Darby O'Gill and the Good People

by Herminie Templeton Kavahagh

  "Noggin, noggin, where's your manners?" says the King, for the last time.

  At that the little black men, afther puttin' a silver shillin' beside every plate at the table, jumped into the noggin an' pulled down its lid.

  Whin the ating and drinking and jollity were at their hoight the King arose, drew tight his crown on his head, and pointing once more to the silver-covered noggin, said:

  "This is my gift to you and your reward, Tom Mulligan, maker of ballads and journeyman worker in fine tales. 'Tis more than your wish was. Nayther you nor anyone who sits at your table, tlirough all your life, will ever want a bite to ate or a sup to dhrink, nor yet a silver shilling to cheer him on his way. Good luck to all here and good-bye!" Even as they looked at the King he was gone, vanished like a light that's blown out—and they never saw him more.

  But the news spread. Musicianers, poets, and story-tellers, and jayniouses flocked to the ballad-maker's cabin from all over Ireland. Any fine day in the year one might see them gather in a dozen knots before his door and into as many little crowds about the stable. In each crowd, from morning till night, there was a chune being played, a ballad sung, or a story being tould. Always one could find there blacksmiths, schoolmasters, and tinkers, and all trades, but the greater number be far, av coorse, were beggarmen.

  Nor is that same to be wondhered at, bekase every jaynious, if he had his own way and could folly his own heart's desire'd start to-morrow at daybreak with the beggarman's staff and bag.

  But wherever they came from, and whatever their station, Tom Mulligan stumped on his wooden leg from crowd to crowd, the jovial, happy master of them all.

  -

  The Banshee's Comb

  Chapter I

  The Diplomacy of Bridget

  I

  'TWAS the mendin' of clothes that All Sowls' afthernoon in Elizabeth Ann Egan's kitchen that naturally brought up the subject of husbands an' the best ways to manage them. An' if there's one thing more than another that makes me take me hat off to the women, 'tis the owdacious way the most down-throdden of their sex will brag about her blaggard husband.

  Not that ayther one or the other of the foive busy-tongued and busy-fingered neighbour women who bint above their sewing or knitting that afthernoon were down-throdden; be no manner of manes; far, far from it. They were so filled with matrimonial contintedness that they fairly thrampled down one another to be first in praising the wondherful men of their choice. Every woman proudly claimed to own an' conthrol the handsomest, loikeliest man that ever throd in brogues.

  They talked so fast an' they talked so loud that 'twas a thryin' long while before meek-woiced little Margit Doyle could squeege her husband, Dan'l John, sideways into the argyment. An' even when she did get him to the fore, the other women had appropryated all the hayroic qualifications for their own men, so that there was nothing left for Dan'l but the common lavings; an' that dayprivation nettled Margit an' vexed her sore. But she took her chanst when it came, poor as it was, an' boulted in.

  Jabbing the air as though her needle were a dagger, she broke into the discoorse.

  "I wouldn't thrade my Dan for the King of Rooshia or the Imperor of Chiney," says she, peering dayfiant around the room. No one sided with that raymark, an' no one argyed agin it, an' this vexed her the more.

  "The Kingdom of Chiney is where the most supharior tay comes from," says Caycelia Crow. She was a large, solemn woman, was Misthress Crow, an a gr-r-reat histhorian.

  "No," says Margit, scorning the intherruption, "not if the two men were rowled into one," says she.

  "Why," says Caycelia Crow, an' her deep woice tolled like a passing bell—"why," says she, "should any dacint woman be wantin' to marry one of thim haythen Imperors? Sure they're all ambiguious," she says, looking around proud of the grand worrud.

  Elizabeth Ann sthopped the spinning-wheel the betther to listen, while the others turned bothered faces to the histhorian.

  "Ambiguious," says Misthress Crow, raisin' her woice in the middle part of the worrud; "ambiguious," she says again, "manes that accordin' to the laygal laws of some furrin parts, a man may marry four or five wives if he has a mind to."

  At this Margit bristled up like a bantam-hin.

