R. Millar, Stirabout

Transcription

STIRABOUT
FROM AN ULSTER POT
By
RUDDICK MILLAR
With a Foreword by
RICHARD ROWLEY
THE QUOTA PRESS
RUDDICK MILLAR
A Camera Study by Louis MORRISON
BELFAST
1929
FOREWORD
A FOREWORD is not necessarily a criticism, and I
have no desire to analyse the charm which I find in
these sketches of Ulster people and Ulster ways. I shall
leave that task to the professed critics, and content myself with saying how heartily I welcome a new recruit
to the little band of writers who are trying to express the
life of our province in artistic form.
Art, in one of its aspects, is a criticism of life, and
we need this form of criticism in Ulster. The more
we become race-conscious, the more we require to regard
ourselves in the mirror which the artist holds up to us.
It is there that we best can see ourselves as we are, and
in that vision realise how much better we might be. It
is in that magic glass that we find revealed the tragedy
and the comedy which beset even the commonest lives,
and perceive the beauty that haunts even the humblest
byways.
Mr. Ruddick Millar seems to me to possess the gifts
which fit him to discover us to ourselves. He has
humour and tenderness, he has that vivid interest in
life, without which no man can become a writer.
Slight as some of these sketches are, they show a wide
range. There is a deep symbolism in " The Shepherd",
FOREWORD
there is racy fun in " The Lost Elixir". Mr. Millar
will yet do better things, but in this, his first volume, he
has done enough to ensure that his future work will be
looked for with hopeful expectation by those who love
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Ulster and love literature.
RICHARD ROIVLEY .
writing this on my twenty-second birthday. I
might be proud if I were not panic-stricken. This little
volume is the outcome of an overwhelming desire to
leave the imprint of my name on something in this
workaday and wonderful world, and especially in the
place where I was born. Such an ambition is pregnant
in most of us and we achieve it in various ways. Some
of these ways are not pleasant. My father's name
adorns the Belfast Titanic Memorial. My dead
mother's name is written for ever on my heart.
I make no pretensions as to the literary merit of the
contents. You will notice that I have termed certain
efforts as " Poetry and Verse ". That is because I do
not know which is which, and, in fact, doubt if there
is any of the former.
I AM
I sing these songs of sentimental days,
When life was love and all the world was young;
And if your heart, your hopes, your life they raise,
They are well sung.
I know I am not perfect in the art;
The caustic critic may be much distressed;
But this I say—they come right from my heart,
And that is best.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
And " them's my sentiments " about the other work
too.
Some of the matter included has already appeared
in the Belfast Telegraph, Ireland's Saturday Night,
Northern Whig and Ulster fester. I thank the officials
of these periodicals for kind permission to reprint.
RUDDICK MILLAR.
3o, Atlantic Avenue, Belfast.
5th March, 1929.
CONTENTS
PLAYS AND CAMEOS
PAGE
THE JARVEY
33
EILEEN AROON
69
THE SHEPHERD
DM
A CENOTAPH CAMEO
127
A CASTLE JUNCTION CAMEO
141
159
ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN -
STORIES AND SKETCHES
82
THE TAIL OFF A CAT
-
MA AT THE MATCH
MEASURE FOR MEASURE
PA AT THE MENAGERIE
-
28
58
64
-
97
PA AT THE PANTO -
108
THE FLITTIN'
I13
POOR GEORGE!
-
ANDY'S AWFUL ORDEAL
118
THE AUCTION
-
THE LOST ELIXIR
-
PA AT THE PICTURES
18
47
136
THE CUP HOLDER -
146
PA GOES OUT
175
MY FIRST PIPE
155
CONTENTS (Continued)
ARTICLES AND STUDIES
PAGE
THE ART OF STOPPING BUSES
AND WHY NOT?
122
-
LONDON AS I SEE IT
THIS LOVE BUSINESS
54
86
THE VOICE OF THE CITY -
92
SHIRTS AND SAFETY PINS -
149
183
CITY COMMANDMENTS
-
YOUR CHARACTER FROM A TRAM TICKET
WHAT BRITAIN OWES TO BELFAST
186
15
POETRY AND VERSE
THE DOME
-
90
THE WATERFALL
112
MENIN MOTHERS
117
THE SLEEPING CITY
133
THE ANTRIM ROAD THE HILL OF THE CAVES -
140
181
SWITHERIN'
152
SON, DEAR
THE RUINED MILL SIX O'CLOCK
A SONG OF THE GLENS
THE ULSTER TONIC
WHAT BRITAIN OWES TO BELFAST
25
23
62
185
52
191
an expanse of water separates Belfast from
the English mainland, it does not lessen the effect of
that city on Great Britain as a whole. Nor would an
ocean, for that matter. Belfast-built ships would bridge
the gulf. They are masterpieces of their kind these
liners—strong, stately floating palaces, like the Olympic
and Brittanic. They come from the largest and most
important works in the world.
Belfast is not only the capital of Ulster, the most
prosperous of the four Irish provinces, and the chief
commercial city of Ireland, but a port of call of the
first water (forgive the pun) and one of the eight most
important cities in the British Isles. Its rise has been
phenomenal and its progress in population established
a record. It is hard to realise, for instance, that the
site of the ship-yard referred to above was a pleasure
resort in the middle of the last century. A mushroom
city in fact—but without the frailty of that plant.
Belfast folk are people with big ideas. They seem
to make a fetish of having the biggest of everything.
Besides having the largest ship-yard in the world, they
have the largest linen factory, the largest tobacco factory, the largest rope works and the largest whisky
15
THOUGH
WHAT BRITAIN OWES BELFAST
store. Linen is one of Belfast's greatest gifts to Britain.
There was a period when, in the York Street Mill
alone, enough thread was spun in a day to go three
times round the world. Biscuits are another Belfast
product and the whisky, wherewith to wash them down,
compares favourably with the best Scotland can produce.
On the educational side, it is the seat of Queen's
University, which, together with the Royal Belfast
Academical Institution, has fostered many of the " big
brains " of Britain. Its cathedral was an eye-sore for
a considerable time, but has been transformed into a
thing of beauty, and the City Hall is a delight to look
upon.
A city which produces powerful ships is also likely
to produce powerful men, and the history of Belfast
teems with well-known names. Lord Kelvin, for instance, the greatest and most lovable scientist who ever
sprung from Ireland. Earl Cairns, twice Lord Chancellor of England, the foremost lawyer of his time, one
of whose speeches Disraeli termed as " the greatest ever
delivered in Parliament ", and whose " only frailty was
a passion for spotless linen and a flower in his evening
dress ". Lieutenant Ekenhead, who swum the Hellespont with Byron, and whose memory is immortalised
in " Don Juan ". The Pottingers, soldiers and diplomats. Sir Donald Currie, the great ship-owner, and
16
WHAT BRITAIN OWES BELFAST
friend of Gladstone. And now there are a score of
Belfastmen engaged in Britain's business whose names
will go down to posterity.
Certainly the exploits of the Ulster Division, composed mainly of Belfast boys, will for ever excite the
imagination. Their charge at the Battle of the Somme
was one of the glorious episodes of the Great War.
The King acknowledged this. So did Foch. So do
we. And so will our children and our children's
children.
17
B
THE AUCTION
him where he is always to be found—except
in winter—on the rough seat in front of Archie
Meenan's pub, in the little Ulster village of Ballymagraw. When the weather turns colder, he adjourns
to a cosy corner inside the premises.
He is really the " village ancient," though the folks
do not regard him as such. They merely know him
as " Ould Jimmy," and he has become a kind of landmark. He is certainly the oldest inhabitant for many
miles around—having lost count at eighty-five. Yet
he does not look the part, and he is still sharp of hearing and glib of tongue. A few teeth still remain, and
I FOUND
his eyes are sharp and piercing.
He was a farm-hand most of his days, but now his
son provides the bread, while he collects the old-age
pension and relates his experiences to sundry callers at
Meenan's, like myself, at the same time quaffing the
beer provided by them.
" A suppose ye've bin tae the auction iv Andy
Rodgers's furniture," he remarked, as I came up.
" I have that," I replied. It is uncanny how he
gets to know everybody's business.
" An auction here nowadays is a tame affair," he
18
THE AUCTION
continued. " A mind the time when it was as gud as
a fair. How did the prices go the day? "
" Pretty reasonable," I returned. " A couple of beds
went dirt cheap."
" Spakin' iv beds," said Ould Jimmy, with a faraway
look in his eyes, " minds me iv a bed at an auction
here about thirty years ago. Did A ivir tell ye
how wee Mrs. M'Minn put the hap on oul' Sarah
M'Ilheggart? "
" No," I replied. I scented a story, and nodded to
Meenan's barman, who was lounging at the door. He,
being experienced, promptly brought a foaming glass,
and set it on the deal table before the old fellow.
" It was when Bob M'Kinstry wus auctioneer in
these parts," mused Jimmy, sipping contentedly. " He
wus a fine auctioneer wus Bob, wi' a ready wit an' a
wily tongue. He cud ha' sould anything frum a henhouse tae a palace.
" Well, oul' Widow Spence had died, an' as she
had had naebody tae lave her wee farm tae, the executors thought it wud be better tae realise the primises,
lock, stock an' barrell, an' iv coorse they appointed Bob
M'Kinstry as auctioneer.
" Now, at that time ' Daft Charlie' was runnin'
about the countryside. Folks thought that Charlie
was a wee bit wrong in the heid, an' A think they
wur right. But he had sense enough tae go on the
19
THE AUCTION
spree now an' agin, and then he was a quare turn, A
ken tell ye.
" Bob M'Kinstry, bein' a clivir man, made use iv
him at sich times. He wud git Charlie tae cum tae
his auctions an' say daft things an' so forth, and many
an article wus sould jist because iv daft Charlie's remarks about it. He cud keep the people in fits, an'
when people's in good humour they're more inclined
THE AUCTION
was gittin' jist a wee bit scared lukin'. She cudn't
afford tae pay a tarrible price, even if it wus tae bate
Sarah M'Ilheggart. It had becum a kind iv battle, an'
all the crowd wus starin' at them. Bob M'Kinstry wus
lukin' as pleased as punch.
" All the time daft Charlie wus makin' silly remarks
about the bed, and at last he jumped up on it, an'
begun tae dance an' caper about an' sing. It wus then
that Mrs. M'Minn showed her clivirness.
" A must tell ye that Miss M'Ilheggart had a tarrible
squeaky voice. It wus like the squeak iv a kert axle
that hadn't been greased for a twelve month.
" Well, she wus biddin' strong in this voice when
Mrs. M'Minn pointed tae the bed, where Charlie was
caperin' about like a monkey.
" ' A say, Mr. M'Kinstry,' says she—an' a better
imitation iv Miss M'Ilheggart's voice A niver heerd—
' A say, Mr. M'Kinstry, does the man go wi' the
bed? '
tae open their purses."
Ould Jimmy wet his throat slowly, and then continued his reminiscence.
" Well, the day iv Mrs. Spence's auction, Charlie
wus there, as full iv beer as he wus iv wit.
" Wee Mrs. M'Minn an' Miss M'Ilheggart wur there
too. They hated each other like poison. A think
Alexander M'Minn wus an oul' flame iv Miss M'Ilheggart's. At any rate, she had nivir liked Mrs. M'Minn
since she carried aff the bacon, an' they wur always
tryin' tae git the better iv wan another.
" It wus when an oul' feather bed was put up that
they begun tae bid agin wan another. A don't think
that Sarah wanted the thing, but she wanted tae bid
agin Mrs. M'Minn; and iv coorse when the wee wumman seen that it only made her more detarmined tae
" The crowd begun tae roar at that, and poor Sarah's
face got as red as a beetroot. She stud for a minnit,
bitin' her lips like fury, and then gathered up her skirts
and tuk tae her heels an' run. The sight iv her runnin'
amused the folks even more.
git it.
" Well, the biddin' went up till three times what the
oul' thin' wus worth, and A cud see that Mrs. M'Minn
" Iv coorse Mrs. M'Minn got the bed—wi'out the
man. But A've often wondered where daft Charlie
got the money that he got drunk on that night."
20
21
THE AUCTION
Ould Jimmy drained his glass. " Them was the auctions," he said sadly. " Not like yer tame affairs nowadays."
SON, DEAR
WHEN I was a wee thing, 'bout ten year oul',
An' troubled wi' many a cough an' coul',
I'd cloigher away 'til my face wud swell;
An' my mither wud say, wi' her soothin' tongue,
" Ach, sure it's awful, an' him so young;
Son, dear, ye'll ha'e tae take care o' yersel'."
