed her 
 victory. 
 
 When Dan Donovan started a draper's shop 
 at Knockfeen and began life for himself, there 
 were many who shook their heads at the ''foolish 
 venture." First of all, he had left a good position 
 in Dublin, — that is, good as positions go in 
 Ireland. In the second place, he was a stranger 
 to Knockfeen, having been born at the east side 
 of the county. But a travelling man told him 
 a shop was needed there; and Dan went, secured 
 a place, and began business. You may be sure 
 the days came and went slowly enough at first; 
 for the people were not anxious to change from 
 old to new ways. No doubt he was a good young 
 man, who made fine promises; but the new 
 broom always sweeps well. And many a night 
 Dan went to bed in the little room above his 
 shop with a tired and sorry heart, and many a 
 morning he woke with no new hope for the new 
 day. 
 
 Often and often Maggie May went by the shop 
 on little business trips to Athery. Five or six 
 
 [178] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 times she saw Dan standing solitary as a signpost 
 at his door. He looked well, too, with his thought- 
 ful face, and with a stature as tall and as brave 
 as the son of the Fenian mother described in the 
 song. Maggie May inquired about the stranger, 
 heard his story, and pitied. 
 
 "Poor young man, all alone in the village, and 
 not one of us lifting a hand to help him! 'Tis 
 shameful, so it is!" 
 
 So next day she went to the shop, bought 
 presents for her father and the boys — handker- 
 chiefs, neckties, collars, and what not — till they 
 thought the girl was taking leave of her senses 
 entirely. Then she had a good word to say to this 
 one and that about the new shop and the fine 
 young man who was behind the counter. The 
 people went, reluctantly at first, out of friendship 
 for Maggie May; more willingly later on, because 
 the shop was well supplied with the latest and 
 best, and because the handsome young man was 
 kind and obliging. 
 
 One day when Maggie May was coming back 
 from her walk she stepped in to buy a new pair 
 of kid gloves for her mother. Now, her mother 
 did not need gloves at all, but the young lady 
 felt she had a duty to perform to the lonely draper. 
 
 "What size did you say, Miss Conway?" 
 
 "O yes, the size! I haven't thought of that. 
 Now, let me see!" She frowned, trying to 
 remember. "How stupid I am not to know the 
 size of my own mother's gloves!" she said, with 
 confusion. 
 
 [179] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Donovan came to the rescue with a timely 
 suggestion. 
 
 "Now, Miss Conway, unless 'tis very urgent, 
 you could call in later on, and meantime 5^ou 
 could find out the size." 
 
 "Yes, that will be best, Mr. Donovan." 
 
 She was about to leave, when Donovan made 
 a little speech which he had been intending to 
 make for some time. 
 
 ' ' Miss Conway, before you go I want to thank 
 you as much as ever I can for the great kindness 
 you have shown me in coming yourself and 
 getting the people to come to my little shop. 
 You see, I am just starting; I haven't much yet, 
 but I hope to get on better as the months go 
 by. Just now you have been a very good friend 
 when I need friends most, and I hope — I hope — 
 God will bless you for it." 
 
 "Now, Mr. Donovan, I knew you had a good 
 shop, so I came here myself, and got my friends 
 to come too. That's all. You have held them 
 all by courteous attention." 
 
 The months went by, and Dan Donovan 
 prospered even as he deserved. Always he re- 
 membered the pure young face of Maggie May 
 that first brightened his shop and brought luck 
 ever after, and always he was strangely glad at 
 the thought. Many times they met and chatted, 
 and their acquaintanceship quickened into friend- 
 ship. What wonder is it that in these two young 
 hearts friendship ripened into love? And that v/as 
 what caused all the trouble. 
 
 [i8o] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Dr. John Conway was a good man, — let no 
 one doubt that. But many a good man has a 
 weakness, and Conway had his. He was an 
 Irishman with an ambition for an Anglo-Celtic 
 alliance. To put it concrete^, he wished his 
 Maggie May to marry a Major Sterwood, of the 
 "Queen's Own." He had met the Major several 
 times in Limerick at the home of Dr. Breenly, 
 who was a lifetime friend of his. This Major 
 Sterwood was a relative of Dr. Breenly, and of 
 course crossed the Channel two or three times a 
 year to visit him and his family. On two or three 
 occasions Dr. Conway took Maggie May with 
 him to visit at the Breenlys', where she met the 
 Major; and, naturally, there was "big talk and 
 ado" about a future match. To make a long story 
 short, the Breenlys were the means of opening 
 negotiations for a marriage alliance between the 
 Celtic house of John Conway, M. D., and the 
 Anglo-Norman house of Major Sterwood, of the 
 "Queen's Own." 
 
 The Major was not an Irishman, nor was he a 
 Catholic. However, Sterwood was a good enough 
 name, and he a good enough man for any woman, 
 thought John Conway. In addition to his good 
 name, he stood high in army circles. To be sure, 
 he was a member of the Church of England; 
 but, as they were to be married across the Channel, 
 a dispensation could be easily secured, and Maggie 
 May would be as happy as the day is long. That 
 was how John Conway reasoned ; and, to tell 
 the truth, his wife shared his views. Not that her 
 
 [i8i] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 heart was so set on the match; but a chance Hke 
 that does not come every new moon. 
 
 Early in December came the solemn night 
 when Maggie May was to be informed by her 
 father of her coming marriage to Major Sterwood. 
 The fire in the grate cast a cheerful glow on the 
 carpet of the sitting-room, and danced fitfully 
 on the glass hangings of the chandelier. The clock 
 on the mantelpiece beat back and forth the 
 march of the moments, while the old grey-and- 
 white cat purred contentedly in a plush-covered 
 chair. By accident or by design — it is not so 
 important either way, — both parents were alone 
 with their daughter that winter evening. The 
 father was evidently nervous, as most honest 
 men are when they have something to propose 
 which needs diplomacy to hide its unpleasant 
 features. 
 
 "Daughter," said the Doctor, clearing his 
 throat — he always said "daughter" on solemn 
 occasions, — "we have something very important 
 to tell you to-night. You are now nearing twenty- 
 one years complete, coming June tenth. You have 
 always been a good, dutiful daughter, the light 
 and comfort of your mother and myself. Of 
 course we should like to keep you always, to 
 brighten the house, especially when we are grown 
 old; for we shall have to depend upon somebody 
 else then to take care of us. But that would not 
 be fair to you. So, after thinking it over ourselves, 
 and talking it over with our closest friends, we 
 have decided to arrange a match between you 
 
 [182] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 and Major Sterwood, the cousin of the Breenlys. 
 In fact, we have already broached the matter; 
 and the Major — fine gentleman that he is — has 
 shown himself well disposed and well pleased. 
 I feel the time has come to let you know our 
 wishes, and what we have done in your behalf." 
 
 The Doctor felt he had said just what he in- 
 tended, and had said it well. There was a profound 
 silence. And a profound silence may be the highest 
 tribute of appreciation or the most crushing form 
 of disapproval. 
 
 "And now, daughter, w^e are waiting for a 
 word from you," ventured the Doctor, when the 
 long pause had grown painful. 
 
 "And what should I say, father?" she asked, 
 her eyes watching the blaze that rose and fell 
 behind the grate. 
 
 "'vSay'! Why, that's a strange way to put it, 
 daughter. Surely, you can say how thankful 
 you are, and how happy and how fortunate." 
 
 There was a note of ill-humor in the Doctor's 
 voice. 
 
 "Father, I can not be thankful for that which 
 I do not consider a gift; I can not be happy for 
 what I know would bring me only misery all 
 my years; and I can not call myself fortunate 
 for that which would bring me only misfortune." 
 
 "That is unusual language to your father and 
 mother, my girl. You don't know how long and 
 how hard we have worked to bring this match 
 about." 
 
 "Father, I wish you hadn't, — I wish you had 
 
 13 [183] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 left that Englishman to go his own ways." Maggie 
 May's eyes glistened with the tears that were 
 ready to break their barriers. 
 
 "Daughter," said Dr. Conway, in a tone that 
 always meant the last word to his children, "we 
 have set our hearts on this match." 
 
 "And, father," answered the girl, "I have set 
 my heart against this match." The glistening 
 tears were all dried up in the blaze of her eyes. 
 
 "My God, is she mad, — is the girl mad to use 
 such language? Am I doting or do I hear the 
 truth?" 
 
 "Father, listen one moment." 
 
 "No! Av\ray with you, you impudent hussy! 
 How dare you — be off!" 
 
 "John," interposed Mrs. Conway, "let her 
 speak. The child should be heard." 
 
 Dr. Conway did not say "Yes" and he did 
 not say "No." 
 
 All traces of anger gone, Maggie May began: 
 
 "Father, and you mother, you have always 
 been good to me, — very, very good. You have 
 given me v/hatever my heart wanted, and more. 
 You have never asked me for anything; though 
 often I wished you would, so that I could show 
 you I had a love for you in return. Now you 
 come at last and ask me to give the heart in me 
 to some one else. I wish I could give it, for your 
 sakes; but I am not free. Let me say it as truly 
 as the heart beats in me, I can never marry this 
 Englishman." 
 
 "Go to your room!" exclaimed the Doctor. 
 
 [184] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 She was gone in an instant, and the door closed 
 behind her. 
 
 In her room there was an exquisite little statue 
 of the Immaculate Conception, the crushed serpent 
 beneath the feet, the blue girdle gathering in the 
 white robes. Before it knelt Maggie May, and 
 prayed long and tenderly to the Virgin Mother; 
 while abroad, the vast sky was lighted with the 
 trembling stars. 
 