  "Do you mane to say, Caycelia Crow," says she, dhroppin' in her lap the weskit she was mendin', "do you intind to substantiate that I'm wishin' to marry the Imperor of Chiney, or," she says, her woice growin' high an' cutting as an east wind, "do you wish to inferentiate that if my Dan'l had the lave he'd be ambiguious? Will you plaze tell these friends an' neighbours," she says, wavin' a hand, "which of the two of us you was minded to insinuate against?"

  The attack was so sudden an' so unexpected that Misthress Crow was too bewildhered to dayfind herself. The poor woman only sat starin' stupid at Margit.

  The others sunk back in their chairs spacheless with consternaytion till Mollie Scanlan, wishin' to pacificate the sitiwation, an' winkin' friendly at Caycelia, spoke up sootherin'.

  "Thrue for ye, Margit Doyle," says she. "What kind of talk is that for ye to be talkin', Caycelia?" says she. "Sure if Dan'l John were to be med the Imperor of Chiney to-morrow he'd hesitate an' dayliberate a long time before bringin' in one of them ambiguious women to you an' the childher. I'd like to see him thry it. It'ud be a sore an' a sorrowful day for him, I'm thinkin'."

  At thim worruds, Margit, in her mind's eye, saw Dan'l John standin' ferninst her with an ambiguious haythen woman on aich side of him, an' the picture riled the blood in her heart.

  "Oh, ho!" says she, turning on poor, shrinkin' Mollie with a smile, an' that same smile had loaded guns an' pistols in it. "An' will you plaze be so kind an' condesinden', Misthress Scanlan," says she, "to explain what you ever saw or heerd tell of in my Dan'l John's actions, that'ud make you think he'd contimplate such schoundrel endayvours," says she, thrimblin'.

  The only answer to the question was from the tay-kettle. It was singin' high an' impident on the hob.

  Now, Bridget O'Gill, knowin' woman that she was, had wisely kept out of the discoorse. She sat apart, calmly knittin' one of Darby's winther stockings. As she listened, howsumever, she couldn't keep back a sly smile that lifted one corner of her mouth.

  "Isn't it a poor an' a pittiful case," said Misthress Doyle, glaring savage from one to the other, "that a dacint man, the father of noine childher, eight of them livin', an' one gone for a sojer—isn't it a burnin' shame," she says, whumperin', "that such a daycint man must have his char-ack-ther thrajuiced before his own wife—Will you be so good as to tell me what you're laughing at, Bridget O'Gill, ma'am?" she blazed.

  Bridget, flutthering guilty, thried to hide the misfortunate smile, but 'twas too late.

  "Bekase, if it is my husband you're mocking at," says Margit, "let me tell you, fair an' plain, his ayquils don't live in the County of Tipperary, let alone this parish! 'Tis thrue," she says, tossin' her head, "he hasn't spint six months with the Good People—he knows nothin' of the fairies—but he has more sinse than those that have. At any rate, he isn't afeard of ghosts like a knowledgeable man that I could mintion."

  That last thrust touched a sore spot in the heart of Bridget. Although Darby O'Gill would fight a dozen livin' men, if needful, 'twas well known he had an unraysonable fear of ghosts. So, Bridget said never a worrud, but her brown eyes began to sparkle, an' her red lips were dhrawn up to the size of a button.

  Margit saw how hard she'd hit, an' she wint on thriumphant.

  "My Dan'l John'ud sleep in a churchyard. He's done it," says she, crowin'.

  Bridget could hould in no longer. "I'd be sore an' sorry," she says, "if a husband of mine were druv to do such a thing as that for the sake of a little pace and quiet," says she, turnin' her chowlder.

  Tare an' 'ounds, but that was the sthroke! "The Lord bless us!" mutthered Mollie Scanlan. Margit's' mind wint up in the air an' staid there whirlin', whilst she herself sat gasping an' panting for a rayply. 'Twas a thrilling, suspenseful min
ute.

  The chiney shepherd and shepherdess on the mantel sthopped ogling their eyes an' looked shocked at aich other; at the same time Bob, the linnet, in his wooden cage at the door, quit his singin' an' cocked his head the betther to listen; the surprised tay-kettle gave a gasp an' a gurgle, an' splutthered over the fire. In the turrible silence Elizabeth Egan got up to wet the tay. Settin' the taypot in the fender she spoke, an' she spoke raysentful.