I mind the night 'fore I tuk tae the ships,
My mither she happed me wi' hands an' lips,
An' ontae the quilt the big drops fell;
An' she says tae me wi' a sob in her throat,
Like a fiddle's last, low dyin' note,
" Son, dear, ye'll ha'e tae take care o' yersel'."
Then come the time I was wedded tae Rose;
We wur all dressed up in our Sunday clo'es,
An' they kissed the bride, an' they kissed her well;
But my mither she gits me away from the spree,
An' kisses my for'ed, an' says tae me,
22
Then we come tae port wan wild, winter's day,
When the waves wur a-churnin' up the bay,
23
SON, DEAR
An' sad was the news they had tae tell:
My mither was lyin' as still as death,
But she says tae me wi' her dyin' breath,
An' now sure it's me that's near tae the grave,
An' the life that I've lived has been—well, brave,
Though many an' many a time I've fell:
But iver her words wud ring in my ears,
An' iver her voice wud bring salt tears,
" Son, dear, ye'11 ha'e tae take care o' yersel' "
24
Please do not think, dear reader (you are dear to me
seeing you have taken the trouble to read this), that I
am about to give my views on the transport question.
Oh, dear no ! That's not for me. Let others with
wiser (and harder) heads solve the problem. It is
merely my business to tell you of a new art which has
crept into our civic life—the art of stopping buses gracefully.
This art may have been practised before in various forms, in fact I suppose it originated in the old
coach days, but it has only come to my esteemed
notice in these latter days since the intervention of the
buses.
It is remarkable the variety of ways in which one
can hold up these vehicles in order to board them. I
propose to tell you of several, as demonstrated in various
parts of Belfast, and then to endeavour to point out the
right way.
First of all, there is the old lady who uses desperate
methods. She fusses into the roadway, shouting and
waving her umbrella, almost in despair. The driver
has seen her and is slowing up accordingly, but that
does not satisfy her. Still she creates a disturbance,
25
and not until she has safely flounced on a seat does she
relax.
Then there is the emotional gentleman, who, if he is
not a Shakespearean actor, ought to be. He steps out
bravely, raises an imperious hand, and says in a commanding voice, " STOP ! " One almost expects to hear
a few lines of " Macbeth " after that. Something like,
" Do as I have bidden, scurvy knave, or all will not be
well with thee ! " (That's not out of " Macbeth,"
but, seeing it's my own, it will do as well.)
Almost similar is the man with the stern face who
merely holds up his hand. Only he has no poetry in
his soul. " It is your duty," he seems to say, " and
my right as a citizen. If you go on, I shall report you
to the proper authorities." I don't know about you,
but I love to be in a full bus when such a man demands
attention. " Full up ! " is music to my ears at such a
time.
How different is the timid little man with the big
moustache. If he holds up anything, it is his little
finger. He takes a furtive step into the roadway, then
changes his mind and steps back. When the bus flashes
past, as it often does, no " Damn ! " comes from his
lips. He is already thinking what the wife will say
about his mud-splashed coat.
This poor simp could do with a little of the spirit of
the small boy who dashes into the roadway and roars
26
"Hi! " at the startled driver. It is one of those times
when youth can exercise the right of command, and by
gosh it does it ! I have yet to see the bus, with available room, which dared to pass a small prospective passenger armed with his fare.
Last in my list is the fair damsel who trips lightly
from the footpath, coyly raises a gay chubby, and gives
the driver a nice, sweet, friendly smile. No driver
could disregard such a summons, and no driver ever
does. There is always room for such a passenger. I,
for one, will gladly give her my seat.
I had prepared a long, technical scheme for the
proper stopping of buses, but, since writing the last
paragraph, have been moved to scrap it (the scheme
that is). What, after all, could be a better method
than that adopted by this young lady? Grace, charm,
and command are all there.
So, when you wish to stay the flight of one of these
modern chariots, please remember to Pavlova on to the
road, raise eyelashes (long and dark preferred), likewise
chubby, likewise a smile, and you need not hope for
the best. You may be sure of it.
This, of course, only applies to fair damsels. I am
not really concerned about anybody else. You see I
have a second cousin who is a driver.
27
MA AT THE MATCH
I had just removed all the marks of the Queen's
Island from my person the other Saturday, and was
looking for my razor, which wee Alex was using for a
fret-saw, when the blow fell—not from the razor—it
was worse than that.
Mary Jane had just cleared up the dinner things,
and was standing like Wellington after Waterloo.
" Well, A suppose A'd better go and get ready," she
says.
" Where are ye goin' the day? " I asks. She
had been at the pictures the Tuesday week before
that.
" I was thinkin' iv goin' tae the match," she says.
One time Sandy MacDougall says to us : " Boys,
A'm goin' tae stan' ye one all round." This remark
had the same effect only in a different way.
" What—what match? " I stammers.
" Whichever one ye're goin' tae," she replies.
" But A'm goin' tae a futball match," I gasps.
" That's the stuff tae give 'em," says Mary Jane.
Here was a fix. For when Mary Jane gets an idea
into her head she's as stubborn as a mule.
Then I had a brain wave.
28
MA AT THE MATCH
" Ach, A don't think All go the day," I says. " I
was thinkin' that a wee walk down the town wud do
us no harm. It's near time ye had a new hat."
" Ye niver spoke a truer word," says Mary Jane.
" But the shaps will be open till nine. There'll be
plenty iv time after the match."
I was desperate.
" But ye can't go," I cries. " There'll be rushin'
and crushin' and—and it's no place for a lady."
" A can hold me own," says Mary Jane, as cool as
cucumber, " and a lady can carry herself off anywhere."
I wished she would—anywhere but the match.
" An' besides Billy M'Keown an' Jimmy Mulholland
an' all the lads'll be there," I groans.
" Do ye mean tae tell me," says Mary Jane, " that
ye're ashamed iv yer own wife, that has reared yer
children an' kep' yer home? "
It was the danger signal.
" All right! Ye can go," I says. " But don't blame
me for the consequences. A suppose ye're goin' tae
the Oval? " (I was for Windsor.)
" A hiv ivery intention iv goin'," barks Mary Jane.
" An' where is a wumman's place if not by her husband's side."
She will read these novelettes.
After that I knew that only dynamite could move
her. You can understand the state I was in. I had
29
MA AT THE MATCH
my moustache half shaved off before I knew where I
was.
In a remarkably short time Mary Jane was ready,
wearing her white hat with red cherries, and carrying
her purple umbrella. We took the tram to Windsor,
but, walking down the avenue, the looks I got were
fierce. It reminded me of the time a dog had thought
there was too much of my pants and I had walked
home minus a very important part of them.
" A think All speculate on the stand the day," I says.
" Ye'll do nothin' iv the kind," snaps Mary Jane.
" Such a waste iv money."
As we went through the turnstile the man gave me
a terrible wink. He seemed to sympathise.
" Ladies free," he says. And you would have
thought that Mary Jane was the Queen of Afghanistan.
Then I caught Billy McKeown's eye, and he began
to laugh very hearty at something. In a flash Mary
Jane was waving her umbrella in front of his face.
" You! " she shouts. " A big, drinkin' fish ! An'
yer poor wife slavin' at home! Ye shud be ashamed
iv yourself ! "
After that Billy calmed down, and Jimmy Mulholland and the rest hadn't such a big sense of humour.
There are two matches I'll never forget, the Gold
Cup final and this one. The first for class football and
the second for various reasons.
30
MA AT THE MATCH
The biggest reason was Mary Jane.
" Come on the Stripes," she shouts for Linfield, who
wear blue. She hadn't brought her glasses, and it was
no use arguing.
" Foul! " roars the crowd.
" Goose! " yells Mary Jane.
I tried to calm her by telling her the one about the
girl and the fellow at the football match. The fellow
says : " That centre-forward will soon be our best
man." The girl says : " Oh, George, this is so sudden! "
" Well, wasn't it? " says Mary Jane.
At any rate she was a true supporter (of which team
I do not know), for at one time I had a terrible job
keeping her off the field. She wanted to douse the
referee.
" Ye've swallied the pea iv yer whistle! " she bawls.
Not even the meal-hour horn was sweeter than the
full-time whistle. We bought the hat on the way
home.
3
THE JARVEY
THE JARVEY
A COMEDY OF ULSTER LIFE
IN ONE ACT
Characters:
This play was first produced in the Grand Opera
House, Belfast, on 26th February, 1926, by the Rosario
A Jarvey
His Daughter
A Taxi-Cab Driver
PAT M'QUILLAN
KATE M'QUILLAN
JIM GALLAGHER
Players.
Permission to perform must be obtained from the
author.
The place of the play is Ballymagraw, an isolated
Ulster town, whose main feature is a Railway Station.
The scene is enacted in the kitchen of Pat M'Quillan's cottage. It is a winter evening, and he is sitting
before the fire with his daughter.
PAT : What ails ye, Kate? For the last five minits
ye've been jumpin' about like a herrin' on a hot griddle.
What are ye fidgetin' about?
KATE : Naethin'—father.
PAT : I thought something wuz bitin' ye that's no' a
dog. Hey ye naethin' to do? In my young days, girls
had always a bit o' knittin' or something on their hands.
KATE: I'll go and get my jumper—but—father
35
THE JARVEY
PAT : Spaik up, child! And for Hivin's sake stap
father—fatherin' me.
KATE : Ye—ye know Mister Gallagher?
PAT : Ye mane the young whipper-snapper--KATE (haughtily): I mean the young man that drives
THE JARVEY
Do ye mane to say that ye give him water to make his
divilish machine go?
KATE : Yes—and of course I cudn't help spaikin' to
is he dead?
KATE: Merciful Providence! No!—Why do you
say that, father?
PAT : Worse things has happened !—Has he only
been crippled then. I knowed he wud hurt hissel' on
that infernal machine!
KATE : He was all right last night when I saw him,
and he said he'd
PAT (astounded): Lord presarve us, Kate! Do ye
mane to say that ye know this—this young brat?
KATE (nervously): Well, he—he passes the dure on
his way to the geerage
PAT (viciously): He does that—the scoundrel!
KATE : An' he needs water to put down the pipe at
at the front of the motor—so he called here a wheen
o' times for it.
PAT : Good God! Of all the cheek an' impudence!
him.
PAT (enraged): The impudent young pup ! Why,
it's leck givin' the divil coal to stoke the fires o' hell!
KATE : Father!—The water cost nothing—and he's
—he's a nice young man.
PAT: A nice young man!—Oh, yis—he is. He's so
nice that he's goin' to send us to the work-house. D'ye
hear! If that young varmin doesn't take his damned
contrivance aff the road we'll have to go to the workhouse. (He calms down considerably and assumes a
sorrowful note.) Boys a dear, I thought ye were more
o' yer da's daughter, Kate. For thirty-five years I've
stud at that station wi' the car—ay, long afore I met
your mother—God rest her—an' I've always managed
to make a fair livin', enough for bite an' sup, by
carryin' folk from here to Ballyglenconnell, an' showin'
tourists the beauties o' the country. Then—three
months ago—this young upstart come wi' his fancy
motor an' town gab—an' begun to wreck my trade.
Pioneer Taxi Company he called hissel'. Pioneer o'
what? Pioneer o' cheek—that's what he is! The
Ballyglenconnell people—the turncoats—all take his
machine. They think it's tonier. The only fares I git
are people who want to be able to say they've been on
36
37
the taxi.
PAT : Don't contradict your elders! Ye mane the
young upstart that stan's that new-fangled contraption
outside the station and takes the bread out o' an ould
man's mouth! (A pause.) Well, what about him—
THE JARVEY
an Irish Jauntin' Car—an' they're few an' far between
these days. I've lost half my custom—but we don't
sup half the parridge, an' Rebecca doesn't ait half the
hay—an' the poor baste's getting ould an' scraggy.
(Angrily): I tell ye, Kate, if that damned taxi isn't
drowned in the shugh or somethin', it'll be over the hill
for us. I can't thole it much longer!
KATE : Surely it's not so bad as that, father! I'm
sure Mister Gallagher will do something to help you.
PAT : He can only do wan thing—an' that's take his
damned machine tae hell out o' this!
KATE (now resigned to his temper): Well, ye can
spaik to him about it when he' here the night.
PAT (amazed): When he's what?
KATE: Here the night! When I was spaikin' to him
last night, he said he wanted to see you, so I axed him
to come the night.
PAT: Ye had a cheek on ye! What does he want?
KATE (timidly): I don't know—unless—unless
PAT : Unless what?
KATE (more timidly): Well, ye see, he axed me to—
to marry him last night.
PAT : (dazed): Holy Tarnol!
KATE : So I expect he wants to ax your consent. We
wudn't do anythin' without it.