 Dr. Conway and his wife held conference far 
 into the night. The conclusion was inevitable. 
 It is always so in Ireland. Father Tracey was to be 
 brought into consultation ; he was to be acquainted 
 with the proposed alliance; he was to advise, 
 and then win over the wilful, foolish heart of 
 Maggie May. 
 
 The consultation took place next day; and 
 Father Tracey listened to the long narrative of 
 eulogy for the Major, his position, possibilities, 
 and what not. 
 
 "And now. Father Tracey, what do you think?" 
 asked Dr. Conway, when he had finished. 
 
 "I don't know what to think. Sometimes if 
 we'd think less and pray more, the paths we 
 plan would be straighter and smoother." 
 
 "Well, Father, we have set our hearts on this 
 match, and you must see Maggie May and get 
 her to be reasonable." 
 
 "Listen to me, John Conway. We are wise 
 in our ways, and we plot and figure, but God 
 doesn't always figure with us. I know your 
 Maggie May; I have seen her grow from a child 
 
 [1851 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 up. Her heart is white, — just as white as the lily. 
 But the lily is easily crushed till the life dies out 
 of it, and it never grows again. I'll speak to 
 Maggie May, John; but I will not crush the love 
 out of her young heart, if I think the Lord God 
 put it there." 
 
 That evening, when Maggie May, in answer 
 to his invitation, entered his little sitting-room, 
 Father Tracey was just finishing his Ofhce. 
 
 "Just wait now a minute, child," he said, as 
 he fingered the pages looking for an antiphon. 
 "And now, Maggie May, I have something to 
 say to you," declared the priest, when he had put 
 aside his Breviary. Presently they were discussing 
 the proposed alliance. "Tell me, what is there 
 about this English Major that makes you turn 
 against him?" 
 
 "Father, no doubt Major Sterwood is as good 
 as they say he is. I hope so, for it will be all the 
 more to his credit. But how can that concern 
 me? I have never had the least desire to marry 
 an. Englishman and leave my own country." 
 
 "But perhaps you would grow to like this — 
 this Englishman after a while?" 
 
 "No, Father. A girl has one heart to give, and 
 after it is given she should never take it back 
 and give it to another." 
 
 "To another?" 
 
 "Yes, Father, to another." 
 
 "I see, — I see! So somebody else has first 
 claim to Maggie May ! Well, well! " (Father Tracey 
 was silent for a while.) "And is he one of our own 
 people, child?" [ i86 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "Indeed he is, Father, and worth more than a 
 whole army of English officers." 
 
 "You don't tell me! And who is he?" 
 
 "Mr. Donovan." 
 
 "The draper upstreet?" 
 
 "Yes, Father." 
 
 "Well, I declare!" 
 
 The priest looked fixedly at the well-worn 
 carpet of the sitting-room, and was lost in the 
 mazes of his reflections. When he came back to 
 the open, Maggie May was still waiting. 
 
 "Child, this Donovan is here only seven or 
 eight months, and he's not rich and has no pre- 
 tensions. Your father will be in a fine temper 
 when he hears it, and many a day will gojby 
 before he consents." 
 
 "Father, I will wait." 
 
 "I believe you will," said the priest, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 She left presently. 
 
 Later on Father Tracey broke the news to Dr. 
 Conway. He was an outraged man, you may 
 be sure, and swore he would see the "hussy" 
 dead before he would give his consent. 
 
 "Don't say that, John," cautioned the priest. 
 
 "Father, I am speaking simple truth: I'd see 
 her dead before I'd consent to her marriage with 
 that pauper." 
 
 "God may take up your threat, John," said 
 the priest, ' as he went sadly away. 
 
 It was with a sense of crushed pride the Doctor 
 broke off negotiations for an alliance with Major 
 
 [187] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Sterwood. But you may be sure he was fully 
 determined that if his family could not step up 
 to the Major, it would not step down to Donovan. 
 
 Life in the Conway house went on much as 
 before. Maggie May was quieter, the Doctor was 
 a trifle less demonstrative; but bevond that there 
 was no perceptible change. 
 
 Shortly after the Christmas holidays, two years 
 later, Maggie May contracted a cold while visiting 
 friends in Cork. In a week after her return she 
 was in the clutches of pneumonia, and the death 
 struggle was on. 
 
 The best physicians in Limerick came, examined 
 and prescribed. A renowned specialist was sum- 
 moned from Dublin, and with him came hope. 
 He examined and prescribed. But Maggie May 
 was sinking fast. Her mother sat by the bedside 
 all the day and far into the watches of the night; 
 her father came often, lingered a moment and 
 went sadly away. There were times when words 
 came incoherently from the sick girl, and there 
 were, times when she was strangely calm. In one 
 of those calm moments she whispered to the 
 nurse : 
 
 "Father Tracey — I want to see him!" 
 
 She had already received the last Sacraments 
 and was prepared for the long journey. It was 
 something else now. 
 
 "Father," she whispered when the priest was 
 alone in the room, "I would like to see him, — I 
 would like him to come, so I could marry him 
 as I promised." 
 
 [i88l 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "And you still think of him? And you still 
 love him?" asked the astonished priest. 
 
 "Always, always!" she said, through her parched 
 lips, as if she were saying a prayer. 
 
 They were married that waning day in late 
 January, with a pale sun breaking through a 
 cloud in the blue above. They vowed their vows 
 till Death should them part, and Death even then 
 was trying to set them asunder. But Death did 
 not conquer, for Love gives life. When Maggie 
 May looked into the eyes of Dan Donovan, she 
 whispered : 
 
 "O Dan, Dan, I do not wish to die yet!" 
 
 "And you shan't, my own! For God doesn't 
 want you yet, and He won't put our lives asunder 
 so soon." 
 
 "May His will be done!" ejaculated Father 
 Tracey. 
 
 "Father, bless us both, and your blessing will 
 keep us together," said the young man, kneeling 
 down before the priest and holding the feverish 
 hand of his young wife. 
 
 "God bless and keep you together all the years, 
 my children!" said the gentle priest, as he signed 
 them with the Sign of the Cross. 
 
 Some of the neighbors said it was Father Tracey' s 
 blessing; a Limerick physician said it was a 
 case of "reinforced vitality"; Moll Magee said 
 "it was the sight of Dan Donovan himself — God 
 bless him! — that kept the life in the girl." One 
 can not be sure. Anyhow, Dan and Mrs. Donovan 
 
 [189] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 were the loveliest couple that ever entered the 
 dear old chapel of Knockfeen two months later, 
 when they got back from their trip to the North 
 of Ireland. 
 
 [ 190] 
 
THE FALLING OF NIGHT. 
 
 JOHN HARTIGAN died at the noon of a July 
 day, when the air was still and dry and the 
 sun hot. He left behind him a large family and a 
 widow, — she that used to be Mary Cusack from 
 back near Glen. The women came at three o'clock 
 to lay out the corpse, and soon John was stretched 
 upon the bed, his hands clasped over his breast, 
 with the crucifix between them. His strong face 
 was as white as ivory, his eyes closed, his lips 
 pressed together. Mrs. Hartigan herself was as 
 tearless as a stone; for the heart in her was 
 broken, now that her husband was still and 
 cold. The little children — the younger ones — 
 went about the house, not knowing what had 
 happened, and looking with large, wondering eyes 
 at their dead father. 
 
 The evening is coming now. The hills grow 
 fainter, and the line of the horizon melts into the 
 land. Nearby neighbors have caught the silence 
 of the place of death, and the spirit of quiet 
 extends to people more remote. The men in the 
 hayfields, who could not stop work for fear the 
 hay might be spoiled by a rain shower on the 
 morrow, work fast but silently, gathering in the 
 last cocks to finish off the "reek." Mike Donovan 
 lifts a heavy forkful to John Hackett, who stands 
 
 [1911 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 on the rung of the ladder which rests against 
 the "reek." Hackett hfts it to another man 
 farther up, who in turn pitches it to the man 
 on top. Always their conversation is subdued; 
 for the neighbors feel a deep sympathy, as the 
 one taken is a "great loss." 
 
 Little Johnny Hogan walks up the "boreen" 
 for the cows, which are waiting near the gate 
 of the high field to be driven home for the milking. 
 The shepherd dog trots before him, unmindful 
 of the birds that rise of a sudden from behind 
 tufts of grass beside the lane. He reaches the 
 gate of the high field, and if you were to stand 
 beside him you could see the houses that lie in 
 the wide valley below. They are whitewashed, 
 and the roofs of many are newly thatched; for 
 the thatcher made his circuit of the townland a 
 few weeks before. In the rear lie "haggards," 
 out of which many drills of early potatoes have 
 been dug. You can see the bare places where 
 the withered stalks are piled together, in sharp 
 contrast to the green of the growing stalks not 
 yet uprooted by the spade. Apple trees bend 
 their scores of arms under the weight of the 
 rapidly ripening fruit. The wheat fields lie in 
 great ridges, which will turn to gold with the 
 August sun. Under the oats the clover catches 
 the night dew and grows apace. Out of many 
 chimneys the smoke rises in graceful columns. 
 