  "Any sinsible man is afeard of ghosts," says she.

  "Oh, indade," says Margit, ketching her breath. "Is that so? Well, sinsible or onsinsible," says she, "this will be Halloween, an' there's not a man in the parish who would walk past the churchyard up to Cormac McCarthy's house, where the Banshee keened last night, except my Dan'l!" says she, thriumphant.

  The hurt pride in Bridget rose at that an' forced from her angry lips a foolish promise.

  "Huh! we hear ducks talkin'," she says, coolly rowling up Darby's stocking, an' sticking the needle in the ball of yarn. "This afthernoon I was at Cormac McCarthy's," she says, "an' there wasn't a bit of tay in the house for poor Eileen, so I promised Cormac I'd send him up a handful. Now, be the same token, I promise you my Darby will make no bones of going on that errant this night."

  "Ho! ho! ho!" laughed Margit. "If he has the courage to do it bid him sthop in to me on his way back, an' I'll send to you a fine settin' of eggs from my black Spanish hin."

  What sharp worrud Misthress O'Gill would have flung back in answer no one knows, bekase whin once purvoked she has few ayquils for sarcastic langwidge, but just then Elizabeth Ann put in Bridget's hand a steaming cup of good, sthrong tay. Now, whusky, ale, an' porther are all good enough in their places, yer honour—I've nothing to intimidate aginst them—but for a comforting, soothering, edayfing buverage give me a cup of foine black tay. So this day the cups were filled only the second time, when the subject of husbands was complately dhropped, an' the conwersation wandhered to the misdaymeanours of Anthony Sullivan's goat.

  All this time the women had been so busy with their talkin' an' argyfyin' that the creeping darkness of a coming storm had stolen unnoticed into the room, making the fire glow brighter and redder on the hearth. .A faint flare of lightning, follyed be a low grumble of thunder, brought the women to their feet.

  "Marcy on us!" says Caycelia Crow, glad of an excuse to be gone, "do you hear that? We'll all be dhrownded before we raich home," says she.

  In a minute the wisitors, afther dhraining their cups, were out in the road, aich hurryin' on her separate way, an' tying her bonnet-sthrings as she wint.

  'Twas a heavy an' a guilty heart that Bridget carried home with her through the gathering storm. Although Darby was a nuntimate friend of the fairies, yet, as Margit Doyle said, he had such a black dhread of all other kinds of ghosts that to get him out on this threatening Halloween night, to walk past the churchyard, as he must do on his way to Cormac McCarthy's cottage, was a job ayquil to liftin' the Shannon bridge. How she was to manage it she couldn't for the life of her tell; but if the errant was left undone she would be the laughin'-stock of every woman in the parish.

  But worst of all, an' what cut her heart the sorest, was that she had turned an act of neighbourly kindness into a wainglorious boast; an' that, she doubted not, was a mortal sin.

  She had promised Cormac in the afthernoon that as soon as she got home she would send Darby over with some tay for poor little Eileen, an' now a big storm was gathering, an' before she could have supper ready, thry as hard as she could, black night might be upon them.

  "To bring aise to the dying is the comfortingist privilege a man or woman can have, an' I've thraded it for a miserable settin' of eggs," she says. "Amn't I the unfortunit crachure," she thought, "to have let me pride rune me this away. What'll I do at all at all?" she cried. "Bad luck to the thought that took me out of me way to Elizabeth Egan's house!"

  Then she med a wish that she might be able to get home in time to send Darby on his errant before the night came on. "If they laugh at me, that'll be my punishment, an' maybe it'll clane my sin," says she.

  But the wish was in wain. For just as she crossed the stile to her own field the sun dhropped behind the hills as though he had been shot, an' the east wind swept up, carrying with it a sky full of black clouds an' rain.

  -

  II

  That same All Sowls' night Darby O'Gill, the friend of the fairies, sat, as he had often sat before, amidst the dancin' shadows, ferninst his own crackling turf and wood fire, listening to the storm beat against his cottage windows. Little Mickey, his six-year-ould, cuddled asleep on his daddy's lap, whilst Bridget sat beside thim, the other childher cruedled around her. My, oh my, how the rain powered and hammered an' swirled!

