THE STORYTELLER.

Oamaru Mail, Volume IV, Issue 1033, 12 August 1879, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE STORYTELLER.

HOW THE GREY MARE PROVED THE BEST HORSE. ' (From Tom Hood's Comic Annual.) 'Twas the time of Mick O'Brien'si wake. There was a lot of people there, I'm not going to tell' the names, of all the neighbors," because a great many of the people • that were .there weren't ' neighbors ;at all. I remember Biddy Shea, th : ongh—and 'twas a neat olever girl she was, too, by the same token. My conscience ! she might be an a-ngel if the wings would-grow out of her back, but nobody that knew her would like it, because'if she 'flew away the people at the chapel on a Sunday would begin-to think that tlieir prayers wouldn't havd half the chance of .getting to heaven. that they would if they knew klie was sending tip a message or two on lier Own account. An Irish wake; you knowy is : !l queer place. The neighbors como 1 in ! they sit hear the coffin, and they talk about the poor man in it. But, :with what Paddy Cregan,. the schoolmaster, would ■ call , " philosophy,'' they 'drown their sorrow' in wliisky and water.. Sometimes,' I may say, the latter -material is omitted, for l reasons tk>; which, as members of Parliament sayy ''lt.is not necessary further to allude.". There were " lashings" 'of' whisky at Mick O'Brien's wake: His: brother-in-law, i Tim ©'Flanagan, came- averifromi .Clare, . and Ordered' a : gallon Of the:besfe Walker's . Ltinerick'2sO.Pi' ,! l coyid-never make

out what OJP. meant tiU the ganger told me: "You see" says he, "they call gin Old Tom—that's the English drink ; and they caD the whisky Old Paddy—that's the Irish tipple." His wife couldn't 1 ' coiney because two little CFlanagaus had the impudence, a day or two before—or the some evening, by the way—of making their pink presentiments to a grand jury, composed of their mother and a nurse armed with a machine organised for the contingency of bringing up by the hand. All the boys and girts were there, and by the same token 'twas a good deal of courting that went on that night. But more eyes were turned on Biddy Shea, than any of the other girls, though there was Tom Flanagan's sister with an instep that would make "Venns as jealous as the parish clerk is of the sexton at a funeral 'Twas little I thought that the young people would make a match over poor Mick O'Brien's bones. He was as dacent a boy as ever thrashed a sheaf of wheat. I remember well the day he took the conceit out of that big fellow over from dare, when he was going to throw the atone farther than any boy in the Barony. But Mick let him go on till he saw that, the new importation, as he called him 'twas a tine scholar poor Mick was; he could read*a newspaper like an attorney —had done all he could, and then he slipped off his coat as easily as an eel would slip through a firkin of butter. " Hand us that pebble," says he to me, asking me for the stone that took me both my hands: to lift it, and even then I had to put it down again. He took it in one hand as if 'twas a boiled potato, and threw it so far that the Clare man opened his eyes as wide as if he saw a head of cabbage growing out of a furze bush. But I was talking about the grey mare. 'Twas a fine horse she was too; she could do her ton and a half with any other animal in the parish. Talking of that reminds me of the wakeagain. Well, I must tell you, we were all sitting round the room. I'm not going to tell you the names of all the neighbors, for there were more than a dozen or two ; but Biddy Shea and Tim Flynn were sitting on the settle-bed talking to one another so that nobody could hear them, but you could see that they were making remarks to one another about the weather or the crops; in fact, as Tim Flanagan said, they were talking about themselves in particular. " 'Tis a way young people have, and boys wil be boys," says he, *' as the man said long ago: and so will girls." Well, there we were, smoking and talking and taking snutf, and by the same token there was a flavor in the whisky that would make the ghost of Father Mathew do penance for a month of Sundays for belying the blessed liquor. The old people were all talking round the fire, and 'tisn't many a nicer bit ar bog you'd wish to see than that couple of perches near Ballyrune, where poor Mick lived, where I used to play hurley when I was about the height of a bulrush. Pat Shea, Biddy's father, was talking too—he was a knowledgeable man—about the time of the war, when Tim O'Brien was killed by the Russians. " 'Tis sixteen years ago," says Pat Shea "as sure as I'm smoking this pipeand 'twas a dudheen he had in his mouth that was as black as the top of divvte's nightcap. " Hould your tongue " says Miles Flanagan " 'tis twenty years as sure as Biddy Shea isn't going to be an ould maid." At the time I'm speaking of I'm afraid that Biddy, as her father would say, was surrounded by an elbow. " 'Tis sixteen years ago, and not a clay longer,* says Pat Shea, "and 111 prove it. Twas the day that Darby Fitzgerald's grey mare was born." "Oh, that's seventeen years," says one; " 'tis eighteen," says another; " 'tis nineteen," says another; and all the young boys that were growing up were trying to guess; for they'd give the white of their eyes to think that Biddy Shea's father would believe that they had a taste of the learning. "Well, look here," says Pat Shea; "I don't mind saying this, as Mick O'Brien is listening to me in hi 3 coffin. Heaven be to his bed E If there's any gorsoon about the place that'll tell me when Darby Fitzgerald's'grey mare was born—there, I don't mind giving him Biddy."