 Johnny opens the gate and the cows pass 
 leisurely through, one by one. There is no need 
 for the boy to run beside them, to turn them this 
 
 [ 192 1 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 way or that: they know the way, and are anxious 
 to get to the barn, where their full udders will 
 be relieved of the milk. They form a great, un- 
 broken procession as they follow one behind the 
 other, their bodies swinging from side to side, 
 their heads tossing, their tails, like whips, beating 
 off the flies. One lows long and plaintively, and 
 the echo comes back from a little body of water 
 called Loughdee. Once within the barn, they 
 stand quietly chewing the cud, while the foaming 
 milk flows into the wooden buckets, which, when 
 filled, are emptied into large cans, that in turn 
 are carted to the dairy where the milk is "set" 
 in wide, shallow pans. Usually there is talk and 
 laughter and, here and there, a snatch of a song; 
 but this evening the milkers speak softly out of 
 respect for the dead man that lies in a sombre 
 room lit up by two wax candles in the house of 
 Mrs. Hartigan a couple of fields away. 
 
 The m.en at the hay have almost finished their 
 work. John Hackett is pulling on one of the 
 hay-ropes that extend over the "reek" to keep 
 it safe against the wind squalls that betimes 
 blow across from the Atlantic. While John pulls, 
 the man on top strikes the rope lightly with a 
 hayfork to make it taut down the sides. He 
 holds the prongs toward him, so that if the fork 
 should slip from his hands, no great harm would 
 come to the man below. When the ropes are made 
 secure the men go around the "reek" with wooden 
 rakes, smoothing it down and taking off the 
 loose hay. The work is completed at last. 
 
 ! 193 1 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "By gor, Jim," Hackett says, lifting a fork 
 and rake over his shoulder, "if it rains now itself, 
 'twon't be any great harm." 
 
 " 'Twon't, John,— 'twon't; but Bill Ahern 
 hasn't reeked his ten-acre field yet, an' he wants 
 the dry weather a little while." 
 
 "Oh, I don't think 'tis goin' to rain anyway!" 
 John added, looking up at the sky with keen 
 eyes. 
 
 And, truly, heaven carried no menace on its 
 broad face that evening. Here and there a star 
 began to peep, — the advanced-guard of the great 
 army that very soon would encamp on the wide 
 acres of the sky. The leaves on the maples were 
 faintly stirred with the soft wind of the South. 
 Not a single cloud floated anywhere above the 
 earth, while all around was sweet with the smell 
 of the garnered hay. 
 
 "So poor Hartigan is dead, after all!" mused 
 Mike Donovan, as he walked behind the other 
 men, not paying any attention to Hackett's pro- 
 nouncement about the weather. 
 
 "Wisha poor John! An' he didn't last long." 
 It was Tom Sullivan, the man that worked on 
 top of the reek, who spoke. 
 
 "Faix he didn't. Sure 'tis only a week ago, 
 ere yesterday, he took sick. I was mowin' a little 
 o' thim rushes," Donovan continued, walking 
 more leisurely along the headland of the potato 
 field, toward his house, "whin John walked by 
 me on the path beside the bog. 'Good-day, 
 John!' says I. — 'Good-day!' says he. 'An' God 
 
 [ 194] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 bless your work!' — 'An' you too, John,' says I. 
 'An' how are you?' — 'I'm not well at all, Mike. 
 I have just been up to Dr. Conway about a pain 
 I've been havin' in my side, an' about a reelin' 
 I gets in my head after I've been workin' for a 
 bit. An' Dr. Conway examined me an' told me 
 to go home an' go to bed at once, an' that he'd 
 be down later on in the day with medicines.' 
 John left me an' went home, an' the first thing 
 I knew was that he was down with a ragin' faver; 
 an' next day he had the priest, an' a couple o' 
 days more he was given over by priest an' doctor, 
 an' to-night he's wakin'," 
 
 "Yerra, life is so short anyhow, w^e're foolish 
 to spind so much of our time puUin' an' draggin', 
 whin in a few years we'll have to lave it all behind 
 us," said John Hackett, as he changed fork and 
 rake from one shoulder to the other. 
 
 "That's all very fine talk, John," replied Tom 
 Sullivan; "but a man has to pull an' drag an' 
 make a livin'. Sure, 'tisn't the likes of us would 
 go 'round the country with a sack on our backs 
 beggin'. We must live an' work, an' save a little 
 for our childer whin the rainy day comes." 
 
 "Sure I know that myself. I'm only sayin' we 
 mustn't think that workin' an' gettin' together 
 a little money is the only thing." 
 
 Probably Sullivan would have found some way 
 to take exception to Hackett's final admission 
 even, but they were already before the door of 
 the house, where Mrs. Donovan announced: 
 "Supper is ready!" 
 
 [ 195 1 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Back on the white road, the rattle of cars, 
 returning from the market of Ardee, comes f ainth^ ; 
 a dog barks from the yard of a neighboring house 
 at a passing stranger; a cow, her head above the 
 gate, lows plaintively. The milkers have now 
 finished their work; the milk is set, and the 
 dairy door is closed for the night. The moist 
 dew is on the grass and on the unripe ears of 
 wheat, and on the unraked hay still spread out 
 upon the meadow. 
 
 Down at the house of the dead, people speak 
 in whispers as they come and go. From the 
 yard before the house you can see into the room 
 where the body is laid out; for the window is 
 open to admit the cooling air. The two candles 
 on the table, with the crucifix between them, 
 burn with a steady flame for a little, then flicker 
 slowly as they catch the cool breath of the night. 
 Below the crucifix there is a glass of holy water, 
 in which is placed a sprig of fir, with which those 
 who come sprinkle the corpse. The face of the 
 dead Hartigan is as white as the white sheets 
 that cover the bed. How ghostly, how unlike the 
 sights to which one is accustomed, — the face of 
 the dead, under the flickering light of candles, 
 as seen through the window from the yard! 
 
 In the still night, faintly outlined forms are 
 seen coming from different directions, not talking 
 loudly nor laughing, nor whistling the turn of 
 a reel, nor lilting a stave of a song. For Hartigan 
 was a young man taken away shortly after the 
 midday of life, with promise of a calm, peaceful 
 
 [196] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOA^h 
 
 evening unfulfilled. His children are young and 
 helpless, and his wife has a hard life ahead of her. 
 
 A group of men are standing, their elbows resting 
 on the stone "ditch" some short distance from 
 Hartigan's house. The night is rather early yet; 
 the air is fresh, and a quiet smoke in the open 
 is inviting. Tade Clancy is among the number, 
 and already he is peopling the fields with spirits. 
 
 "Wisha, bo3^s, do ye remimber ould Crockett 
 that used to keep the hounds?" 
 
 "We do so." 
 
 "Ye do of course, seein' he's dead only fifteen 
 years. But did ye ever hear what happened at 
 his funeral?" 
 
 Most of them had not heard, or said so at least; 
 for they liked Tade's stories. 
 
 "Well, I'll tell it to ye so." And Tade began: 
 "Now, ould Crockett was the divil after the 
 the hounds, an' the divil entirely after the rints. 
 One year whin the crops were poor an' the people 
 sufferin', they asked him to take half for that 
 year, an' wait till the times got better. But not 
 a bit of him would do it. 'Pay,' says he, 'or get 
 out.' His tinnents, as ye know, were all in the 
 parish of Ballyadam, an' the parish priest was 
 a young man — Father Halpin, since dead, God 
 rest him! — an' a great Irishman. An' whin he 
 heard what Crockett said to his tinnents he spoke 
 from the altar, an' says he : ' Do ye stop him from 
 huntin' in yer lands, because Crockett an' every 
 other landlord is huntin' by the sufferance of the 
 people.' An' Crockett heard it, an' wint to see 
 
 [ 197] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 the priest. ' Is what I hear true' ? says he. — ' 'Tis, 
 an' double true,' says Father Halpin. — 'Thin 
 take that!' says he, hittin' the priest across the 
 face with his whip, the black scoundrel! Father 
 Halpin was a tall, strong man who could have 
 pitched Crockett over the ditch with his one 
 hand. But he didn't lay a fmger on him, only 
 said, solemn-like, just before he wint back into 
 the house: 'The dogs you hunt with will want 
 to get you before long.' That was all the word 
 he spoke, an' wint through the door. 
 
 "About a year after Crockett took sick with 
 pneumony, and died in a week. An' after four 
 days of mournin' they decided to bury him with 
 a grand funeral. One of the honors was to have 
 his hounds go behind the hearse. So, by gor, on 
 the mornin' of the funeral two of the servant 
 boys led the dogs down the road a bit, to wait 
 till the funeral got that way, so that whin it 
 came by they'd fall in with the procession behind 
 the hearse. By an' by the funeral came along, 
 an' just as soon as the hearse got near the dogs, 
 they let up a howlin' like all the divils in hell 
 were let loose among thim. They tore at the 
 horses, barked around the hearse as if they were 
 clane mad every dog o' thim. An' the servant 
 boys an' the coachmin who got off the carriages, 
 bate thim back with their whips, till the marks 
 of the lashes were on their backs; but the dogs 
 howled an' foamed, an' tore at the horses, till 
 the poor beasts took fright an' galloped like mad 
 down the road, with the dogs behind howlin' 
 
 [198] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 an' barkin', an' the carriages after. The police 
 of Athery heard o' the trouble, an' ran out with 
 their guns to meet the funeral. They got between 
 the dogs an' the hearse, an' fired a volley an' 
 shot some o' thim. Thin the other dogs, whin 
 they heard the noise o' the guns, jumped over the 
 ditch an' ran across the field an' over Duggan's 
 hill, an' were never seen again to this day, though 
 ye can hear thim be night most any time howlin* 
 around Crockett's house back at Bridgetown." 
 
 "Faith, that's a strange story, Tade, an' I 
 never heard it before," said Mick x\hern. 
 
 "Yerra, I'm surprised. Sure I thought most 
 everyone knew the story of Crockett's hounds," 
 rejoined Tade. 
 