PAT (spluttering): The young—the young
KATE (hopefully): I think it's a quare good idea,
38
4
THE JARVEY
father. Ye see, if I married Jim we wudn't have to go
lasto ufinding
to PAT
the w(aotrk-hse.
his voice): The young robber!
First he stales my trade, then he stales my water, and
now he wants to stale my daughter! He must have
no skin on his face!
KATE (shyly): Oh, yes he has—and it's nice and
soft
(angrily): Be quiet, Kate, and put such nonsensical ideas out o' yer head! Dang it's skin! Do
ye think for wan minit that I'd let ye marry the young
villain? Why I'd—I'd rather see ye an ould maid!
KATE (protestingly): But, father, he's not so
bad—
PAT (snappily): He's as bad as they make them—
an' anyway ye'll no marry yit a while—ye're only a
wean!
KATE : I wuz twinty-two last Ayster—and I've had
my hair up nine months now!
PAT : I don't care if ye've had it up nine years!
Ye'll no marry till I let ye—and, when I do, ye'll marry
Willyum John M'Fetridge.
KATE (astounded): William John M'Fetridge?
PAT : Yis—an honest, stiddy, God-fearin' man.
KATE : But he's—he's ould!
PAT : All the more able to take care o' ye. It's better
than gallivantin' wi' a young fool!
39
THE JARVEY
KATE : And he's—he's got a moustache!
PAT : Well—is that a sin? Doesn't God make hair
grow on a man's face. Sure Willyum's only keepin'
a law o' God!
KATE : Then why do you trim your beard?—
Besides, William's moustache is so soupy and droopy!
PAT: Now, don't try to be cliver !—Ye can clane it
then. If Willyum hasn't good looks he has good prospects. He's a smart man, an' they tell me he's interested in two or three consarns.
KATE (hopefully): But maybe he doesn't want
me.
PAT (reassuringly): Boys a boys, he'll only be too
glad to git ye. He's spoke to me on the subjict, an' it's
settled that ye're to marry him when I think fit. Ye've
no given him much encouragement—but that doesn't
annoy Willyum.
KATE : I'll niver forget the night he tried to make up
to me at the swaree.
PAT (laughingly): Man, nither will Willyum! That
wuz the night ye hit him over the head with a stool.
But Willyum's got a kind heart, and he's content till
wait till I make up your mind for ye. (Ruminating):
He's a fine man, Willyum. Did ye ivir notice the way
he clanes his feet afore he enters the dure?—Ye'll have
no trouble wi' him in that direction.
KATE (as a last resort): But I don't love him!
THE JARVEY
PAT : That doesn't matter. Love's all right in
coortin' days, but it doesn't go far when the pigs are as
thin as Rebecca and the cows are as dry as Americky.
KATE (sweetly): Ye're wrong, father! Love's a
quare marvellous thing and (as Pat makes for the door)
where are ye going, father?
PAT (viciously): For the graip! I'll need it when
that young scoundrel comes here the night. I'll teach
him to put such nonsensical ideas into your head.
forbid ye to have any further intercoorse wi' him. (A
knock sounds on the door.) I'll answer to that. Go
you into the back room!
4°
4
(Kate does so, and Pat opens the door to find that
the visitor is fim Gallagher).
JIM (cheerfully): Good evening to you, Mr.
M'Quillan!
PAT (viciously): Don't Mister M'Quillan me, ye
young rip!
JIM : Well—Pat—then. I have come to see you
about
PAT (grimly): We Ballymagraw folk are famous for
our hospitality. We nivir turn a beggar from the dure
—But I'm damned if I'm goin' to let a young robber
under my roof. (Threateningly): I'll give ye wan
minit to clear aff !
JIM (amazed): Robber?
THE JARVEY
PAT: Ay—robber! Haven't ye robbed me on all
THE JARVEY
See
here, Pat. I would look after
JIM (doggedly):
her well. I've got a little bit o' money and a fine job
sides since ye come wi' that—that divil's chariot o'
yours?
JIM (plaintively): I know it's a Ford, Pat, but for
heaven's sake don't rub it in.
PAT : I VMS jilt goin' for the graip when ye knocked
—but I've a good pair o' meleecha boots on me that'll
sarve the same purpose.—Are ye goin'?
JIM (protestingly): But I've come on a matter of
great importance.
PAT (cuttingly): Oh, I know what ye've come for!
Ye're no content wi' stalein' my custom and property
an' ye've come to try to stale my daughter. (scathingly): The cheek o' ye! Do ye think for wan minit
that I'd let Kate have anything more to do wi' ye? If
I'd knowed ye were hangin' round her I'd a shifted ye
purty quick !
JIM : But Kate is agreeable and
PAT : She has no notion o' ye—an' if she had I'd
soon put it out o' her head.
JIM (stiffly): I'm afraid, Mr. M'Quillan, that
you're letting business interfere with the designs of
Cupid.
PAT : I want none o' your town clivirness! That
minit's nearly up an' I don't want to dirty my boots.
Git out o' this (sneeringly) you an' your Pioneer Taxi
Company.
and
PAT : Yis—my money ! I seen through your game
at wanst! Ye knowed how I feeled—an' ye thought
that when I wuz poorer I wud only be too pleased to
git Kate aff my hands. But I'd go to the Union afore
I'd let her marry wi' ye!
JIM (disgustedly): You've got out of the wrong side
of the bed this morning, Mr. M'Quillan. I'll come
round again to-morrow and perhaps you'll be in better
twist.
PAT (fiercely): Ye'll do nothing o' the kind! I don't
want to see your face again—an' if I catch you an'
Kate thegither by Hivin' I'll use the shot-gun! She's
far too young to git marryin' ideas—an' when she
does, she'll marry a man, not a coul'-rifed town hopper !
(casually): In fact she's promised to Willyum John
M'Fetridge.
JIM : Who?
PAT : Willyum John M'Fetridge! An honest, sober,
God-fearin' elder o' the church. A man that owns a
wee farm or two an' a fine residence
JIM : Ay—and a taxi!
PAT: What did ye say?
JIM (offhandedly): I merely mentioned that Mr.
M'Fetridge also owns a taxi.
42
43
THE JARVEY
PAT (nervously): In the name o' God what do ye
mane?
JIM : I mean that he owns a 1913 Ford—to seat six
passengers—driven by James Gallagher, Esquire.
PAT (excited): Holy Tarnol! Do ye mane to
say
JIM (agitated): I mean to say that he is the proprietor
of the Pioneer Taxi Company—that very flourishing
concern, consisting of the aforementioned Ford.
PAT (weakly): Then ye ye
JIM : I am only in his employment, and if I had
known
PAT : The big cantin' hypocrit'! Then it was him
THE JARVEY
:
Don't
let
it
worry
you, man. Anybody could
JIM
have made the same mistake. Besides, I should have
:Any,
told
pAyou.
way, it doesn't mend matters! He'll still
PAT
keep the confounded contrivance on the road an' I'll
be nearer the poor-house than ivir.
Jim : Ah, but there's one way you can make him
give up, Pat. When the race is won the other fellows
don't run far—do they? They know they're beaten,
and it's no use killin' themselves for nothing.
PAT : What are ye gettin' at?
JIM : Well, you see, William John's object was to win
An' here I've been praisin' him up all ower the place.
Man it's tarrible all thegither! It wud give ye the
scunder! I'll be the laughin' stock o' the country side!
the hand of Kate.
PAT : But he'll nivir stan' a chance now!
JIM : Oh, that's all right! William John's not the
one to give up while there's hope. As long as Kate's
single he'll try to get her. The best thing for her to
do is to marry somebody else—at once!
PAT (slyly): I've an idea who ye think that somebody else '11 be. Are ye forgettin' that ye'd be out o'
a job then. Ye can't keep a wife on nothin'.
JIM : Sure I'm out of a job anyway. Do you think
I'd drive for such a man again? But I'll not be idle
long. Dr. Archibald up at The Glen is wanting a
chauffeur, and only yesterday he offered me the job.
PAT : I don't know what a shaffure is—but ye're a
gy sliver, sensible lad.
44
45
who wuz trying to put me aff the road. The—the
JIM : Please try to control your language, Mr.
M'Quillan. Set a good example to the young, you
know.
PAT : Young be damned! To think that a man I
trusted and admired cud play such a low-down mane
trick!
JIM : Ay, evidently he was playing the game you
thought I was, only in his case he had to make Kate
and not you agreeable.
PAT : Sowl! Ye're right, young fella, ye're right!
THE JARVEY
Ay, Kate thinks so too.
PAT : She wud that. Kate's a sonsy wee lass. She's
got a bit o' her da about her. (A pause.) Now what
are ye stanin' there for? Come in, man, out o' the
frost. Dang it's skin ! Do ye want to git your death
o' could?
JIM : I never thought of that—is Kate in?
PAT : Yis—she's likely doin' her hair. (He calls
Kate, and she enters the room.) Here's a young man
to see ye. An' I've changed my mind, Kate. Ye're no'
goin' to marry that scoundrel M'Fetridge. He's too
ould for ye, an' he's got a moustache. He'd slabber
all ower ye when he'd kiss ye. Ye'll have to luk
round for some smart, handsome, stiddy young fella—
an' if I wuz you I wudn't luk far !
KATE (rapturously): Oh, father !
PAT : For Mercy's sake, don't call me " father ".
(He walks toward the door and the young couple come
together to exchange greetings in a loving manner.)
Well, I'd better go out-by now an' give Rebecca some
feedin'. She hasn't had a bite since tay-time.
JIM :
(Curtain.)
46
THE LOST ELIXIR
" A MUST say that A hivn't tasted as gud beer for a
twelvemonth," said Ould Jimmy, setting down his
glass.
" In fact A only tasted better wanst, and that wus
when oul' Andy Patterson made it. But then Andy
had a special concoction iv his own, a kind iv conglomeration iv all the intoxicatin' lickers on the market.
They tell me that the Americans hiv somethin' the
same—a cocktail A think they call it, though divil the
bit iv me sees why they shud call it that. Andy
Patterson called his an elixir, and A think it wus such,
for the oul' sinner didn't take tae the sod till he wus
ninety-two.
" He kep' it all wrote down on a piece iv paper,
makin' a list iv all the ingradients, but he didn't need
tae use this much, for he knowed the whole procedure
aff by heart, though none iv us cud ivir tell how he did
it. And he tuk gud care that nobody ivir got their
hands on the paper.
" Did A ivir tell ye what happened tae Andy
Patterson's elixir? No! Well, All tell ye if ye jist
git me another pint, for it's hard for an oul' fella tae
talk wi' a dry throat.
47
THE LOST ELIXIR
" It was the time," said Ould Jimmy, smacking his
lips, " that Joe M'Fetridge, the bailiff, wus chasin'
Alexander M'Cracken all ower the countryside wi' a
writ in his han'. Alexander wusn't a poor man, but
he had a bad habit iv forgettin' tae pay for feedin'
stuffs and so forth, and in this particular case, it hadn't
occurred tae him tae pay William John Anderson for
half a ton iv oats, though it wusn't for want iv bein'
reminded about it.
" So William John ordered Joe M'Fetridge tae sarve
a writ on him, but this wus easier said than done, for
Alexander wus as fly as the nixt one.
" The way he kep' that writ out iv his han' wus a
marvel. He had an answer for Joe iviry time. For
instance, wan time Joe give it tae him in an envelope
and toul' him it wus a five poun' note that he had got
the loan iv. So Alexander tuk the envelope home, and
wrote tae Joe, sayin' that there was nothin' in the
envelope when he opened it, and wud Joe kin'ly hand
him the five poun's nixt time he met him. Now, Joe
wus a bailiff wi' a reputation, and this sort iv thing hurt
his feelin's, but divil the bit iv him cud see the way tae
bate Alexander.
" A'm sure ye're wonderin' what all this has tae dae
wi' Andy Patterson's elixir. Well, Andy had jist gone
tae glory or otherwise about this time, and after he
died we begun tae search for the receep, as they call it,
THE LOST ELIXIR
iv his elixir, but we cudn't fin' it, though we searched
high up and low down. Iv coorse Andy might hiv
destroyed it, but we wur all iv the opeenion that he had
hid it. He wus that kind iv man.
" Then the auction iv his furniture come on. It's a
shame tae call thon wee bits iv things furniture. There
wusn't a thing in the place he cud hiv done wi'out,
exceptin' an oul' melodian that seemed tae hiv bin
punctured and patched up agin. It's about this melodian that A want tae tell ye.
" When it wus put up, the wee crowd that wus there
begun tae laugh—an no wonder, for it wusn't worth
tuppence. Bob M'Kinstry, the auctioneer, luked a bit
ashamed himsel' and mind ye that wus somethin' for
it tuk a gud bit tae shame Bob. Howivir, he made the
best iv things and said that if it cudn't make a joyful
noise it had the makin's iv a gud pair iv bellows.
