Darby O’Gill and the Good People

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, through 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 goodbye!” 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 storytellers, 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 tomorrow 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

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 downthrodden 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 downthrodden; 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 attackt 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 tomorrow 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.