 " 'Tis a bad thing to have anything to do with 
 the priest, boys," mused John Conway, as he 
 began to refill his pipe. 
 
 "Faix 'tis, except to go to your duties an' 
 be respectful," added Tom Sheehan. 
 
 And then the whistle of the "Goods" train, 
 bound for Limerick, screamed shrilly from down 
 near Athery. 
 
 "By gor, there's half -past tin!" broke in 
 Jackeen Hogan. "Let us get inside, boys, an' 
 wake the good man that's gone, God rest him!" 
 
 They turned toward the house, out of which 
 came the low murmur of many voices. Night 
 had settled over the land. But through the dark 
 one could see the flickering candles, with a cru- 
 cifix between them, motionless kneeling figures, 
 a dark shroud, and a white face. 
 
 14 [199I 
 
MAD MATT. 
 
 AT every season of the year, under torrid 
 sun or drenching rain, "Mad Matt" Don- 
 aghue was to be seen on the main-travelled roads 
 about Athery, Ardee, and Knockfeen. And so 
 familiar was his odd figure to all the people, 
 young and old, for miles and miles around, that 
 not a lone child on the road would think of running 
 away at the sight of him. It might be midwinter, 
 with the wind blowing a gale across the country, 
 and pelting the rain before it : just the same. Mad 
 Matt braved the wind and the wet, and appeared 
 as indifferent to the elements as if he were caressed 
 by the zephyrs of a summer sea. 
 
 Perhaps he was sixty years of age, — certainly 
 not more. His hair — which had never been cut, 
 so far as anybody knew — was half gray and ex- 
 tended midway down his back. About his loins 
 were gathered two or three doubles of canvas, 
 which were held together by a belt of black 
 leather. He was hatless and shoeless, and you 
 might as well fling feathers against the wind 
 as give head or foot wear to Mad Matt. 
 
 He walked on the right side of the road, his 
 shoulders bent forward, his feet seeking the 
 
 [ 200 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 smooth places where broken stones were not 
 scattered. "You'll be there, an' they'll be there, 
 an' we'll be all there by an' by," he said to 
 himself betimes as he went along. This sentence 
 was followed by mutterings for some ten minutes. 
 Then out of the incoherency this thought stood 
 apart: "If Nell was here she'd know, but Nell 
 is gone like the rest o' thim." Again incoherency; 
 then finally: "Wisha, God help us, an' 'twas 
 a sore night for all of us the night they came! 
 An' they're gone now, an' we'll never be the 
 same agin." So all along the road, day after day 
 these phrases were audible. Between them were 
 the lapses of incoherent muttering. Perhaps if 
 those lapses could be filled up, if thought could 
 be brought out of the disconnected words one 
 might find a story. 
 
 There were certain families who always gave 
 Matt shelter with the coming of night. When 
 in the neighborhood of Knockfeen his haven of 
 rest was the Condons "o' the Hill," so-called to 
 distinguish them from several other families of 
 the same name that lived in the neighborhood. 
 He might happen in at five, six, seven, or eight 
 o'clock. The hour made no difference; there 
 was supper and a bed that night, and a breakfast 
 before he left next morning. As he entered the 
 yard one wild night, when the wind whisked 
 around corners and the rain beat on the roofs 
 of the houses, Mrs. Condon was hurrying from the 
 dairy to the kitchen. She noticed Matt. 
 
 "Wisha, Annie," she called in to her daughter, 
 
 [201 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 who was sweeping back the ashes from before a 
 blazing fire, — "wisha, Annie, here's that anashore 
 of a Matt. Hurry, child, an' get hirn a cup o' 
 hot milk an' some bread an' butter, an' whatever 
 else you can find." 
 
 Presently Matt was before the kitchen door, 
 shaking the rain from his long hair. 
 
 "Yerra, poor man, get inside out o' the rain 
 an* the wind, or you'll get your death o' could." 
 
 Matt leaned over, pushed back the bolt of the 
 half-door, and in a moment was sitting on the 
 "hob" beside the cheerful fire. As the blaze 
 leaped up and down, one could watch him under 
 the play of light. His thin beard, which probably 
 never in long years had felt the pressure of a 
 comb, was, for all that, remarkably regular. His 
 face, brown from exposure, was long and thin, 
 and free from even a single wrinkle. His eyes, 
 neither wild nor staring, gave the eff"ect of gentle- 
 ness and timidity to his expression. The height 
 of his forehead was exaggerated by the long hair 
 which was pushed back from it. Except for the 
 occasional sentences and mutterings already men- 
 tioned. Matt never spoke; and when in people's 
 houses he refrained from even these. But he 
 always understood when spoken to, and when 
 advised to do anything not impossible or obviously 
 foolish always obeyed. When Annie Condon 
 said, "Now, Matt, take this hot milk and bread 
 and butter and this piece of bacon," he took 
 them, nodded his head in thanks and ate. When 
 ;. Condon said, a couple of hours later, "'Tis 
 
 [ 202 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 ten o'clock, Matt, an' you must be sleepy an* 
 tired; you'd better go to bed, me poor man," 
 Matt climbed up to the loft, back of the kitchen, 
 and was soon fast asleep. He was up in the gray 
 of the morning, took a piece of bread and a cup 
 of sweet milk from anybody who happened to 
 be around, and set out again on his life wandering. 
 
 Many tales were abroad to explain Matt's 
 strange condition. Micky the Fenian said that 
 in days gone by he stole an umbrella from the 
 priest's side-car while the priest was giving the 
 last Sacraments to a dying woman; and because 
 the priest had to go home in the rain. Matt had 
 to endure the wind and the wet with sparse 
 clothing ever after. 
 
 "That's a yarn, Micky," Tade Clancy objected; 
 "because why, I'll tell you. The punishment 
 is too big for the sin, so it is; an' God doesn't 
 work that way." 
 
 "Faix, if ye want to know the truth," said 
 Johnny Mangan, "Matt Donaghue is mad because 
 he married a Protestant from North Ireland in 
 his young days, an' she coaxed his money away 
 from him, an' thin left him without a hapurth 
 in the world. Sure 'tis no wonder he's mad, 
 boys!" 
 
 "Yerra, what are ye talkin' about, Mangan? 
 Sure the man was never married any time," 
 protested Tade Clancy. "If ye want to know 
 the truth, I'll tell ye." 
 
 "By gor, that's no way to put by what honest 
 min say, Tade Clancy." Johnny Mangan's 
 
 [203 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT ROME 
 
 feelings were hurt or he pretended they were. 
 "If ye want to know the story," Tade repeated, 
 not heeding the interruption, "I'll tell ye. Mad 
 Matt is a Wexford man, be all accounts. He 
 lived in a farm out from the city of Wexford, 
 with his two sisters. It was the time when the 
 * White Boys' wint around the county in the 
 night, batin' an' killin' people they had a grudge 
 agin. For some reason or other, they got a grudge 
 agin poor Matt, an' they wint ta his house one 
 night an' rapped at the door. 'Who's that in 
 God's name?' says Matt. — 'Grinds that are 
 droppin' in to visit ye,' says they. — 'Frinds are 
 always welcome to our house,' says Matt, openin' 
 the door. The door was hardly open whin the 
 divil a bit — Gud forgive me! — but six masked min 
 broke down the half-door an' stood in the middle 
 o' the kitchen. The two sisters started cry in' 
 and screamin', an' ye never heard such a hulla- 
 baloo in all yer life. They locked the two sisters 
 in one o' the rooms, robbed the house, an' nearly 
 bate the life out o' Matt before they left. The 
 poor boy was found by the neighbors next mornin' 
 lyin' on the floor, nearly half dead. An' while, 
 after a few months, he recovered the health o' 
 his body, he never recovered the health o' his 
 mind. So he's Mad Matt to this day." 
 
 "Wisha, glory to God, an' I wonder if that's 
 true?" said Mikeen Ahern. 
 
 "Yerra, do you suppose 'tis to make it up I 
 would?" retorted Tade. 
 
 "Faix, it may an' it may not," Mrs. Clancy 
 
 [ 204 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 was pleased to remark in her practical way, as 
 she added a couple of fresh sods of turf to the fire. 
 
 With the lapse of years Matt grew weaker, 
 and in a little while his figure was seen no more 
 on the white, winding roads. Many and many 
 a woman offered him a place of rest, now that his 
 wanderings were over. 
 
 "You will be no bother at all, poor man! An' 
 you can have your bed up in the loft, an' a bit 
 an' a sup whine ver you want it," said one good 
 woman, the mother of twelve children. 
 
 "Sure you can stay with us," another declared; 
 "an' come an' go as you like." 
 
 But Mad Matt shook his head slowly, and 
 pointed his lean finger to an old hut, abandoned 
 long since, a short distance away from Creela 
 graveyard. 
 
 "Yerra, is it loosin' your mind you are!" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Sheehan, who was standing by at 
 the time. 
 
 "Faix, it isn't; for he has lost it already," 
 Mike Quinn's wife whispered. 
 
 To the hut went Matt, and lived alone, with 
 the green fields around him, and heaven above. 
 The grass grew up to the door, and the smell 
 of the hay was in the house all summer. The bees, 
 that sucked the sweets from the flowering clover 
 below the tall spears, charged the air with 
 slumber and dreams. At his door sat Matt, 
 watching the great crop rise and fall like the 
 sea when the wind came with gentle cooling 
 from the south or west. Many a bird rose and 
 
 [205 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 hovered for a little over the nest where her young 
 ones were songless in the soft grass; many a 
 butterfly, with speckled wings, fluttered from 
 flower to flower, gathering its toll. In the shady 
 places of a shallow stream that flowed outside 
 the hayfield, the cattle stood, their feet in the 
 cool water, their heads under protecting branches. 
 Upstream, where large stones were thrown to 
 form a weir, the waters leaped and sang 
 unceasingly. 
 