Oh r by the piper that played before Solomon was a gorsoon, yott should see the boys scratching their heads, till you'd think they'd tear off the thatch. You should hear them all guessing: 'twas enough to make poor Mick O'Brien lift the lid off the coffin, and, as Paddy Shea would say, tell them that no more than half the lies they were telling were the truth. Twas Biddy Shea herself that looked as frightened as a hare on a race-coarse, for she was afraid that Tim Flynn ■would not guess right, and, though 'twas her father that wished it, she'd as soon think of marrying any one else .as of making batter on Lady-day. "What'll I say, Biddy T says Tim, •who was frightened as if he didn't see more than one magpie during the whole of the harvest-time. " I'll go over and whisper Paddy Roche," says she, " and hell know it as sure as he can squeeze a bellows tinder his left oxthur." But if you don't know Ireland, you | might just as well try to find oat what Paddy Roche was, as to find out a man-of-war sailing in a or Father Tom Fitzgerald, the parish priest of Fedamore, refusing a poor woman a ieaJf-penny on his way to a christening. "Well, if you promise not to tell any one else, I'll tell yott. Paddy Roche was the blind piper; and whoever the performer was that we hear so often played before Moses, I'd bet my next crop of leather coats against a glass of whisky punch, that Paddy Roche would make the cloricaans dance a jig •with as many double shuffles in it as would puzzle one of ray bold decaivers that play with thimble and pea at the races. Whenever he was going home from a wake or a wedding, he used to strike op a 136 for thegood people,who used to* guide him home as safe as if he could see a four leafed shamrock in a field of clover. Talking of shamrocks reminds me of brogues. Yon don't know why, but 111 be after telling you. You see, nearly all the fairies that had a trade at all were cobblers, and so when they heard any one talk knowledgeable like, they said he " talks a ■ brogue," and so l the English bosthoons, ■witS their ignorant conceit, think that -everybody has a brogue thai W/s coooa

stha' thu, which means by the way, "How do yon feel this morningV But I was telling you about the piper. Over Biddy walks to him so quiet that she wouldn't disturb a peeler on the look out for a Fenian.

" Paddy," says she, " how long is it since Darby Fitzgerald's grey mare was foaled ? If you don't tell me, IH put as much water in your whisky as will make you believe you're drinking buttermilk r

" Biddy," says he, " do you think I'd tell you a lie over poor Mick O'Brien's coffin 1 No, you needn't," says he, pulling up; "I remember it as well as the day I went into trousers ! Darby Fitzgerald's grey mare was born just a month before I got the blast." [The blast, you must know, is a wind, as the Irish people think, that can blind a man, or destroy his corn, or injure lus cattle, if his enemies put a curse on liim.] "Well," now, I got the blast that blinded me—God be praised !—just three weeks but a day before Christmas, and the grey mare was bom—let me see—exactly a month before that. Now, Biddy, says he, smiling "you were a good scholar at school—what do you make out of that sum in snbatraction V

" "Well," says she, " Christmas day is the twenty-fifth of December; three weeks but a day before that would be the fifth of the month, and a month before that would be the fifth of November.