" He nearly fell aff his perch when wee Sammy
Skillen offered five shillin's, and he nearly had a fit
when Alexander M'Cracken bate it by offerin' six. At
first we thought they wur drunk, but Alexander showed
no signs iv it, and wee Sammy made it a rule nivir tae
git drunk till after tay-time. But when they begun tae
bid agin wan another leck the divil, we begun tae think
that somethin' wus wrong somewhere, and when at
last Alexander got the oul' contraption for thirty-six
shillin's, we were sure iv it.
48
49
THE LOST ELIXIR
" But there wus more surprises tae come. No sooner
had Alexander got houl' iv the melodian than he outs
wi' a big pocket-knife and slashes a hole in it. Then
he puts his han' intae it, and nixt minnit he's jumpin'
about yelpin' wi' joy, leck a herrin' on a hot griddle.
" ' A've got it,' he shouts.
" ' Got what? ' asks Bob M'Kinstry.
" ' The receep,' yells Alexander. ' The receep iv
Andy Patterson's elixir.'
" Wi' that he pulls a paper out iv the melodian and
stares at it. Then his face wint blue—as blue as the
paper—for it wus the writ that Joe M'Fetridge had
tried to sarve on him for weeks. And divil the other
paper wus in the melodian, for Alexander turned it
inside out tae see.
" That night A met wee Sammy Skillen in this very
pub.
" ' What made ye bid for that oul' melodian,' A
says.
" ' A wus biddin' for Joe M'Fetridge,' says Sammy.
" ' And what made Alexander think the receep wus
in it? '
" ' Paddy M'Quillan toul' him a paper was in it,' says
Sammy. ' Joe M'Fetridge toul' Paddy.'
" 'And how did Joe know it wus there,' A says.
" ' He put it there,' says Sammy.
5o
THE LOST ELIXIR
" So that wus how Joe sarved his writ, and kep' up
his reputation. Andy Patterson's elixir has nivir been
foun', but the ordinary sirt iv beer does me. In fact A
cud do wi' another glass now."
51
A SONG OF THE GLENS
(For Music.)
travelled the world from the East to the West,
And many's the sight I have seen;
I have endured the worst, I have enjoyed the best,
I have tasted the fat and the lean;
But the further I go, and the more that I know,
The more would my heart heed the call
To go back o'er the brine to the glens that are nine,
And my cottage in dear Cushendall.
I HAVE
A SONG OF THE GLENS
'Tis there that the ancient bard Ossian sleeps;
'Tis there that Layde Church crumbles down;
'Tis there that the beautiful Glen Ariff weeps,
And Ess-na-Crub Fall tumbles down.
Oh, I'll waft me away to the shores of Red Bay,
And dwell in the midst of it all;
And when life's twilight falls and death's curlew calls
I'll rest me in old Cushendall.
Refrain :
Oh, Ireland's a diamond that's set in the sea,
A diamond of emerald hue,
But it sparkles the rarest where Nature is fairest,
And that's in my glen-land—'tis true.
If ye hunger for rest, or if peace be your quest,
I'll wager ye'll sure get your fill
In the fair wooded glades and silver cascades
That lie below Luirgedan Hill;
So partake of it then—for there's health in each glen,
And contentment in each waterfall;
'Tis a feast that's prepared by God and not men,
My Antrim Glens and dear Cushendall.
52
53
THE first feeling I had on leaving Belfast, after a long
time there, was one of regret—regret that I had not
appreciated the city and its Ulster surroundings half
enough. And the first feeling I had on arriving in
London was a grim realisation that things were different here.
In Belfast I was somebody : that is to say I could
hardly walk the length of the Royal Avenue without
encountering an acquaintance of some sort. Here I am
but a very small pebble on a very big beach, a very
small fly of the millions that buzz around the sugar.
I could walk all day without recognising a single face,
or all week for that matter.
London has not the friendliness of Belfast, even to
Londoners. The struggle for existence is so acute that
there is little time for the simple courtesies which, after
all, make life worth living. A nervous disposition or a
shrinking personality is fatal in the Metropolis. One
has to have oneself thoroughly in hand.
The Belfast accent and the Ulster dialect are complete puzzles to the average Londoner. Quite as
puzzling, in fact, as the Cockney and kindred tongues
are to me. Through my native voice, I have got wrong
LONDON AS I SEE IT
tickets, wrong places, and wrong names. I find it best
to ask a policeman the way. The ordinary civilian,
even though he does not understand you, will nod his
head or direct you to the first place that comes into it.
Even the policeman is not infallible.
London living cannot change the Ulster heart. As
soon as the Ulster folk here get to know of a new
arrival from the homeland they prepare a welcome. In
the short time I have been over, I have met scores of
Ulstermen. It is remarkable how many there are here,
and all successful in their several spheres.
Despite its constant condemnation, I prefer the Belfast tram service to that of London. Fares here are
remarkably cheap, but Belfast has it in the running.
The London motor-man seems to illtreat his charge.
He will drive the car at great speed, and then pull up
very suddenly, with a loud grinding of brakes. Passengers are often all but thrown to the floor. There is
also a constant swaying of the chassis which, to me, at
any rate, spells a sickly feeling. The Belfast conductor,
however, could learn something from the cheerful spirit
of his metropolitan fellow. This individual is almost
too obliging and joyful. He will do anything but give
you a ticket for nothing, and is delighted to carry on
conversation on any subject.
To me, he is one of the most interesting of London
characters. I boarded a tram the other morning, and
54
55
LONDON AS I SEE IT
LONDON AS I SEE IT
tendered a half-crown for a twopenny fare. " Sorry I
have nothing smaller," I said. " Don't worry, guvnor," he replied. " Thank your lucky stars you have
half-a-crown. My wife took my last tuppence this
morning for the gas meter."
It is one of the most regrettable features of London
that Sabbath observance is practically nil, and Belfast
may congratulate itself on still keeping its soul. I am
not narrow-minded, but I feel that no city can prosper
without its Sunday. The day is just a holiday here.
Tennis, gardening, bands, building, and the cinema all
go on their merry way. The churches are putting up
a fine show, but finding it an extremely hard battle.
When London remembers that man cannot live by
bread alone, things will begin to look up.
Entertainments are fine, but not so marvellous as
sometimes painted in the provinces. This is especially
true in the cinema world. There are pictures now in
important London theatres which were on view in Belfast a month before I left. Home prices are more
reasonable, and there is less trouble in gaining admittance.
The body of London is dotted with public parks.
They abound everywhere, and many are really beautiful from an artificial point of view. Belfast scores in
the naturalness of its scenery. I have yet to see anything to equal the rugged grandeur of the Cave Hill.
56
4
LONDON AS I SEE IT
To my mind, the Belfast girl beats her London rival,
both in beauty and dress. I say this from an entirely
unbiassed point of view. Artificial aids to beauty are
greatly used to excess here, and my impression of the
Strand is a parade of painted dolls. There are so many
London girls, that each is making a desperate effort to
stand out from the mob, either by dress or eccentricity.
Again, nature is on the side of the Belfast girl, and I
plump for her every time. London business men are
obviously better dressed, but many of them go to extremes, and the effect is most irritating.
Yes, London is still the centre of English-speaking
civilisation, and its wonders will never cease, but Belfast
is making great strides, and it doth not yet appear what
we shall be. At any rate, it will always be the dearest
spot on earth to me—home!
London, 1928.
57
FOR nigh on half-an-hour I had been searching, not for
a collar-stud this time, but for a plot, round which to
write one of my inimitable sketches, the like of which
editors have never seen—and hope they never will. The
world seemed utterly devoid of such things (plots, not
editors). I sat and nibbled my pen, gazing steadfastly
into space, but no mighty vision floated across my
horizon. Even the bottled inspiration at my elbow did
not help. Plots were as scarce as coals in my cellar.
For a moment a spark of romance flickered before my
eyes, but was immediately blotted by the effort of an
organ grinder below my windows.
I was saying a few well-chosen words in respect of
this well-meaning gentleman, when the door of my den
burst open and George rushed in. I groaned aloud.
This was the last straw. George means well, but he
possesses a personality which has an effect somewhat
similar to a mouse rampant in a ladies' sewing circle.
I knocked over the ink-pot with what was left of my
pen and glared at him.
" Good morning and good-bye ! " I said meaningly.
He grinned at me. " Wherefore the furrowed
brow? " he inquired.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE
" I can't even find a plot in peace and quietness," I
growled, " and now you come in to--"
" Oh, you want a plot," he said genially. " Well,
there are some very fine ones just off Cavehill Road,
with good soil and
" Not a garden plot! " I bellowed. " A romance—
an intrigue—a plot for a yarn."
" Oh, that kind of plot! Well, Russia's full of 'em,
and there's the Gunpowder Plot, but, of course, most of
'em have been used.—Let me see, now. Have you a
tape line? "
" Have I a what? "
" A tape line, for measuring, you know."
" But what the dickens has that got to do with
" Well, I suggest that we measure Royal Avenue, so
we'd better have something to do it with."
" You blithering idiot! " I shrieked. " I am racking
my brains for a plot, and you begin babbling about
measuring Royal Avenue ! "
" Certainly ! That's where we're going to find a
plot. It's a kind of imagination tonic. Why even
decent writers have done this kind of thing to give the
good work a gee-up."
Light began to dawn on me. I could feel a touch of
brotherliness for George.
" I see," I said. " You think that something will
happen to suggest a plot? "
58
59
MEASURE FOR MEASURE
39
MEASURE FOR MEASURE
" I don't," he replied. " The adventure itself will
be a story."
I gave him a fourpenny cigar and a glass of inspiration, while I hunted out a tape line and donned my
hat and coat. Ten minutes later we were in a car
bound for Castle Junction.
I had the feeling of one who is about to make an ass
of himself as we alighted at the junction of Donegall
Street and Royal Avenue, but I cast all dignity aside
and manfully grasped the end of the tape while
George solemnly applied the other end to the footpath.
Our actions immediately attracted attention. Passing pedestrians stopped and stared. One, a buxom
woman evidently coming from the markets, was the
first to voice her opinion.
" Surely to patience," she said, " they aren't going
to haul up this street again ! "
George said nothing, but continued to measure, while
a little crowd followed him.
" Well, all I have to say," concluded the woman,
" is that A hope they dig a hole big enough to bury
themselves in! "
A little Tele. boy now joined the ranks and gave
his views on the case.
" They're surveyin' the landscape, that's what they're
doin'," he confided to a chum.
6o
MEASURE FOR MEASURE
" Aw, go on," retorted that individual. " Can't ye
see they're takin' the census! "
" I know," gushed a girl of the flapper type.
" They're doin' it for the films."
" But where's the camera? " asked her companion.
" Oh, well, I suppose they're just practisin'," returned the knowing one.
An old white-haired chap added his share to the
total. " No," he said, " they're very likely doing it
for statistical purposes."
" Does that mean there's goin' tae be a war? " inquired the Tele. boy, anxiously.
" It's my idea," said a rather greasy gent., " that it's
got somethin' tae do wi' the controllin' iv the traffic."
It certainly had, for by this time we had reached
North Street, and a fleet of various vehicles was kept in
check while George calmly adjusted the line. The
pointsman was making a bee-line for us when George
had the good sense to abandon the scheme. He
gathered up the tape line, brought out an official-looking note-book, entered up some figures, and turned to
me.
" I think that will do for to-day, alderman," he said.
And we melted away like cream buns at a school treat.
6r
THE RUINED MILL
THE RUINED MILL
(BALLYSILLAN ROAD, BELFAST.)
THERE instruments of industry proclaimed a merry
tune,
And whirring wheels resounded like the busy bees in
June;
The Spindle of Machinery pursued its rapid course,
(That place, alas ! is covered o'er with hollyhocks and
gorse);
The whirring wheels are silent, the industry is dead,
And where man spun the flaxen cord the spider spins
instead.
I gaze in awe at ruined roof and ivy mantled wall;
A fearful, forlorn fantasy, a weird and eerie scene,
The shreds of high imaginings, the ghosts of what has
been;
And, as I gaze, it seems to me a picture of the Plan,
The triumph of God's nature o'er the little works of
man.
The little stream, that runs hard by, once drove a
mighty mill,
But now it flows unheeded, for the massive wheel is
still;
And as it wanders slowly to the bosom of the sea
I feel it has a beauty and a message still for me;
For though its work is over and it gives no merchant
aid,
It is more the lovely vision the God of Nature made.