 "You'll be there, an' they'll be there, an' 
 we'll be all there by an' by," murmured Matt, 
 as he sat before the door, watching the face of 
 the country. Children came and brought him 
 something to eat, or an extra blanket to cover 
 him in the cool of the evening. Matt never spoke, 
 but his eyes showed gratitude. 
 
 Summer passed, and the leaves were changed 
 to gold. Autumn passed, and the leaves were 
 changed to brow^n. The blight of winter was on 
 everything — grass, tree, shrub. A chill wind from 
 the. North brought the frost of a January night 
 when the stars shone near together in a cloudless 
 sky. Matt sat at his door, watching the heavens, 
 and perhaps listening to the songs which poets 
 tell us are sung by the stars. Feeling the chill 
 air herself, Mrs. Sheehan thought of the "poor 
 anashore" in the hut, and, accompanied by her 
 son John, took him a warm blanket. She found 
 him sitting at the door, watching the heavens. 
 
 "Here, Matt, go to bed now, and put this 
 extra blanket over you." 
 
 [206] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Matt's expression did not change. 
 
 "Do you listen, poor man? Go to bed now, 
 an' don't be sittin' out here in the could." 
 
 She shook him gently by the shoulder. At 
 her touch he fell over, face downward. "My 
 God! John, lift him up! He's stunned with the 
 could!" 
 
 Mother and son lifted the light body back on 
 the chair. The eyes were open and still watching 
 the heavens. 
 
 "O dear God, he's dead!" cried Mrs. Sheehan, 
 as she touched the cold hand. 
 
 The neighbors came, and the body was pre- 
 pared and placed on the couch where Mad Matt 
 used to sleep. Next day one of the Poor Law 
 Guardians was in favor of having the dead man 
 laid away in the paupers' graveyard up near 
 Ardee. But the people of Knockfeen thought 
 otherwise. 
 
 "He was among us in life," spoke up Dan 
 Sheehan, "an' we're goin' to have him among us 
 in death." 
 
 And the neighbors echoed: 
 
 "That's talking, Dan!" 
 
 So Mad Matt was laid away in Creela grave- 
 yard, around which stretched the growing hayfields 
 when the summer came back. 
 
 [ 207 ] 
 
THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL. 
 
 CURRAGH schoolhouse stood on the side of 
 the road, with a *'mortar-and-stone" wall 
 surrounding it, to keep it sacred from contact 
 with the working world. Inside the wall grew a 
 well-trimmed hedge, which after some 5^ears con- 
 cealed the masonry, that, to tell the truth was 
 black from age and Irish rain. 
 
 Of a summer morning it was a sight to make 
 the heart in you glad to see the children from 
 north, south, east and west, walking to this 
 centre of knowledge to get what the old people 
 called "a bit o' schoolin'." The little girls, v/ith 
 their white bibs and calico dresses, and their 
 hair held back by a blue band, looked askance 
 at a stranger when he passed them by. The boys, 
 with their caps and knickerbockers, sauntered 
 along, som.e of them spinning tops, others com- 
 mitting to memory a lesson in grammar or 
 geography. 
 
 James Sullivan was the *'masther" of Curragh 
 school, with the title of "First Class." Just what 
 were the prerogatives and privileges of "First 
 Class" as against second or third the boys and 
 girls did not pretend to know. They imderstood, 
 
 [ 208 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 indeed, that first was better than second; but 
 how much better— well, that belonged to the 
 inspector. 
 
 It was late July and the inspector was making 
 his annual visit. He alv/ays came before the 
 summer vacation; and after his visit was over, 
 the days of rest began. Along the roads and 
 across the flowering fields the children went 
 earlier than usual, just to get into school and be 
 settled before the great man arrived. The girls 
 wore their best dresses, and the boys their Sunday 
 suits. The master himself had on the black coat 
 and the grey trousers which he never wore on 
 ordinary schooldays. 
 
 The children are coming in, with the flush 
 of the morning on their faces and the dew of the 
 fields on their boots. There is less of a buzz 
 than usual; for they are hushed into silence by 
 expectancy. Little Paddy Madigan, w^ho is the 
 brightest boy in third class, has a throbbing pulse 
 lest he fail to pass up into fourth; Nance O'Neill 
 is in fourth, and disgrace would rest on her name 
 if she did not rise with honor into first stage of 
 fifth. Danny Donavan is at the outer end of the. 
 seat. He is not very clever, finds it hard to learn, 
 but he has gentle eyes and quiet manners; so 
 everybody loves him, and hopes he will not be 
 left behind. All are excited, anxious, hopeful. 
 
 James Sullivan was a man of twenty-eight, 
 unmarried and alone in the world. His father and 
 mother were both under the grass of the bleak 
 graveyard back at Kilcappa hill; and he, their 
 
 [209] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 only child, was left lonesome and lonely, with 
 only the memory of happier days. One does not 
 wonder he loved the little boys and girls from 
 the countryside around Curragh, whose young 
 voices made music in his school all the long day. 
 One does not wonder, either, that there was a 
 weight in his heart that made his blood bound 
 in his veins when he saw them pass out of his 
 sight as the schoolday was over. Sorrow mellows 
 men, makes them merciful, soft of speech, patient, 
 and ready to hear a story of trouble or pain. 
 Only success and visions of greatness lift the 
 heads of men so high they can not see a tear 
 in the eyes of the afflicted nor hear the cry of 
 the lowly. 
 
 Sullivan knew all his little flock of scholars, — 
 their talents, their innocence, their simplicity, 
 their eagerness to satisfy, their leaping hearts 
 for the least service. No wonder that these Irish 
 country boys and girls, who had heard of the 
 flogging schoolmasters in other districts, loved 
 this, man, who knew the power of sweetness and 
 gentleness. Those hired slave-drivers, who felt 
 that education must be beaten into children with 
 a stick, had no conception of their divine mission — 
 the opening of thought vistas to eager eyes. They 
 had a mind to "salary" and the "results" after 
 examinations. 
 
 At last the black side-car and handsome horse 
 of the inspector were seen coming down over 
 the Pike Hill road. The driver was on one seat, 
 the inspector on the other. You could hear your 
 
 [210] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 heart beating if 3^ou listened, it was so still in 
 the school. Then Mr. Sullivan, in the last few 
 minutes that remained before the great m.an 
 entered, walked to the front of the desks where 
 the children were sitting, and simply said: 
 "Children, you have studied hard, so do the 
 best you can to-day. The examinations will 
 be over about four o'clock. I want to see you 
 all for a little while then, as this is the last day 
 of school and vacation begins to-morrow." The 
 children almost forgot to be afraid of the in- 
 spector, so surprised were they at the teacher's 
 request. Presently the inspector entered. All 
 stood up as a token of respect, were immediately 
 seated again, and the great battle for promotion 
 was on. 
 
 First comes the "infant class" in their ab-abs. 
 Little Jimeen Sheehan spells h-o-u-s-e, and Maggie 
 Noonan spells s-c-h-o-o-1, but Tommiy Duggan 
 spells "road" r-o-d-e. Then he blushes, hesitates, 
 and finally, as the inspector points his index 
 finger at the next in the circle, shouts "r-o-a-d!" 
 He has caught fleeing Opportunity by her single 
 lock and is saved. Meantime boys and girls in 
 the sixth class are working problems from blue 
 cards which the inspector has brought along; 
 those in the fifth are writing a letter to an im- 
 aginary Aunt Elizabeth in Dublin, telling her 
 about an imaginary bazaar in an imaginary place 
 called Brexwell. The third and fourth classes are 
 giving examples of penmanship in as finished 
 a hand as their nerves will allow. Young Danny 
 
 [211] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Kennedy overloads his pen with ink, and begins 
 to circle the curve of a beautiful C. After all, 
 a pen is a pen, and long before the C is circled 
 its lovely outlines are blurred with a black spot 
 "as big as a ha'penny." Mollie Hogan, who sits 
 next him, laughs stealthily at his misfortune, 
 which makes Danny promise a measure of revenge, 
 you may be sure. 
 
 Then the first class undergoes its oral test, 
 and the second and the third. Like a pyramid 
 turned upside-down, the higher the class the longer 
 it takes to circle its variety of subjects. Spelling 
 and reading; spelling, reading, and arithmetic; 
 spelling, reading, arithmetic, and geography; spell- 
 ing, reading, arithmetic, geography, and grammar; 
 spelling, reading, arithmetic, geography, grammar, 
 and agriculture. And so on, bigger and bigger 
 like the house that Jack built. 
 
 As the day reaches far into the afternoon, 
 those out on the field who were examined in the 
 morning have grown weary of their play. The 
 higher classes undergoing their oral tests are 
 w^eary also, — weary of the long, anxious wait, 
 of the monotonous hum of voices, of the endless 
 changing and marching back and forth. 
 
 At last the tests are over. The inspector, with 
 Mr. Sullivan's assistance, gathers up his array 
 of papers, records, cards, and what not. He 
 locks them, away in his satchel, bids the Curragh 
 schoolteacher a perfunctory good-bye, mounts his 
 side-car, and soon you can hear the wheels rolling 
 over the broken stones as his horse speeds along. 
 
 [ 212 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Then the children, tired of the long day and 
 anxious for the welcome sight of home, re-enter 
 the school. The teacher stops a little rosy-faced 
 chap of six and asks: 
 
 "What's your name?" 
 