  Out in the highway the big dhrops smashed agin wayfarers' faces like blows from a fist, and once in a while, over the flooded moors and the far row of lonesome hills, the sullen lightning spurted red and angry, like the wicious flare of a wolcano.

  You may well say 'twas perfect weather for Halloween—to-night whin the spirits of the dayparted dead visit once again their homes, and sit unseen, listening an' yearnin' about the ould hearthstones.

  More than once that avenin' Darby'd shivered and shuddered at the wild shrieks and wails that swept over the chimney-tops; he bein' sartin sure that it wasn't the wind at all, but despairing woices that cried out to him from the could lips of the dead.

  At last, afther one purticular doleful cry that rose and fell and lingered around the roof, the knowledgeable man raised his head and fetched a deep breath, and said to his wife Bridget:

  "Do you hear that cry, avourneen? The dear Lord be marciful to the souls of the dayparted!" sighed he.

  Bridget turned a throubled face toward him. "Amen," she says, speakin' softly; "and may He presarve them who are dying this night. Poor Eileen McCarthy—an' she the purty, light-footed colleen only married the few months! Haven't we the raysons to be thankul and grateful. We can never pray enough, Darby," says she.

  Now the family had just got off their knees from night prayers, that had lasted half an hour, so thim last worruds worried Darby greatly.

  "That woman," he says to himself, mighty sour, "is this minute contimplaytin' an' insinuatin' that we haven't said prayers enough for Eileen, when as it is, me two poor knees have blisters on thim as big as hin's eggs from kneelin'. An' if I don't look out," he says to himself again, "she'll put the childher to bed and then she's down on her knees for another hour, and me wid her; I'd never advise anyone to marry such a pious woman. I'm fairly kilt with rayligion, so I am. I must disthract her mind an' prevent her intintions," he says to himself.

  "Maybe, Bridget," he says, out loud, as he was readying his pipe, "it ain't so bad afther all for Eileen. If we keep hoping for the best, we'll chate the worst out of a few good hours at any rate," says the knowledgeable man.

  But Bridget only rowled the apron about her folded arms and shook her head sorrowful at the fire. Darby squinted carefully down the stem of his pipe, blew in it, took a sly glance at his wife, and wint on:

  "Don't you raymember, Bridget," he says, "whin ould Mrs. Rafferty lay sick of a bad informaytion of the stomick; well, the banshee sat for a full hour keening an' cryin' before their house—just as it did last night outside Cormac McCarthy's. An' you know the banshee cried but once at Rafferty's, but never rayturned the second time. The informaytion left Julia, and all the wide worruld knows, even the King of Spain might know if he'd send to ax, that Julia Rafferty, as strong as a horse, was diggin' petaties in her own field as late as yesterday."

  "The banshee comes three nights before anyone dies, doesn't it, daddy?" says little Mickey, waking up, all excited.

  "It does that," says Darby, smilin' proud at the child's knowledgeableness; "and it's come but once to Eileen McCarthy."

  "An' while the banshee cries, she sits combing her hair with a comb of goold, don't she, daddy?"

  Bridget sat onaisy, bitin' her lips. Alw
ays an' ever she had sthrove to keep from the childher tidings of fairies and of banshees an' ghosts an' other onnatural people. Twice she trun a warning look at Darby, but he, not noticing wint on, strokin' the little lad's hair, an' sayin' to him:

  "It does, indade, avick; an' as she came but once to Mrs. Rafferty's, so we have rayson to hope she'll come no more to Cormac McCarthy's."

  "Hush that nonsinse!" says Bridget, lookin' daggers; "sure Jack Doolan says that 'twas no banshee at all that come to Rafferty's, but only himself who had taken a drop too much at the fair, an' on his way home sat down to rest himself by Rafferty's door. He says that he stharted singin' pious hymns to kape off the evil spirits, and everyone knows that the same Jack Doolan has as turrible a woice for singin' as any banshee that ever twishted a lip," she says.