When twilight steals across the hills and evening
shadows fall,
6z
63
PA AT THE MENAGERIE
greet ye as a brother. As for the smell av the animals
—well, as A say, A've lived wi' ye for twenty-six
PA AT THE MENAGERIE
" A'vE been livin' wi' ye for twenty-six years," says
Mary Jane, " but A've nivir been tae the Zoo. Now's
yer chance tae take me tae see some more animals."
" But," I protested
" None av yer buttin'. Ye need have no fear av
them keeping ye there. A expect they have plenty av
your speshies."
I groaned inwardly, same as wee Alex did on Boxing
Day.
" I hear there's quare crowds goin' tae it," I says.
" Maybe we wudn't be able tae get in."
" There was a quare crowd roun' M'Aleenan's pub
last Saturday night and ye managed to get in all right,"
says Mary Jane. " An' there wuz a quare crowd at
Linfield an' Celtic match, an' ye managed tae get in
all right. Where there's a will there's a way."
" The animals might be dangerous," I says hopefully. " I wudn't leck tae see ye gettin' hurt. An' the
smell av them
" Ye can't gull me," says Mary Jane. " If ye
thought there wuz any chance av me bein' made feedin'
stuff, ye'd have had me there long ago. An' the only
thing ye're scared av's work. Av coorse the ape will
64
years."
" Oh, all right," I grunts. " We'll go nixt month."
" We'll do nothin' av the kind! " shouts Mary Jane.
" We'll go the night. Mrs. M'Murtry says that feedin'
time's the best. Ye'll be able to see for yerself what I
have tae gaze at, at dinner-time. All go an' get the
childer ready."
" The childer? "
" Ave coorse. Hiv ye forgot that ye have childer?
The weans'll have tae come too."
" But ye know what they are," I protests.
" A rare them," says Mary Jane. " Now go an' put
on yer dickey."
In half an hour the lamb was ready for the slaughter,
and after a nightmare of a tram ride, we arrived at
North Street. It was the fourth time I had been at the
Zoo, but that's neither here nor there. (For heaven's
sake don't tell Mary Jane.)
The lecture was just over and the performance beginning. We managed to get over where a trainer
was entering the cages. He was now in a lioness's den,
and the band was playing " Ain't She Sweet? "
" Is them real lions? " asks wee Alex suddenly.
" No," I says. " Can't ye see they're electric ones? "
At that minute a terrific roar which reminded us of
65
PA AT THE MENAGERIE
Mary Jane's call in the morning, gave us a shock anyway.
Then the trainer went into a tiger's cage, with the
band playing " Take Your Finger Out Of Your Mouth,
I Want A Kiss From You."
" Wud it ait ye? " asks our Maggie.
" No, dear," answers Mary Jane. " It wudn't ait yer
da. It's very particular about it's feedin'."
The trainer was now in the wolves' cage, giving an
exhibition.
" Tell him tae make them form fours," says wee
Alex.
" They've nivir been in the Specials," I says.
The boxing kangaroo was great, but of course it
should have been disqualified for hitting low. I
shouted this to the referee, but Mary Jane told me to
shut up, and put a dog biscuit in my mouth to help
me.
" Come an' see the performin' elephant," she says.
" See if it can do any better than yerself."
We did, and everything would have been all right if
wee Alex hadn't pulled its tail in an attempt to make
it squeak.
" It's tarrible waste," says Mary Jane, as the elephant
was walking round the top of a tub. " Think av all
the clothes it cud be wringin'."
" A remarkable likeness," says she, when Bonzo, the
66
PA AT THE MENAGERIE
sea-lion, began to do his tricks. " Keep houl' av me
hand so that ye won't get mixed up."
Bonzo was certainly clever, and I'm rather fond of
fish myself. He manipulated (that's a good one !) a
ball so well that I thought of asking him to sign a
form.
Then came the snake-charmer, who did everything
with snakes except swallow them.
" Sowl," says Mary Jane, " that man cud fairly
han'le tripe."
After that was the Indian magician. He was a
wonder and no mistake. He had only to put out his
hand and the money fell into it. In fact he had the
greatest job looking after it all. The only trouble was
that it was Indian money. There's a catch in all these
things.
" That's just leck you men," says Mary Jane. " Ye
want the money tae drop intae yer hands—an' niver tae
do a hand's turn for it."
By this time the magician's little son was on the
stage, asking for a boy to demonstrate on, and I had a
terrible time keeping wee Alex in his place. He begun
to howl, and the whole crowd turned to look at him.
They thought the laughing hyena had started to cry.
Then our Maggie put the tin hat on it. She decided
that she couldn't see, and let the world know about it.
" For dear sake, what hiv ye done tae the childer ? "
67
PA AT THE MENAGERIE
says Mary Jane, for Maggie was yelping and Alex was
trying to beat the lion at roaring.
" We'd better take them out," I says.
" An' we'll miss the feedin' after all," says Mary
Jane. " Ah, well, ye can hiv yer supper instead, an'
All watch ye. That ought tae make up."
EILEEN AROON
68
EILEEN AROON
AN IRISH OPERETTA IN Two SCENES
BASED ON A PIECE OF IRISH HISTORY
(Has been set to music by F. Stendal Todd.)
Characters :
A Harper
CAROL O'DALY
His Sweetheart
EILEEN KAVANAGH
A Bard
ROGER O'HARA
Period-138o---1385.
Note: The Melody " Eileen Aroon " has since been
given words—"Erin, the tear," by Moore, and
" Robin Adair," by Lady Caroline Keppel.
SCENE ONE
Moonlight. At the end of the lane from the
Kavanagh Home. Carol is sitting on the gate, fingering his harp and singing wistfully.
71
EILEEN AROON
CAROL (singing):
Here with the moon above,
The em'rald grass below,
I'm waiting for my love,
Oh, will she come or no?
EILEEN AROON
EILEEN: But my father! Even now he may be seeking!
CAROL: Courage, sweet Eileen! Have I too not
come here at a risk? Would not my misguided parents
keep us for ever apart? Fools that they are !
(He laughs harshly.)
To-morrow I shall sail,
To lands across the sea;
Will my love weep and wail,
Or calmly wait for me?
Ah, here she comes, with the grace of a frightened
fawn—like a bird that has been startled and would
take refuge.—Why do you run, Eileen? Why does
excitement make red roses out of white ones?
EILEEN (breathlessly): Oh, Carol ! I—I thought I
should never get here.
CAROL : They would stay you?
EILEEN : Ay, if they knew.--But they think that even
now you are aboard ship. I waited my chance and stole
out during Evening Mass. I must hurry ! They will
search when they miss me—and if I am found with
you
CAROL : Hurry? On the last night I shall see you
Ah, no, dear heart. Our
for years and perhaps
parting must not be hurried. It is a sacrament—a
sacrament in honour of a sacrifice.
72
EILEEN : Why do you laugh?
CAROL : At the humour of it all! Your parents would
keep you from me because I am lacking gold—because
I am but a wandering musician—a poor fool who does
nought but cheer the heart with harp and song, and gets
little in return. And my parents—my parents will not
let me marry you because of your wealth—because of
a foolish pride that makes love a charity. Is it not
laughable?
EILEEN : But, nevertheless, you must go away tomorrow.
CAROL : Ay—my father does not dabble in the law
for nothing. To-morrow I must leave the country and
seek another shore. He thinks that with my going our
love will go also—that I shall forget.—Oh, the foolishness of it all !•
EILEEN : You may forget me.
CAROL : Ah, you tease me. (Singing.)
Though seas separate us and lands may unmate us
And though fools may fate us apart :
73
EILEEN AROON
Still I will abide, dear, for aye by your side, dear,
And my heart shall call to your heart.
EILEEN (singing):
Though seas separate us and lands may unmate us,
What e'er shall await us, my love,
Though you leave behind me, yet e'er you will find me
As true as the stars now above.
CAROL (in ecstasy): You mean that, sweetheart!
Ah, you will not have long to wait. I shall come home
as rich as your father would have me. It will take
a whole ship to carry my gold! God knows I am rich
enough with life and love and your heart, but if worldly
wealth can bring us together it shall be mine.
EILEEN : And I shall be a beggar maid without you!
What is all my wealth without love and the joy of it?
Oh, Carol, I shall miss you!
CAROL : But you will have my love. And remember (sings)
Yet I will abide, dear, for aye by your side, dear,
And my heart shall call to your heart.
So when you are lonely, just close your eyes, and
my comforting arms will be round you. When you
are sad, my voice shall cheer you. When you are
tempted
74
EILEEN AROON
EILEEN : Nay, Carol, I shall not be tempted
CAROL : My dear, the world is wide, and the men in
it have soft tongues and fair features—and much riches.
EILEEN: Ah, do not hurt me! There is no one but
you! There never was! There never will be! I love
you! I will be true to you. I will wait for you till
I sink wearied to the grave. And, even then, we shall
be joined in death.
CAROL : And I too shall hold our love as a sacred
trust. Shall we seal our covenant with a kiss? (They
do so.)
BOTH (singing):
Since life is not complete with joy,
Then we will bear the pain;
And nothing shall our love alloy,
Until we meet again—
Until we meet again.
(A sound of voices is heard in the distance.)
EILEEN (frightened): They have come to look for
me !—Farewell, Carol! My prayers go with you!
May the good God guide you and keep you in that
foreign land!
CAROL : 'Tis only my body over the sea! Farewell
—Eileen Aroon! (as she goes) Fare—well—Eileen—
Aroon.
75
EILEEN AROON
SCENE TWO
Five years later. A Wedding Banquet in the
Kavanagh home. The sound of soft music is heard.
Carol, bearded, and in the guise of a wandering harper,
is seated beside Roger O'Hara, a bard and fellow
musician.
You are a foreigner, are you not?
I have spent many years over the sea, but this
spot is dear to me.
ROGER : You have travelled, but you have not prospered?
ROGER :
CAROL :
Indeed, sir, if you measure wealth in terms
of mere gold, I am a very rich man. But in real wealth
I am lacking.
ROGER : You have much money, and yet you are but
a wandering harper.
CAROL : It is my chosen calling. I have forsaken it
too long.
CAROL :
And what is this real wealth that you speak
of—and crave?
ROGER :
The loyalty of friends, the peace of home,
the love of a maid.
ROGER : Think you these will endure?
CAROL : I had thought so—but now I doubt love.
ROGER : I have a song that tells of it. Mayhap it
shall bring you enlightenment. (Sings.)
7()
CAROL :
EILEEN AROON
Love is but a flower that grows,
In every lover's heart;
Sow the seed of faith and hope,
Then love will plays its part :
And it will bloom for ever,
If it be sweet and pure;
Love unproud and undefiled
For ever will endure.
CAROL : Ah, yes, you may sow the seed of faith and
hope, but alas, how often the flower withers.
ROGER : Mayhap it encounters drought—or storm.
CAROL : Or again, it may be plucked by another.
ROGER : Why, sir, you are sorrow itself. It is no
state for a wedding banquet—where all is joy and
revelry.
CAROL (dreamily): Joy—and—revelry. I suppose
the bride is the crown of all this happiness.
ROGER : Sweet Eileen Kavanagh! Indeed, she is the
picture of joy. And well she may, having such a rich
and handsome husband.
CAROL : Eileen Kavanagh—I have heard the name.
ROGER : And well you might! She is the fairest
maid for miles.
CAROL : With a score of lovers, no doubt.
ROGER : They say no. There was but one other-
77
EILEEN AROON
a Carol O'Daly—but he was a good-for-nothing. He
left her for the call of other lands.
CAROL : A good-for-nothing? And yet, mayhap, she
loved him.
ROGER : She showed no signs of it. It was her
father's wish that she should wed this day's bridegroom.
CAROL : It is madness to go against a father's
wish.
ROGER : Nay, sir, I disagree. Love knows no barriers.
CAROL : Yes, it will not be shut in, and it will not be
shut out. It cannot be kept or carried.
ROGER : Of a truth, sir, one would think that you
had felt the sting of a fickle maid.
CAROL : Mayhap I have.
ROGER : Come, then, and turn your eyes to the true
side of the picture—the glory of pure love. For here
comes the fair Eileen herself, radiant with happiness.
See, she is making toward us. Is she not beautiful?
CAROL : Ay,—beautiful of feature—and dress (under
his breath) Eileen—Eileen!
ROGER : No doubt she wants an exhibition of our
skill. Let me go to find my instrument. (He goes.)
CAROL (whispering): So this is how we meet again.
Would to God that she wore that gown for me—that
smile! Is it the irony of the Saints that I should return
on this day? If it is gold, I can give it her! If it is
78
EILEEN AROON
love—she has always had it. (Loudly) Your pleasure
—fair lady!
Come now, Harper. Let us hear what
music you can make. Let us see whether your fingers
are as smart as your tongue.