 "Dan McCann, an' an Irishman," answers the 
 little fellow, saluting. 
 
 Then he asks a red-haired miss of seven: 
 
 "And what's your name?" 
 
 "Rosaleen, the Irish queen," she answers, 
 with a courtesy. These are the catchwords the 
 schoolteacher has taught them; and as he hears 
 them now, somehow, instead of the smile with 
 which he has been accustomed to greet these 
 younger children, his face is serious. 
 
 When they are all seated, he walks to the front 
 of the desks where he stood at the beginning of 
 the day. The children are quiet and anxious. 
 They forget about home and vacation. The 
 teacher surveys his scholars for a little, and 
 then speaks softly, for his voice is heavy with 
 feeling : 
 
 "Children, I won't delay you long. I wouldn't 
 keep you waiting at all only I am anxious to have 
 these few minutes alone with you before you go 
 home. Your examinations are over now, and the 
 vacation is beginning. You have kept at your 
 books this year — most of you have, — and I know 
 you will be promoted to higher classes. There 
 may be two or three failures, but that does not 
 matter. We can not expect all to go up You 
 will have a very happy vacation, I know. You 
 
 [213] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 will be back at home and free. Do not play all 
 the time, however; for as we vary our working 
 time with play, so we must vary our playing 
 time with work. Be good, just like all our simple 
 people around, — not only now when you are 
 young, but later on when you are older. Try always 
 to remember your race, and to be proud of it and 
 to do it honor. We come of kings and warriors 
 and bards and orators and saints; hence the 
 hearts in us should be warm to music and to 
 battle and to prayer. Some of you will be going 
 to America, maybe, later on. You may get rich 
 and mighty, and you may have the world smiling 
 at your feet some day. But you must never, 
 never forget your Irish faith, your Irish love for 
 this island home of ours, nor your love for your 
 own people, no matter how poor. 
 
 "I am taking so much time, children, because 
 it will be long before I see you again, if ever." 
 (Then the eyes of his child audience grew large 
 with wonder.) "You have always been such 
 good children — gentle, truthful, respectful, — that 
 I feel lonesome to leave you, — just as if you 
 were my very own. But, you see, all my people 
 are away under the earth; and, as I want a change 
 in order to see the world and earn a better living, 
 I have made up my mind to go to America this 
 summer — " 
 
 "Yes, but you will be back in August, sir!" 
 interrupted Danny Hogan, forgetting his manners 
 in his fright over the terrible news. 
 
 "No, not in August — not in August," echoed 
 the teacher, sadly. [ 214 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 Nothing quickens tears in the eyes of a good 
 man Hke tears in the eyes of a child. So when 
 Kitty Shanahan and Maura Sheedy and Jimeen 
 Hogan and Paddy Clancy cried silently for the 
 going of this kindly, humane teacher, and when 
 so many of big as well as little without distinction 
 were caught by the contagion, 'tis small wonder 
 the heart of this strong man gave way and that 
 his eyes were glistening with tears. After all, 
 child love is the least selfish. So little fills the 
 heart of a child, yet it gives back so much in 
 return! Sullivan knew this. He knew that all 
 he had ever given those friends of his was a kind 
 word here and there, — a little of the honey of 
 encouragement. Yet how large a love they were 
 giving back to him! 
 
 "And now, children," he finished with a heavy 
 voice, "May God be good to you and to this 
 dear island of ours! And may He be kind and 
 merciful to me when I am away among strangers 
 in a lonely land! Pray for me, who will not see 
 you again as little ones with your blue Irish eyes 
 and with your true Irish hearts. God bless you! — 
 God bless you! Good-bye, Maura; and you, 
 Mollie and Jimeen and Ted; and you, little 
 Maurice and Rosaleen; and you, Jim." 
 
 So to each one passing out he gave his strong 
 hand that circled the child hand in its warm 
 clasp. Then came the baby of the school, Mollie 
 Anne. Into his arms he took the little one, 
 stroked, with a hand that was never lifted but 
 in love, the black hair, and whispered in a broken 
 
 IS . [215] ^ 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 voice: "Good-b3^e, good-bye, Mollie Anne! You're 
 the best baby girl in all Ireland." The little head 
 nodded wearily, for the day had been long and 
 sleepless. Then he touched the little white fore- 
 head with his lips, and presently she joined the 
 other children. 
 
 For a long time he looked from the school 
 door at the group that broke away into little 
 streams and went slowly homeward to the north, 
 south, east, and west. He had the mood that 
 weights the heart with feeling, and then finds its 
 escape in song. The years of quiet were ended; 
 the lowly lives of little children that flooded his 
 darkest days with stray sunlight and made song 
 that could be heard beneath the rolling of winds — 
 they were all gone, gone out of his life. The passion 
 had caught him. The cry of the West to brave 
 the ocean and find possessions in the New World 
 had lured him like a siren. The longing for a 
 wonder world, for romance, for daring and doing, 
 had beaten at the door of his gentle soul. Yes, 
 he must go. The eager, impulsive, imaginative, 
 carefree Celt has caught the fever. Sorry or not, 
 he must go. 
 
 And the children, far down the fields or away 
 on the white road, move slowly; for their hearts 
 feel the pain of the parting. What to them is 
 vacation now, when their hero is leaving! What 
 to them freedom from books when the kindest 
 face they have ever known will not smile them 
 a welcome when they return in the waning 
 summer! The smoke from the chimneys of their 
 
 [216] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 homes, which they see rising far down the valley, 
 would be a sign of welcome in other years: now 
 it is the form of one they love fading away. James 
 Sullivan from the door sees the last of them 
 passing over the hill or turning the bend of the 
 road. He thinks they look back to wave him 
 adieu, and he waves in return. 
 
 "The sweetest faces and the whitest souls that 
 God ever blessed the world with are you! You 
 will grow tall and fair, and the land that should 
 be yours belongs to a stranger, and your birthright 
 is stolen and your riches are wasted, while you 
 are left desolate. God help me! The voice is 
 calling me, and I am following, — I who have been 
 so happy here, in sun and rain, in Autumn and 
 Spring! That's the last of them. They have 
 turned the road bend; they have gone over the 
 hill. And I am leaving them and following the 
 voice, with my face to the West." 
 
 [217] 
 
THE ATHERY MEETING. 
 
 THE Athery meeting* had been placarded for 
 weeks before. You read of it at the chapel 
 gates, on the telegraph poles along the roads, 
 outside the post office at Cronin's mill, at 
 Madigan's forge; and for three weeks ahead 
 Jacky the Bellman had been announcing it at 
 all the fairs. Hence the event took on a measure 
 of importance, surpassing anything of a like 
 character for years before. 
 
 In Ireland, they say that it always rains at 
 the meeting. But never a drop fell on Athery 
 that day, nor for two days before, nor for two 
 after. There were only a few white clouds all 
 over the face of the heavens; a soft breeze blew 
 in from the Shannon and up the Deel, which 
 tempered the heat of the July sun. Insects hummed 
 in drowsy fashion out among the flowering weeds 
 
 * In Ireland the word "meeting" implies an assem- 
 blage of people that gather for some patriotic purpose. 
 First, there is usually a procession or parade, followed 
 by considerable oratory from Members of Parliament of 
 more or less prominence, depending on the importance of 
 the occasion. Sometimes an attorney or a priest adds 
 his voice to sway the multitude. 
 
 [218] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 that grew among the rushes where the soil was 
 black and moist. 
 
 The procession formed back at the chapel 
 gates and began to march shortly after last Mass. 
 Every parish for miles around was represented 
 by a banner and a number of marching men. 
 The banners were of various designs and re- 
 splendent with manifold inscriptions. Generally 
 there were two upright poles surmounted by a 
 transverse bar, from which was suspended the 
 banner proper. The inscriptions v/ere done in 
 gold on a background of green. As the men 
 marched, holding the poles, you could get the gist 
 of the sentiment. Shanagolden banner bore the 
 slogan, "The Land for the People"; Creela pro- 
 claimed the truth, "For God and Country"; 
 Nenagh, "God Save Ireland"; Ballydee, "Ireland 
 is Worth Dying For." Knockfeen was glorified 
 by a demand expressed in numbers: 
 
 We want the land that bore us, 
 Which our Fathers had before us; 
 
 Then together stand 
 
 For our native land, 
 With heaven shining o'er us. 
 
 And so they marched, the men of Ardee with 
 the Ardee hurling club, wearing green jerseys 
 and caps, and each player bearing his hurly on 
 his shoulder. The Garryown brass band was 
 moving in single footfall, playing "O'Donnell 
 Aboo." Then the blood surged through your 
 veins and you longed for a gun. The Kilmeedy 
 men came, three hundred strong; tall, large- 
 
 [219] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 boned men they were, who looked ahead Hke 
 soldiers. The fife-and-drum band, made up of 
 schoolboys of the "Monks' School" at Adare, 
 whistled by to the tune of "God Save Ireland," 
 and received an ovation. Old and New Kildimo, 
 always factious in the past, joined hands in love 
 on the great day, and carried a sign bearing the 
 inscription "United we Stand." 
 