" That's the time," say 3 Paddy Roche, "as sure as I can play the ' Kakes of Mallow' or the ' Wearing of the Green f"

Biddy looked as innocent as a chapel door, and over she 'walked to where Tim Flynn was sitting. "Say the fifth of November," says she, " and yonll be sure of being right as St. Columkille was when he said there would be a black regiment in Ireland." [St. Colnmkille did say that, and the black regiment doesn't mean niggers, but the peelers, who have dark green coats; bnt r as a matter of course, the "Rnglish will say the Irish call them black because they're another color.] " Say fourteen years ago," says Biddy, "and if that's not right, you may murder Paddy the piper." " Has anyone guessed it yetl" says Paddy Shea. The grog was going round at the time as fast a» ODonoghue's horse could trot. Tisn't the gentleman that's in Parliament now I mean : 'tis the man ! who rides every night over the Lakes of I Killarney as if they were the green | grass. They say that O'Donoghue's ; white horse can gallop so fast that the lechoes of his eels can't overtake him. | Oh, the faces of the boys that night i was enough to frighten the ghost of I Fin Ma Cbnl's Grandmother. They j were saying years and months until I j think they didn't leave more than half [a dozen oat of the century that they i didn't mention ; but no one got nearer to it than the rector of Ballinganr went, when he said that Father Tom Fitzgerald of Fedamore couldn't tran- ! slate a verse of Homer, when I knew that- his reverence could turn Greek into verses that would puzzle the ould foreign ballad-singer himself. " I have it," says Tim Flynn ; " 'tis fourteen years ago last November." " Bv the powers, you're right," says Paddy Shea ; " I have a paper with an account of poor Tim O'Brien's death. He was killed by a Russian after three bullets had been flattened against his medals. Mike Maguire," says lie, " run over to my house and get the paper that youll find in the corner of the drawer of the dresser; you'll know it at once, for 'tis as brown as a hare's hind leg." Off went Mike as fast as if he was running with a reprieve for a man that potted a bailiff, and back he runs, out of breath, with the paper in his pocket. Paddy Shea put his spectacles on his nose, and began to read the paper with the account of the battle in it. Arid sure enough it was the fifth of November when the battle of Inkerman was fought, when poor Tim O'Brien was killed, fighting hard for the Sassenach. "Ah, Tim Flynn, you play actor," says Paddy, " 'tis the good people you must be after talking to, for you guessed it to a day ; so I suppose you must have Biddy; you would whether I liked it or not, I believe so, 'ti3 as well as it is. Now, when we bury poor Mick O'Brien we must forget all about trouble, and have a rattling wedding. Will you come, Paddy Roche V says he, " and give us a chance of showing how many of the boys can foot the floor with Thady Delany. Thady Delany, I may tell, could make a figure on the lower story of a barn that would puzzle trignometvy. " Will he come F says Biddy; " faix, there isn't a man in the whole parish that'll be more welcome than Paddy Roche, for a reason that I'll be after telling ye all when I'm turned into Mrs. Flynn." Well, then to make a long stoiy | short, poor Mick O'Brien was buried, and Biddy Shea became Mrs. Flynn, You should hear Father Tom Fitzgerald marrying them; he'd make you wish to commit bigamy two or three times a day. Every one was silent as a monse before a tom-cat, till Father Tom gave them a bit of his mind, after the ring was on Biddy's finger. There's no good in talking about Father Tom ■ the way he used to apeak would make you think he had a talking machine under his cravat. He gave a bit of advice to the young people, and then,: says he, "If you should have any—" he meant youngsters, you know; but j before he had time to finish what he was going to say Tim Flynn gave Biddy a nudge in the ribs, and pushed her against Patsy Burns, the parish clerk, and he fell over the bell, so that there was an end to the oration.

I shouldn't like to give a guess about the gallons of whisky and the number of the neighbors that was drunk that night, and the length of pigs' head and bacon that disappeared, but I may tell you that there was as much of both as would frighton all the Jews in Petticoat lane and Houndsditch, even if they had all their nose 3 in a row. Paddy Roche was there, and 'twas n't much time he got to rest his elbow, for they were dancing as hard as if the crops depended on the way they clattered their heels. The new couple are as happy as the days are long; and there's always a welcome and a corner at the fire for Paddy Roche the piper, that told Tim Flynn about the time Mick O'Brien's brother was killed.

Biddy has made her husband buy the grey mare from Darby Fitzgerald;

and though, 'tis blind of an eye, it can see Biddy half a mile away, and runs up to her as if it knew her since it was foaled.

And that's how they got married; and the people about the place, when thev want to find out a date now, say that 'tis so many years before, or so many years after,* the birth of the grey mare.