CAROL: As you will, lady. What do you desire?—
A song of love—a song of duty—a song of sacrifice.
EILEEN : What matters it?—A song of love, then,
since this is a feast of love.
CAROL : I am ready. Here is your song of love.
EILEEN :
(He plays "Eileen Aroon" for the first time.)
(rapturously): What a beautiful song!
CAROL : It is indeed but a humble effort, lady.
EILEEN: You must have felt it! You must be in
love!
CAROL : I was in love.
EILEEN : And was she untrue?
CAROL : I am uncertain. Now we are parted for
ever.
EILEEN : Was it man or money?
CAROL : Methinks it was both.
EILEEN : Nevertheless that was a marvellous melody.
You must have still some love for her.
CAROL : Mayhap I have.
EILEEN : It was surely a wonderful composer who
penned that song.
EILEEN
79
EILEEN AROON
CAROL : It was my own making, my lady.
EILEEN : Yours? Then you must surely be in love.
What do you call the song?
CAROL (tensely): "Eileen Aroon."
(Silence for a few moments.)
EILEEN AROON
CAROL : See, your husband is agitated. You had
better go to him.
EILEEN : But—Carol
CAROL : Farewell — for ever — (tenderly)
Eileen
Aroon!
(Her sobs sink to silence.)
EILEEN (passionately): Carol!
CAROL (offhandedly): Did my lady address me?
EILEEN : Carol—you—you—have come back!
CAROL : My lady will pardon me, but her husband is
beckoning to her.
EILEEN : Carol—my love!
CAROL : And I too must go to board my ship.
EILEEN : Carol—I beseech you
CAROL (singing softly):
Though you leave behind me, yet e'er you will find me
As true as the stars above.
EILEEN : Carol—you must
CAROL (still singing):
Since life is not complete with joy,
Then we will bear the pain;
And nothing shall our love alloy,
Until we meet again—
Until we meet again.
EILEEN : Ah, you will not listen.
8o
81
F
THE TAIL OFF A CAT
ANN M'MURTRY had a veritable passion for cats.
Her little, dilapidated cottage, in the Ulster village of
Ballymagraw, was simply over-run with them. There
were cats to the right of her and cats to the left of
her, and very often cats clinging round her stooping
shoulders or perched on her old head, with claws firmly
fastened in a bun of grey hair.
When you called to see her, you would find them
occupying all the comfortable seats, imperious and
impudent, and, rather than that one of these serene
majesties should be disturbed from the throne, you
would be motioned to a low stool or creepy, far from
the fire, before which these feline field-marshals delighted to bask.
She had a pet name for each one, and treated them
like children; much better indeed than she had treated
her own children, who were now either " in service "
or doing business upon the great waters.
I remember well the first time I visited the Home for
Cats, as her cottage was known. She seemed terribly
perturbed, looking often at the clock and muttering to
herself.
" Nobby should have been in for his dinner before
82
MARY
THE TAIL OFF A CAT
this," she said to me. " And—oh, here he is ! " Her
face had cleared and there was a wonderful light in her
eyes. I turned, in time to see a large orange and white
cat walk proudly in, with head in air and tail at proper
slope. It reminded me of the entrance of the Lord of
the Manor.
In two minutes, Nobby was tackling a generous plate
of assorted meats, with a larger saucer of milk as dessert. I was told that Mary Ann took nothing but
black tea and plain bread herself. Her life was centred
on cats.
According to certain authorities, she was a bit of an
old cat herself. Perhaps this was because she was so
intimate with the beasts and so sensitive concerning
their welfare. She had many a wordy and warlike
battle with the neighbours in defence of her dearly
beloved animals.
If she was a bit cattish, Sarah M'Feeters played dog
to it. She had a tongue that could do as much harm
as a terrier's teeth. She had no love for cats (including
Mary Ann).
" Cats," she would say, with a world of contempt in
her voice. " Sly, sleeked, slothful things. If they
were all black, it wudn't be so bad. They might cross
your path now and again. But divil the black one
has she in the whole collection. A lot of uppish, ugly,
stinkin' brutes ! "
83
THE TAIL OFF A CAT
Therefore, when Nobby returned one morning after
a nocturnal ramble (which was also his special privilege) plus a hurt, crushed look in his eyes and minus
his long and beautiful tail, Mary Ann had no hesitation
in deciding who was the culprit. The treasure had
been severed neatly and completely, as by a surgeon's
knife, and everything pointed to treachery on the part
of Sarah.
Mary Ann soon gave vent to her feelings. She was
under the impression that Sarah had risen at dead of
night, lured the unfortunate feline with some tasty
delicacy, trapped it with unmerciful hands, and carried
out the foul deed in the coal cellar. This belief was
strengthened by the fact that Sarah had borrowed
Lizzie M'Fetridge's scissors prior to the fateful day
and returned them after the tragedy looking extremely
suggestive. Lizzie herself remarked, with wonder,
that they were quite as clean as when she loaned them;
which showed that they must have been washed to remove the tell-tale stains. Sarah would not have washed
them under any other circumstances.
When Sarah heard of the accusations, she merely
sniffed in a characteristic manner. " Serves His Nibs
right," was her comment. " Suppose oul' Mary will
touch him up and try tae sell him as a Mannix now ! "
It was after a private display of grief that Mary Ann
proceeded to put her words into actions. Down the
84
THE TAIL OFF A CAT
village she went, fierce of eye and determined of chin,
her cats following after her in a cluster. The cavalcade halted at Sarah's door and the commandant demanded entrance with a kick. Out came Sarah.
" Murderess ! " screamed the incensed Mary Ann.
" Ye've cut the tail off my Nobby ! Where is it? "
" Did ye want tae stick it on again? " enquired
Sarah calmly. " Cose I was thinkin' it wud make a
fine ornament for me hat."
Next minute Mary Ann had her by the hair, and
after that it took two farm labourers to hold them apart.
Then followed a miscellany of invective, including
threats by Mary Ann of awful deeds and lawful actions.
And all the while Nobby's tail was lying between the
rails of a nearby railway line. Nobby was such a
standoffish and independent cat. He had refused to
remove his tail when the whistle of the six-thirty a.m.
asked him to do so. So the six-thirty had removed it
for him.
85
THIS LOVE BUSINESS
WHAT is all this talk about love? It is a popular topic
at all times, but lately an extra spot of limelight has
been thrown upon it. In last week's press there was
an account of an address given by a Dr. Hollander,
headed " The Lunacy of Love ", in which the doctor
advocated the contemplation of matrimony in the cold
light of reason. On the following Sunday the Rev.
Dudley Fletcher, preaching in St. George's Parish
Church, Dublin, declared that " Love is a temporary
insanity ". In the Belfast Opera House this week a
character declared that marriage is a mighty serious
thing, and requires a great deal of thought, while
another voiced the opinion that love is wonderful, and
comes like a voice soft and low (" like asking the
waiter for a drink after hours," said the comedian). So
who are we to believe?
I turn to my little library, and I find that the great
ones have many and diverse things to say on love.
" The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can
ever end," says Disraeli. " Love did nothing but prove
the soundness of La Rochefoucauld's saying that very
few people would fall in love if they had never read
about it," says Shaw. " A lover without indiscretion
86
THIS LOVE BUSINESS
is no lover at all," says Hardy. " Who does not know
how to love has but a faithless heart," says Voltaire.
" When one is in love one begins to deceive oneself.
And one ends by deceiving others," says Wilde.
" Love is like the measles; we have all to go through
with it," says Jerome. " No woman hates a man for
being in love with her; but many a woman hates a
man for being a friend to her," says Pope. " Love
will stir imaginations that have never stirred before,"
says Wells. " The praise that comes of love does
not make us vain, but humble rather," says Barrie.
Which is all very disconcerting to a young fellow like
myself.
It is at such a time that I turn to " Oul' William ".
Now William does not know much about literature,
but he knows a lot about life, and he is, with the exception of P. G. Wodehouse, the greatest philosopher I
know. So I went to William, and put the case before
him.
" Well," says he, " it all depends on what ye mean
by ' love '. There's no lunacy about the love of a
friend for a friend, for it grows with the years. And
there's no lunacy about the love of a mother for her
child, for it's the greatest thing on God's earth. But
I'm thinking it's the love of a man for a maid that
ye're talking about, and ye know that was one thing
that even Solomon in all his glory couldn't understand,
87
THIS LOVE BUSINESS
so there's little chance for me. But I'll tell ye what I
know anyway.
" Marriage is a quare thing in some parts of the
country. Different people have a different way of
going about it. For instance, there's some people make
the dowry the most important thing. They fight over
how many cows the bride is to take with her and sometimes a hen is brought in to steady the scales. Love is
a thing of little importance. Then there are young
fellows who take a notion of a girl and never bother
telling her but tell her father instead. And then there
are some who get engaged and stay engaged for five,
ten, fifteen, aye and twenty years.
" Now, that's not my idea of love. Love absolutely
carries ye off your feet. Ye don't know whence it
comes and whither it goes. For it does go sometimes
ye know. It's just like the wind. It can be strong,
but it's powerful fresh and sweet too. I've seen men
raving over women that ye wouldn't go the length of
your finger to see. But they were beautiful to them,
and no amount of talk would make them think different. They say that love is blind (aye, and I've
known it speechless too) but I'm thinking that it's just
a pair of rose-coloured spectacles. And who wouldn't
have rose-coloured spectacles? Doesn't the world look
better for them?
" As I say, it's no use trying to put love in a pigeon88
THIS LOVE BUSINESS
hole. It can't be done by arithmetic. Maybe there's
something in what the doctor said about it being
lunacy, but I prefer to think of it as a lovely dream.
And, mind ye, it's not everybody that has to wake up.
If it's the right sort of love, it will last till the end of
the world.
Love' is
" So there ye are, and where are ye?
' love ' and what more can ye say than that? "
89
THE DOME
THE DOME
reverie on the illuminated dome of the
City Hall, Belfast.]
STANDING out against the blackness
Of a star-studded sky;
A bright picture
In a jewelled frame of ebony :
Above the murky mist
And the hurried heat of the city,
Like a favourite spot
Kissed by the moon,
And tinged with her serenity.
Heeding not
The rush and rampage
Of the crowded street,
The frenzied glamour
Of the town's high noon;
Half-smiling, it would seem,
At the frantic efforts
Of " the world and his wife ".
Beneath her rounded eaves
The City Fathers
go
Rear the city's children;
Functions of state
Fill the marble hall;
The Dome is silent,
But in her majesty
She crowns them all;
While in her portals,
White and gleaming,
The pigeons find
A veritable palace.
The lesser domes stand by,
Like silent sentinels
Guarding a shrine,
While a flag floats
As the sacred pennant
Before an Eastern minaret.
And all the while
The Dome looks gravely down,
Placid and peaceful,
Breathing a benediction
On the town.
91
THE VOICE OF THE CITY
ALL is peaceful in Royal Avenue. By " peaceful " I
mean that the wheels of the city are running smoothly.
The traffic still rattles merrily on, and the constant
streams of people go to and fro, but there is nothing to
disturb the normal quietude of the place. Then suddenly the air is filled with a chorus of cries, a swift rush
of feet is heard, and the Telegraph boys come scampering out of Library Street like bees from a hive. Talk
of the charge of the Light Brigade! Why, it is not to
be compared with this. Loud and clear rings the " warcry "—" Tele-a-a—Fourth Tee-a." Once in Royal
Avenue, each takes his own direction. Some have
bicycles, which convey them to the suburbs, and some
have motor cycles, but most of them trust to their legs
—and voices.
Such is the " broadcasting " of the Belfast Telegraph.
As the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace is
one of the daily yet most fascinating sidelights of
London, so is this one of the most interesting sights of
Belfast.
He is a singularly interesting character, this boy who
delivers your newspapers each evening with unfailing
regularity; a many-sided individual, whom I have found
92
a fascinating study. His demeanour and personality
have many traits, which are more pronounced than in
many another vocation. For instance, he shows extraordinary comradeship. In a way, these boys are all
rivals, but this does not prevent them lending a helping
hand now and then. I have seen many a Telegraph
boy helping another lad with his bundle of papers
along Royal Avenue at the rush hour, and not infrequently has one given another a lift on his bicycle.
And how often have we seen two of them taking
alternate bites at a particularly large, if not fresh, piece
of pastry.
A vivid illustration of this comradeship was portrayed
to me the other Saturday night. I had obtained my
Telegraph, and asked the newsboy also for an Ulster
(Ireland's Saturday Night), but he had been sold out.
I was about to move off when he stopped me. " Wait
a minute, sir," he said, cheerfully, and then darted
between the traffic to a pal across the street, who had
still a few Ulster's left, and sent him over to me. Only
a small thing of course, but, in my opinion, an act of
true comradeship.