 And so they marched on and on, — the men 
 from the West who labored in the bog fields, the 
 men from the South who labored at the hay, the 
 men from the East who kept the stock and the 
 dairies, the men from the North who tilled the 
 land; old men with the fire of the long-ago still 
 leaping up in their eyes, as the music stirred the 
 strings of memory; middle-aged men, with wives 
 and big families left behind in some quiet country 
 home. Their faces were tanned by the sun and 
 their hands rough from the plow and the spade 
 and the scythe. But they were brave men, not 
 afraid of danger with a spice of romance to it; 
 nor fearful of war. The young men moved along, 
 conscious that the eyes of many were upon them, 
 and proud of their quick, firm steps hitting the 
 road at the same instant. They might be 
 descendants of the Gallowglasses, for all one 
 knew. And if you stood there and watched them, 
 blue-eyed and dark-haired like the Milesians 
 who sailed down the Atlantic in search of Innis- 
 fail, you would know that God never meant they 
 should be serfs. 
 
 V/endell Phillips is reported to have said on 
 
 [ 220 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 one occasion, before a Toronto audience of Orange- 
 men, that the Union Jack is the only flag that 
 never waved above a slave. If one quibbles 
 about a term, it is possible the statement is 
 sufficiently true to work up a climax in order to 
 win the applause of Toronto Orangemen. But in 
 spirit and truth it is as false as many another 
 large statement that has worked its way into the 
 minds of men. Landlordism and pauperism and 
 privation of education that for so long was 
 England's policy in handling the Irish Question 
 created a slavery in fact, if not in name. And 
 even on that Sunday, in the late Eighties, one 
 felt the marching men of every age and condition 
 were, somehow, the slaves of a blundering govern- 
 ment, that could not or would not see the light 
 even when the whole world cried out, *'Lo, it 
 is here!" 
 
 On a large field outside the town, the marching 
 men came to a halt. A platform was constructed 
 some seventy yards in from the road, in front 
 of which the people gathered to hear the orators 
 who had come from near and far. As each 
 division entered, those who bore the banner made 
 it secure to the side of the platform, where it 
 waved in the soft summer breeze. 
 
 One does not remember, over the reach of 
 years, the political sapience that enlightened the 
 listening throngs that day. The eloquent appeals 
 that brought back the "hear, hear!" and "loud 
 and prolonged cheering," and the "great applause," 
 no longer stand large and apart above the un- 
 
 [221] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 eventful things of the past. But Micky the 
 Fenian was there, and frequently interrupted 
 the Member of Parliament from County Wexford. 
 Once, however, when that worthy man declared, 
 uplifting his right hand, "Fellow-countrymen, our 
 faces are set in the right direction," Micky inter- 
 rupted, "By gor, yours isn't, anyhow, or I'd hear 
 what you're sayin' better!" This seemed a dis- 
 courtesy in the opinion of those immediate to 
 Micky; hence he was greeted with reminders like, 
 "Whist!" — "Yerra, can't you keep your tongue 
 quiet a while, anyhow?" All which had a chasten- 
 ing effect on Micky, you may be sure; for, like 
 men in general, when his wit met with disapproval 
 it cooled quickly. 
 
 As the shadows of the afternoon lengthened, 
 the crowd grew weary of standing and listening. 
 After all, many of those who came had a long 
 distance to travel before they would reach home. 
 The last speaker but one had finished, and a 
 relieving cheer rent the heavens. The final speaker 
 was not formally announced, hence the people 
 were curious. They were told he would be brief, 
 and you may be sure this caused a great uplifting 
 of hearts. 
 
 "Yerra, who is it?" asked Jim Donnelly of 
 Johnny Mangan, who stood near. 
 
 "You tell me an' I'll tell you, — without giving 
 you a short answer," Johnny replied, straining his 
 neck to see over the shoulder of the man before 
 him. 
 
 Then he appeared, — white-haired and smooth- 
 
 [ 222 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 faced, holding his tall hat in his left hand, a 
 patriot if ever there was one — the gentle Father 
 Tracey himself. ' ' Father Tracey ! Father Tracey ! ' ' 
 shouted some one. Then, to use an elaborate 
 Homeric figure, even as a west wind gathers up 
 one wave that quickens all the sea till billows 
 break to landward, so thousands of tongues took 
 up the name so well known, so well loved and 
 made of it a battle cry, a song, a phrase to conjure 
 by. What now were Members of Parliament 
 from Dublin, Wexford, and Kilkenny! What 
 were * ' anashoreens ' ' of barristers who wore wigs in 
 the court-rooms ! What were Poor Law Guardians, 
 with their weekly Unions up at Ardee or back 
 at Newcastle! What were solicitors, with their 
 smart talk about being "amenable to the law" 
 for this or for that! What were they all, with 
 their fine dress and smart talk, beside this white- 
 haired, smooth-faced man, anointed of God, with 
 the glory of seventy years mounting fast upon 
 him! He stood still and silent while the thousands 
 cheered and cheered, and waved hats, handker- 
 chiefs, and flags, till from the hills west of the Deel 
 River over and over again came back the echoes. 
 Then Father Tracey reached out his hand, palm 
 down, over the crowd; and in a little while 
 silence settled, and faces were lifted in listening 
 attitude. 
 
 "My dear people," the priest began very 
 quietly and without any flourish, "the good men 
 who have charge of this meeting asked me to say 
 
 [223] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 a word to you before you go home. I know you'll 
 be glad to go when I'm finished." 
 
 A ripple of laughter quickened here, and it 
 reached to every face when leather Tracey added: 
 
 "For up at Knockfeen they sometimes go 
 before I'm through at all. You have noticed there 
 are no policemen or soldiers here to-day [great 
 cheering] excepting myself [a veritable storm]. 
 It is said by our enemies that we are a lawless 
 people, an intemperate people. But there has 
 been no fight here to-day. [The priest paused 
 and looked around.] And I do not see a single 
 drunken man. That makes the heart in me glad, 
 and gladdens the heart of any man who loves 
 Ireland. My people — for you are all mine in a 
 sense, — I love you when you are sober, and I 
 weep for you when you are not. Thank God, 
 Ireland to-day is a sober Ireland; and — for I 
 see the signs everywhere — to-morrow, with the 
 guidance of His blessed light, Ireland will be a 
 free Ireland. My people, the day is coming to 
 an. end. The sun is going down in the West, and 
 soon the stars will appear in the sky. Many of 
 you have come from a distance and have a long 
 journey before you. Go home sober, each and 
 all of you, to your wives and children that wait 
 for you at the half-door, to see if you are coming 
 with a high head and a steady step through the 
 falling night. They'll see you straight and strong 
 and sober, won't they?" 
 
 "They will, your Reverence, — they will! [Great 
 cheering.]" 
 
 [ 224] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "Thank you! God bless you, and take you 
 safe home!" 
 
 The ending was so sweet, so solemn, so gentle, 
 the people paid the tribute of breathless silence. 
 Then the men on the stand walked down the 
 steps and out to the road. Those who had charge 
 of the banners took them down, folded them and 
 bore them away. The bands played "Garryown" 
 and "Wearin' o' the Green" and "God Save 
 Ireland," while those about the stand broke and 
 parted. Soon the vast field was deserted, and 
 only the trampled grass and the empty stand, 
 and the green bunting that fluttered in the wind 
 of the waning day, told the story of the cheering 
 thousands. 
 
 Now the people have eaten at the homes of 
 friends or at some restaurant, or have stilled the 
 pangs of hunger with the lunches they have 
 brought. They are going through the quiet 
 evening to their homes, — the men from the West 
 who labor in the bog fields, the men from the 
 South who labor at the hay, the men from the 
 East who keep the stock and the dairies, the men 
 from the North who till the land. They are 
 sober and thoughtful, their eyes straight ahead. 
 In their quick Celtic fancies they see young wives 
 and children waiting to hear the news of the 
 meeting " ; in their memories they hear a voice 
 that is low and sweet — "Thank you! God bless 
 you, and take you safe home!" 
 
 [ 225 ] 
 
THE AFTER YEARS. 
 
 ^AWN breaking on Queenstov/n harbor. Four 
 Irish girls, come home from America to spend 
 Christmas in the old land, are wiping the tears 
 away at the sight of the familiar city spread out 
 along the hill. The paperman comes up with the 
 Cork Examiner, and has no change for a sixpence. 
 Sixpence, a mere trifle, — what is change to you? 
 Still it makes you moralize, if you are of the 
 land. You say to yourself: Many a tourist thinks 
 that the paperman v/ith his mean whine about 
 no change, and the lacewoman with her run of 
 talk that tires, and the jarvey with his hand 
 always reaching out, are typical of the race: 
 that these express the hospitality and the warm.th 
 and the heart of the people. But of course 'tis 
 otherwise; for the paperman and the lacev/oman 
 and the jarvey are mean money-getters as foreign 
 to Ireland as is the travelling Jew or gypsy. 
 But how can the hurrying tourist know, who sees 
 all Ireland from one peep at Queenstown or 
 Dublin? 
 
 On the way to Cork there is a lad of fifteen in 
 the train with his strap full of books. He is 
 smooth-faced, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and probably 
 
 [226] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 will hold up his end of a conversation. He talks 
 very well, you find; he is going to a college in 
 Cork; studies Latin, trigonometry, Irish history, 
 Roman history, and so on. You bid him good-bye 
 at Cork station, and the train passes out near 
 the neighborhood of Blarney Castle. Blarney 
 has won a certain notoriety beyond other Irish 
 antiquities; but there are a dozen or so castles 
 vastly more interesting, more crowded with 
 memories of daring deeds than this popular pile 
 out from the city on the Lee. On either side 
 along the way are prosperous-looking towns, and 
 around them rich grazing lands, on which fat 
 cattle are browsing in shady places. 
 
 Down at Limerick Junction a train is waiting 
 for your train to pull out. During the wait one 
 porter calls out, "Tickets!" and another follows 
 and punches holes in them. An old woman 
 standing on the platform asks in a high pitch: 
 
 "Porther, is that other thrain for Caherfin?" 
 