He has also a ready wit, which often goes to help
in the selling of his papers. This is best seen when
batches of people are leaving a theatre, cinema, or other
large gathering. As they come out into the street they
are often amused by the sallies of the newsboys at the
93
doors. One often hears the terrible news that someone
has been " stabbed in the heart with a wet dish-cloth,"
or that some poor individual has been conveyed to the
" Royal " owing to a fall over a straw, and a kick by
a hen. Lloyd George has often " signed " for Linfield,
and Joe Beckett " knocked out " some unfortunate
politician—in the imagination of the newsboy !
I received a demonstration of brilliant salesmanship
combined with subtle humour from one of these boys
some time ago. Passing through Castle Junction rather
late one night, I was suddenly startled by the cry of a
Telegraph boy. It was, " Attempted assassination of
the King! " Naturally I was profoundly alarmed, and
promptly purchased a paper, though a copy of an earlier
edition reposed in my pocket. Many other people were
also attracted by the cry, with the result that the lad's
papers were selling like hot cakes. Imagine my surprise when, on opening my copy I found the headline
to be " Attempted Assassination of Spanish King! " I
was not angry, and my fellow victims joined with me
in a hearty laugh. That lad had decided business
acumen. He would do well in America. Of course,
he may not have made the mistake purposely. It may
have been a slip of the tongue or a misunderstanding
on his or my part. But I think differently.
His humour is very often topical and up-to-date, and
at the time the film of " The Covered Waggon " was
94
in great vogue in Belfast, I had an instance of this. A
familiar sight in our city is an old hawker's waggon
covered over in an arc with a canvas hood, under which
there are all manner of tin and metal things. It was
when this imposing spectacle was passing slowly along
High Street that a Tele. boy shouted to his pal : " Hey,
Bill, luk—The Covered Waggon! "
Being usually near the spot, he is very much in evidence when street accidents and the like take place.
One occurred recently in Donegall Place, and I went
over to see what was wrong but could not, owing to the
crowd which had gathered. I was soon enlightened,
however. " Tele., sir," said a boy, offering me one.
" Accident in Donegall Place. Woman knocked down
by motor bike! "
He was also present on a happier occasion. A small
crowd had gathered outside a photographer's studio,
awaiting the advent of a wedding party after being
photographed. " Why do they always get their photos
taken? " asked a Tele. boy beside me. " Well, it's
like this," answered his companion. " You always get
your photo taken when you're in for a life sentence, in
case ye try to do a bunk some time."
Much of his business is transacted on the trams, and
in this way many acquaintanceships are made with the
conductors. The little fellow who boarded an Antrim
Road car the other day was evidently on very familiar
95
terms. " Hullo, Ginger," says the conductor, " How's
the form? "
" What form? " asks Ginger.
" Your form, of course," answers the conductor.
" Oh," says Ginger. " A thought ye meant racin'
form ! " And with that the conductor playfully chased
him up the stairs.
Folks have often asked me why these boys employ a
variety of calls instead of merely proclaiming Belfast
Telegraph. The reason is obvious. Besides being
more difficult, it would sound " stiff " and unnatural.
The present calls add to the glamour of the city. The
cries of old London still remain fascinating and pleasing
to the ear.
Much could be written about this young, happy-golucky soldier of fortune, but space only permits a brief
survey. A gentleman, who has visited many cities and
made a particular study of newsboys, recently said that
the Belfast Telegraph boy was the cheeriest and wittiest type he had ever encountered. I thoroughly endorse this statement. The Telegraph boy is, and will
remain, one of the most interesting personalities in our
city life. He is, in fact, the voice of the city.
96
POOR GEORGE!
GEORGE is the sort of fellow who likes to " make
sure." He never dwells in doubt. Everything must
be cut and dried. He would never think of betting on
a gee-gee—not even a " cert." He would never go to
the dogs. He must be on the safe side every time.
Take this case, for instance. George was uncertain
whether his boss would let him off for the Grand Prix,
and no wonder. He had just returned from a fortnight's holiday at Portrush and his presence was
urgently required. Not that he was such a valuable
asset to the firm; but so many of his mistakes had been
discovered during his absence that it required hard and
constant labour to rectify them. It was a toss-up whether the boss would accede to his request for a holiday
on the Saturday.
Therefore George " made sure." He did not ask
off, but took the law into his own hands and stayed off.
Stanley Woods must not be missed.
So he went to the race, took up his position near
Clady Corner, cheered each rider, and kept his programme marked correctly and up to date (a thing I
could never do). That is the sunny part of the story.
Now comes the tragedy.
97
POOR GEORGE!
(No, dear reader. The boss was not at the Grand
Prix also, and, if he was, he did not spot George.
Neither did George run across him at any time that
day.)
On Monday morning George turned up at the office
with a lie upon his lips. Poor chap ! he had been confined to bed on Saturday with a bilious attack. He even
felt the effects yet. The boss was sympathetic. Had
he ever tried Snooker's never-failing pills? No? He
must really try some now. How fortunate that the boss
had a tin in his pocket. Poor George ! They were
horrible to take.
All day he was uneasy. Everybody looked so sly.
They were the kind of people who didn't believe in
bilious attacks. They classed them with grandmothers'
funerals. George had a grim foreboding that something was going to happen. And happen it did.
On his way home he purchased the Belfast Telegraph.
It was a habit with him. It was also his habit, when
seated in the tram, to turn first of all to the back page.
He revelled in the pictures.
To-night he did not. The first and largest photograph showed a band of sportsmen seated near by the
roadside. Underneath was the caption, " The Grand
Prix. A Section of the Crowd." And there, right in
the centre, was the ham-like face of George, surmounted
by an expansive grin—undoubtedly and unmistakably
98
POOR GEORGE!
George ! He groaned. Such is the price of a passion
for publicity. Or was it just his luck? For once
George was not sure.
Next morning a cutting of the photograph lay on the
desk in the boss's private Office. George stood on the
mat. Poor George !
99
THE SHEPHERD
AN ULSTER PASTORAL PLAYLET
Scene—The kitchen of an Ulster farm-house. John
McCandless is sitting before the fire, and his wife Jane
is lacing her boots prior to going out. It is about seven
o'clock on Christmas Eve.
JANE :
A'm thinkin' a'll go up tae the carol service at
the church the night. Are ye goin'?
JOHN : No. A'll stay here an' rest mysel'. Will ye
be all right yer lone?
JANE : Sure ye know A will. Hivn't A trod the
lonein many's a night mysel'. Nothin'll take houl' iv
an oul' wumman leck me.
JOHN : A've had a hard day, Jane. What wi' keepin'
an eye on the sheep and lukin' after the farm as well,
A've had me hands full.
JANE : A've toul' ye time an' again that ye shud git a
man tae luk after the sheep. Ye can't do iverything
yersel'.
JOHN : Aye, A need a shepherd badly, an' A think
A'll do what ye say—git one.
103
THE SHEPHERD
JANE : They'll be hard enough tae git just now.
JOHN : All advertise in the Belfast paper.
JANE : That'll be the best way. Ye can take the
advertisement up wi' ye on Friday.
JOHN : Right enough A've not been lukin' after the
sheep. A found one in the sheugh yesterday, an' anither
had got a bad bat somewhere the day before.
JANE : Well, once ye've got a shepherd ye'll be all
right. A'm ready for the road now.
JOHN : A suppose we'll not see ye till all hours.
When women start gassin' there's no stoppin' iv them.
A hope ye enjoy the service. A'm sorry A hivn't the
energy tae go mysel'.
JANE : Ye'll see me when A come. See an' keep a
fire on.
JOHN :
Ye may turn the lamp out. A'm just goin'
tae doze for a bit.
JANE : There you are then. Good-night, John!
JOHN : Good-night, Jane! A hope ye're well happed
up.
(Jane goes out, leaving the room in darkness, save for
the light of the fire. Presently John's head falls forward on his chest. A Stranger appears out of the
shadows near the door. He wears the garb of a poor
labourer, but there is a wonderful light in His eyes.)
STRANGER (softly): John!
JOHN : Is that you, Jane? Hiv ye forgot somethin'?
104
THE SHEPHERD
(He opens his eyes slowly and stares at the Stranger.)
JOHN : Who are you?
STRANGER : I am the Shepherd.
JOHN : But what shepherd? Who let ye in?
STRANGER : Does it matter, now that I am here?
JOHN : Ye say ye're a shepherd. Did Jane send ye
along or what?
STRANGER : No, I heard you call for Me.
JOHN : Ye mean when A spoke iv gettin' one? Were
ye outside the dure?
STRANGER : I was beside you.
JOHN : A can't get ye at all! Ye hiv a poor man's
clo'es on, but yer voice is soft an' soothin'.
STRANGER : A good quality in a shepherd.
JOHN : Ye say ye want the job here. Hiv ye had any
experience iv the work?
STRANGER : Yes, I have been a Shepherd for two
thousand years.
JOHN : Two thousand years!
STRANGER : Yes, it was on such a night as this that I
was first called. That was two thousand years ago.
(John is astounded but keeps himself under control.)
JOHN : Then ye—ye ought to know the job.
STRANGER : I love the sheep.
JOHN : Then ye care for them.
STRANGER : Yes, I can protect them from the thorns
of sin. I can lift them out of the Depths of Despair.
105
THE SHEPHERD
I can feed their hungry souls. I can carry them when
they are weary. I can lead them in the way everlasting.
JOHN : Then Ye are a good shepherd.
STRANGER : I am the Good Shepherd.
JOHN : Then Ye're the Man I need.
STRANGER : You do need Me. The world needs Me.
If My flock would only hear My voice!
JOHN : Then Ye hiv other sheep?
STRANGER : Other sheep I have that ye know not.
JOHN : But I would want Ye all the time.
STRANGER : I will be with you always, even unto the
end of the world.
JOHN : Ye spake quare-like. A seem tae hiv heard
them words before somewhere.
STRANGER : They are My words.
JOHN : Somehow A feel that ye'd be good tae the
sheep.
STRANGER : Then you will take Me?
JOHN : A will.
STRANGER: Into your heart?
JOHN: Intae my heart! What do Ye mean?
JOHN : Yes, A know—but—(he is amazed). Won't
Ye sit down? A'm sorry the wife's not here. She's
STRANGER : She has gone to seek Me.
JOHN : A can't understand Ye, but A can't help likin'
Ye.
106
THE SHEPHERD
STRANGER : Love Me, John, and feed My Lambs.
(John has risen to his feet, a look of wonderment in
his eyes.)
JOHN :
Now A know! Ye—Ye—are
(And, as John stands transfixed, the Stranger is swal-
lowed up in the shadows.)
JOHN :
0, my God!
107
PA AT THE PANTO
" You and yer Masonic dinners," says Mary Jane to
me. " Ye niver think av takin' me or the weans out
for an evenin' ! "
" Hadn't I ye all at the pictures Christmas week? "
I answers. " And a hot handful it was--you readin'
out the wordin' and the weans playin' wi' the woman's
hat in front av us! " (At any rate, 1 meant to say
that.)
" Ye're the diver one," says Mary Jane. " A want
tae see some av the big sights—an operar or somethin'
like that."
Then wee Alex put his foot in it. " What about the
pantermine, ma? " he asks, and I could have hit him
with a brick
" That's the very ticket! " says Mary Jane. " We'll
all go tae see Cinderella '."
" A can't go this week, anyway," I says. " A've a
meetin--"
" Ye'll take us the morrow night, or All know the
reason why," snaps Mary Jane, and I knew that my fate
was sealed.
So off we went the following night to the Opera
House. Heaven knows it was a big enough job geto8
PA AT THE PANTO
ting them there in the tram. It was as bad as the
chariot race in " Ben Hur."
" Will we go tae the gods or the pit? " I asks.
" We'll go tae the gods," says Mary Jane. " We
might as well do the thing dacently. The pit, indeed!
We want tae be higher up than that! "
" I begins.
" The stalls
" A'm not a horse," snaps Mary Jane.
I heaved a sigh of relief when I sat down with the
flock round me. I felt something like Moses must have
felt after leading the children of Israel through the wilderness.
" Take the good av this," says Mary Jane, " for it's
as near as ye'11 iver git tae heaven."
There was a brave crowd present, passing the time
away by bobbing balloons about. Mary Jane entered
into the spirit of the thing. The scream she let when
one balloon near went over the edge, would have waked
the dead. Everybody thought she was being murdered.
Certainly the old gent in the front of us felt like it when
she missed the balloon and bashed his bowler hat.