 "Yerra, woman, can't you see I'm in a hurry?" 
 responds the "porther," ceasing to punch. 
 
 "Faix, thin, you might answer a civil question 
 with a civil answer, at any rate." 
 
 "Don't I tell you I'm in a hurry, woman, to 
 let the thrain go?" The porter, however, doesn't 
 seem to be especially hurried. 
 
 "Well, I want to go to Caherfin." 
 
 "Yerra, go! I'm not houldin' you." 
 
 "Well, but where is the thrain?" 
 
 "There it is, over there." 
 
 "Will I w^alk into it now or will I wait?" 
 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 "Well, if you walk into it now, it won't go 
 away without you, at any rate." 
 
 By this time everybody is convulsed with 
 laughter over the ridiculous situation in which 
 the porter who clamors about his time has still 
 so much of it to waste. 
 
 "Wisha, the divil carry you an' your ould 
 guff!" the old woman calls after him as the 
 train pulls out. 
 
 Then on to the city of Limerick, which the 
 Danes held once and where Danish names still 
 survive; where William of Orange met his 
 repulses, and where the name of Sarsfield shines 
 with special brilliance. These are all dead glories, 
 however, that only quicken regrets for what might 
 have been. One likes to dream when the dream 
 does not vanish with a sharp pain. And whoever 
 dreams of historic Ireland as distinct from Ireland 
 of the hearth and the people, must feel conscious 
 at every turn that everything might have been 
 different if something had not happened. But 
 the something always happened, and therefore 
 the sad sequel. 
 
 If Brian of the Tribute had not been killed by 
 his enemies on the night after the battle of Clontarf , 
 a settled government might have followed, and 
 who knows but Irish rulers might still be ruling 
 a free land from the historic fortress of Kincora? 
 If jealousy and wounded pride had not poisoned 
 the red blood of Dermott MacMurrogh till he 
 became a black traitor, there would not have 
 been any Norman invasion, perhaps; and if 
 
 [228 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 before the invading hosts had become a dark 
 shadow on the landscape, the native chiefs could 
 have presented an unbroken front — instead of 
 spending their strength on one another, — there 
 might have been no Norman Castle, no English 
 pale. If spies had not tracked the m.en of Ninety- 
 Eight, and if the leaders had not been arrested, 
 and if Dublin had not been under martial law, 
 things might have been so different. If Emmet's 
 dream had come true, he might even now be 
 honored by another title than that of martyr; 
 and if Parnell, that master of strategy in the 
 war of peace, had not slipped when the day was 
 almost Vvon, the nineteenth century in the history 
 of Ireland need not, very possibly, have been 
 shelved away with the might-have-been centuries 
 of the past. And one wonders if, even now, when 
 the dawn is so red with promise, something may 
 not happen to turn the face of Mother Erin back 
 to the old days, dark as night and cheerless as 
 death. One hopes not; but disappointment in 
 the fruition of the hope for so long, quickens the 
 doubt. 
 
 .Athery is the same dreaming town into which 
 the turf and the seaweed come with the early 
 morning or at midda}^ or in the still evening. 
 The abbey is on the hill, and from one of its narrow 
 windows you can follow with your eye the river 
 that widens until its waters are lost in the historic 
 Shannon that comes from afar. Slantwise, on 
 the other side, is the ''Hill o' Dreams"; but the 
 cottage below it is there no longer. Where it 
 
 [229] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 stood a tree nods in the soft wind. One wonders 
 where is Tim Hogan. It is better not to ask; 
 for the ans^ver will surely come like an echo: 
 "He is dead and gone." And his little girl of 
 dream.s? Perhaps in America; if so, her dreams 
 are no more. Let us not ask; for surely this is 
 an instance of "ignorance is bliss." The blind 
 man's grave has its cross and its inscription, — 
 his modest hold on immortality. 
 
 The day is v/aning and the children are passing 
 down the street on their way from school. The 
 boys still carr}^ their books in a strap, and the 
 girls carry the lunch in a bag or a basket. Upon 
 the bridge they stand for a little to watch the 
 tide steal in. The breath of the sea comes and 
 is sweet to their sense. Many chatter about the 
 boat that belongs to the Macks, and carries 
 more turf than any two others; or about Jimeen 
 Connell's "cot" that ran aground ere yesterday. 
 Some are silent and with wide eyes watch the 
 gulls, the ships of the air, sailing far out. The 
 little village is, in essentials, unchanged and 
 unchanging. Better houses to live in, more edu- 
 cation, more of the comforts and refinements of 
 life, — yes, by all means. But the religion of the 
 race, and its spirit of reverence, and its love for 
 the supernatural, and its wit and quick fancy 
 and its sympathy, and its w4de range of senti- 
 ment, — these must endure, else the race, as we 
 know it, passes out. 
 
 You drive along the white road from Athery 
 to Ardee, and the endless procession still moves 
 
 [230] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 on. But the feet of some you have known who 
 walked over it many and many the time are 
 laid away in dust and will never walk over it 
 again. You miss them and the familiar "God 
 bless you!" Then you drift into dreamland, and 
 forget the jarvey and his white pony, and the 
 houses set in among the fields on either side of 
 you. You think of old Micky the Fenian and his 
 bad hump and his good e3^e and his hasty temper 
 and his terrible tales. You think of fun and 
 laughter, and wit and repartee. Then Micky 
 vanishes, and Dan Madigan's life and its sudden 
 ending pass before you. You wonder if Kathleen 
 O'Donnell is still at the Good Shepherd convent. 
 But 3^ou do not ask, lest the echo come: "She 
 is dead and gone." Maty Connelly? Yes, you 
 remember of her going. The echo came to you 
 somehow, somewhere. Then young Danny O'Neill, 
 now asleep under the high heavens of far-away 
 Texas, glides past you and vanishes. His gentle 
 sister, secluded with silence and eternity in the 
 cloister, floats before you, too. You are going to 
 ask how she is bearing the sorrow of her brother's 
 going, but you fear the echo may return, "Dead 
 and gone!" To the south are the crossroads, 
 and you notice the road running east and west. 
 To the east is the ston}^ land where the sheep 
 and goats are feeding as of old; to the wxst, the 
 Furness estate and the interlocking trees and 
 the "Bridge o' the Ghosts." 
 
 Presently you come back to life with a jerk: 
 the jarvey reins his horse suddenly before the gate 
 
 [231 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 of Knockfeen chapel, where you told him to 
 drive. You put away your dream for the moment 
 and enter the chapel yard through the iron gate. 
 There is a mellow setting sun and a cooling wind. 
 The grass is soft over Father Tracey's grave. 
 The place is very quiet, symbolic of the life of 
 the man. One looks for the familiar figure as if 
 he must always be; but the familiar figure comes 
 no more. Yes, it is sweet for him to be home 
 with God. The little chapel is quiet within. The 
 red light keeps vigil and an old lady far back 
 in one of the side aisles keeps vigil also. The 
 heart is quickened to prayer there. It is so still 
 one can hear the whisper of God. Pealing bells, 
 throbbing organs, the roll of voices, ministers 
 and splendor of vestments, and the infinite detail 
 of ceremonial, are a tribute to the King. Let 
 the tribute be sent up again and again. Yet 
 there is a joy in hearing whispers in the silence. 
 Once an old Irishwoman said, when her married 
 daughters took her to a Pontifical High Mass 
 in one of our large American cities: '*I like the 
 grand music an' the bishop an' all the priests. 
 But over in Ireland we have a Low Mass, an' 
 'tis quiet like; an' you can say your prayers 
 betther, an' you can hear what God says; for 
 there's no organ an' no singin' to drown out His 
 voice." 
 
 You spend your time in the haunts you know 
 and love; and each haunt quickens a memory 
 of a joy or a sorrow, or a mem^ory in which both 
 commingle. When at last the time comes to 
 
 [232] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 bid them good-bye, you will bear away with you 
 the conviction, heretofore mentioned, that Ireland 
 does not change. The old castles with their narrow 
 windows, the abbeys to which the ivy clings 
 tenaciously, still stand and point to the past. 
 The little towns, their houses roofed with 
 slate or thatch, do not often grow larger. The 
 old people die out with their hands clinging fast 
 to the gate of heaven, while the young grow up 
 and follow in their ways. 
 
 Many who talk of an ** awakening" mean not 
 merely the dawn of industry and a wider edu- 
 cation and land-ownership and prosperity: more 
 often they mean the dawn of revolt against the 
 old ideals, against the old faith, against the 
 old morality, against the old enduring patience 
 and the old reverence. The true dawn is breaking 
 even now. It needs no seer to tell that the long 
 night of landlordism is past, that the land of 
 Ireland is fast coming to its rightful owners. Nor 
 does it need a seer to tell you that Ireland's 
 national school system does not suffer by com- 
 parison with the public school system of the 
 United States; and when the Irish Catholic 
 University has grown richer and riper, the day 
 of the Trinity College man, with his English 
 ideas and his Tory point of view, will pass away. 
 
 May this true dawn come sure and swift! The 
 world will welcome it. But no real lover of Ireland 
 and her history and her purposes will welcome 
 the other dawn with eager eyes. Much as one's 
 heart aches for the true dawn, any one who 
 
 [ 233 ] 
 
ROUND ABOUT HOME 
 
 loves Ireland deeply and tenderly will pray that 
 the east may never be red with the streaks of a 
 new day, if the clouds of doubt and infidelity 
 hide the dear, familiar sky of the Ireland we 
 know. 
 
 [234]