Wee Alex has a queer sense of humour. When a
balloon came near him, he just put a pin in it. If looks
could have killed, he was hung and electrocuted. (I
looked up the dictionary for that one.) The trouble
was that everybody seemed to think that I had put him
up to it.
109
PA AT THE PANTO
When the curtain went up, Mary Jane gave such a
cheer that one of the actors looked up at the roof.
Then the fun started. Our Maggie is a terrible
one for reading fairy tales. She knows all about
Cinderella, Red Riding Hood, Goody Two Shoes, and
Douglas Fairbanks. And she let us know that she
knew.
" Where's Cinderella? " she demands.
" Hush," I whispers. " She hasn't come out yet."
" And what are they singin' Hello Swanee ' for? "
persists Maggie.
" That's the openin' chorus," I tells her.
shut up! "
" Now,
She was quiet for a while, and then : " Is that the
prince? " she asks, and I nods.
" But he's a girl! " cries Maggie.
" The cudn't git a boy good enough for a prince,"
says I, between my teeth.
" What's he tellin' Cinderella? "
" He's lovin' her," I hisses.
" What's he singin' When I Met Sally ' for? Her
name's not Sally."
PA AT THE PANTO
" Then shut up! If it was a real lion it wud gobble
ye up. (Under my breath)—I wish it was."
Cinderella's coach was a beautiful sight. " Surely,"
I thought, " this will satisfy them." But no.
" I didn't see the mice changing into horses," wails
Maggie.
" Felix ait them," I snaps.
When the interval came I was in a very weak condition.
" A feel faint," I says to Mary Jane. " A think All
go for a glass av water."
" Ye'll do nothin' av the kind," says she sharply.
" Ye'll sit there and amuse the youngsters. I know yer
glasses av water! Buy the childer some chocolit! "
I did so, and in about five minutes they were like
Congo natives. That wouldn't have been so bad if
Mary Jane hadn't insisted on haggling about the price.
It is almost a week since, and I am still wondering
how I got through it all, especially the second half. I
must have an iron will.
I looked at my watch coming out. It was after ten.
A fitting close to such a night.
" It's a pet name he has for her," I groans.
" That's not a lion," says Alex, suddenly. " A lion
can't stan' up! "
" Hiv ye iver seen one? " I asks.
" No, but----"
II0
III
THE WATERFALL
THE FLITTIN'
(ALEXANDRA PARK, BELFAST.)
MRS. M1LDOODA had managed to get a house to rent,
and dear knows it was near time, for she had lived a
cat and dog life with her sister ever since her wedding
day. They say that Sarah M'Kinstry had had a notion
of wee Alex M'Ildooda before her sister landed the fish,
though devil the bit of me could see what either of them
saw in him but, anyway, they were as spiteful as two
cats over a mouse.
Wee Alex was a mouse, and no mistake. A homely,
henpecked husband, with a big moustache. If he ever
had any spirit, except what he got in M'Ilvenny's occasionally, it had been driven out of him by a tartar of a
wife. He was the kind of man who would have
knocked you down in a fit of temper, and then apologised for doing it.
Well, as I was saying, they had got a house, through
Mrs. Mac knowing a woman who had a second-cousin
who knew the half-brother of a rent agent's clerk, and
there was great excitement in Ballymagraw Street over
the flitting, for everybody expected a bit of fun between
the two sisters. Besides, they wanted to make a thorough inspection of the M'Ildooda furniture.
They got both. The van came on a certain Monday
113
Rumbling, tumbling o'er the stones,
Singing songs of dead men's bones;
Laughing in malicious glee
At such mites as you and me :
Dashing, splashing down below
Where the waters ebb and flow;
Out of turmoil, creamed with spray,
Silently they steal away.
Lords and ladies, such is Life;
Turmoil, tumult, struggle, strife;
Maybe sparkling in the sun,
Maybe bubbling o'er with fun :
Bounding o'er the Rocks of Time,
But at last to sweep sublime
Down a River smooth as glass,
Where the dead alone may pass.
112
THE FLITTIN'
morning, and I think that the whole street stopped off
work to witness the proceedings. Of course wee Alex
was not at the Island either; not that he had to supervise
matters, for his missus saw to that, but he was useful
as a beast of burden.
At first things were very quiet. Sarah contented herself with sitting at the upstair window, with a face as
long as a Lurgan spade, listening to her beloved sister
giving orders, and watching wee Alex staggering out of
the house completely covered with chairs and tables.
And then the curtain rung up on the pantomime.
Alex was just about to heave a wee fancy mahogany
table into the van, when Sarah let a screech out of her
like a cat that's had its tail tramped on, and came flying
down the stairs and into the street.
" Ye won't take that table! " she yells.
" It's
mine! "
Mrs. Mac stopped giving off to one of the men, and
scowled at her like a Black Sea pirate.
" Ye're talkin' blethers," says she. " Susie M'Feeters
give me that for a weddin' present."
" Ye're a liar ! " shouts Sarah. " Me Aunt Maggie
give it tae me on me fortieth birthday, eleven years
ago."
At this the crowd that had gathered began to laugh.
Sarah had told the grocer's man only a week before that
she was thirty-five.
114
THE FLITTIN'
Mrs. Mac then commanded one of the men to put the
table in the van, but he seemed to get suddenly busy
elsewhere, so she lifted it herself. Before she could get
it in, however, Sarah had grabbed a leg (of the table),
and then ensued a terrific struggle. I've seen the
R.U.C. having a tug-o'-war at Balmoral, but it was
not to be compared with Mrs. M'Ildooda v. Sarah
M'Kinstry, with a fancy table as both the rope and the
prize.
I could see that something would have to give in
soon, and I was right, for at that minute there was a
terrible crack, and the leg came away in Sarah's hand.
Mrs. Mac roared like a bull, and, hauling another leg
off the table, made at Sarah. Wee Alex, with his usual
fool-headedness, got between them, and made an effort
to stop the battle, but he might as well have tried to
stop a cyclone. In fact, he got the worst of it, receiving
blows from both sides, and at last he hopped into the
house, trying to hold himself all over at once.
It took six of us holding on like grim death to stop
the combatants, and even then they made up in looks
what they lost in blows. In fact there wasn't any sort
of peace between them until they found that the weans
had pinched what was left of the table for firewood.
I don't know till this day how on earth they got the
van packed, and, when it was, there were very few
sound articles in the collection. When Sarah got tired
115
THE FLITTIN'
of breaking things, wee Alex took her place. For
instance, he tripped over a delph wash-basin, and
smashed the looking-glass he was carrying, thus killing
two birds with one stone, and giving himself seven
years' bad luck. I needn't tell you that he got the first
ten minutes of them from his wife's tongue.
The best of treats must come to an end, and at last
the van rolled away, with Mr. and Mrs. M'Ildooda
seated on top beside the driver. Ballymagraw Street
gave them a hearty cheer. It reminded me forcibly of
the cheer after a good turn in the Hippodrome.
MENIN MOTHERS
" In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying,
And by it a pale, weeping maiden is praying."
—Old Ballad.
" In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying,"
The banner our brave, gallant Ulstermen bore,
A banner unbeautiful in the displaying,
A banner rough, ragged, and sodden with gore.
But still it floats queenly—invincible, valiant,
The symbol of victory over the sword;
0, may its red pennants wave o'er the World's Salient,
A message, a warning to war's fiery horde.
" And by it a pale, weeping maiden is praying,"
Ah, this is the tale of the war-ridden years,
For never has triumphal march begun playing
But drowned the soft sorrow of some woman's tears.
'16
And what of the prayer? 'Tis the prayer that we offer
For sorrowing sweethearts and daughters and wives,
And with it the only real gift we can proffer,
The tribute of God-fearing, peaceable lives.
I17
ANDY'S AWFUL ORDEAL
WEE Andy M'Nulty was the kind of man who never
used a lift, although he had often occasion to do so. He
was afraid of disturbing the attendant. He was also the
kind of man who would have followed a blind man for
miles in order to help him across the road. His nature
was a combination of meekness and charitableness.
It was the latter trait which placed him at Castle
Junction late on Christmas Eve, almost snowed under
by parcels; and his meekness was largely responsible for
the events hereinafter recorded.
It had been a tiring and nerve-shattering day for
Andy. He had not taken the advice of the Belfast
Corporation to do his Christmas shopping early, and
most of the evening had been spent in getting together
the gifts to be presented on the morrow. These mostly
took the form of mechanical toys, for Andy held the
honorary position of uncle to several families, and paid
highly in various ways for the honour.
His shopping expedition had been a terrible experience. Most of the large stores had had to be visited,
with innumerable lifts to be dodged and pretty shopgirls who smiled and made him blush and feel as though
he had been sent to match a ribbon. He was glad it
I18
ANDY'S AWFUL ORDEAL
was ended, but he had a premonition, as he stood awaiting a tram, that his troubles had not ended also. That
dream, or nightmare, came true.
He presented a weird figure as he struggled to board
an already well-filled car. There were parcels to the
right of him and parcels to the left of him, bulky and
bulging, and it was with difficulty that he eventually
obtained standing-room in the bottom saloon. There
was no place on the parcel rack or elsewhere for his
treasures, so he stood gripping them tightly and feeling
more and more sheepish. He had an idea that everybody was staring at him, and perhaps he was right, for
the pattern and colour of his tie were such as to attract
attention.
Then the car started, and also Andy's troubles. He
stumbled against the portly woman next to him, and,
as he did, one of his parcels, which had been squeezed,
gave a very ominous squeak. Andy began to curse,
inwardly of course. It was the squeaking doll that he
had bought for little Mary. There was no doubt that
people were staring at him now, and from the far end
of the car came a wicked giggle.
He broke into a cold sweat. The events of the evening had left him in a weak condition, but this was the
bitter limit.
He tried to regain his composure by listening intently
to the conversation of the two young ladies who were
119
ANDY'S AWFUL ORDEAL
seated below him, but this had quite the opposite effect.
" Yes, you never know," the blonde was saying. " I
once read of a man who attempted a murder that way.
He wrapped the child up in a parcel and tried to take
it to a pond in the suburbs, but, as he was going in the
tram, the child gave a muffled cry and the man was
caught redhanded."
She was gazing steadfastly at Andy as she spoke, and
her voice was audible to all around her.
" He looks that sort of man, too," nodded her companion. " Do you see the wicked glint in his eyes, and
the hardness of his mouth? "
She must have been beholding visions, for at that
moment Andy's eyes were searching wildly for a way of
escape and his mouth was undergoing a series of convulsions.
" Of course it may be only a cat," said the knowing
blonde. " Poor brute! "
Andy's frenzied attempts to get out now brought the
conductor to his side, which further unnerved him. He
felt sure that he had been suspected of trying to dodge
the fare.
ANDY'S AWFUL ORDEAL
a terrific buzzing sound like that of a low-flying aero•
plane. The clockwork motor, his gift for nephew
Tommy, had gone into action !
He remembered that the young lady at the store had
wound it up for his inspection and had not released the
catch. Alas, it was released now !
By this time the passengers were either roaring with
laughter or goggling with bewilderment. As for Andy,
he made a grab at the offending parcel and quite forgot
the others, with the result that an assortment of up-todate toys for children was strewn on the floor.
Andy will never know how he got out of the mess.
But his wife will tell you that he arrived home in a dishevelled state, gasping like a fish out of the water, and
carrying all manner of toys and mechanical devices in
his arms and other parts of his person.
Andy tries to forget that night. He would take to
drink to do it, but he is too meek.
And the ironic part of the business is that the clockwork motor absolutely refused to go on the following
day!
He paid it in a dazed manner and again renewed his
efforts to escape torture. It was then that the worst
happened.
As he made for the door he came in violent contact
with a rotund gentleman, and next moment there was
120
121
AND WHY NOT ?
The Japs are clever at other things besides ju-jitsu--thinking, for instance. At any rate they had a brainwave when they organised what was known as a
" Politeness Week " on their railways. The idea was
that for a whole week every member of the staff, from
the general manager down to the humblest porter, made
a special effort to be civil and courteous to the travelling
public.
Moreover, it was not a one-sided affair. By means
of leaflets and posters, the travelling public were asked
to bring the same qualities to bear in their treatment of
the railway staff. And they did. Smiles were the
order of the week, and good humour abounded everywhere. In consequence the week is to be an annual
institution.
All of which brings us to the question : Should we
not have such a week in Belfast? I am not referring
tc, the railways alone, but to every aspect of our city
life. We are not bad citizens really, but there is no
denying that a " Politeness Week " would have a good
effect on the general community. We have had our
Empire weeks, civic weeks, self-denial weeks, and rat
weeks. Why should we not devote seven days to the
122
AND WHY NOT?
extermination of the rats of incivility, bad temper, and
crabbedness? In fact to rid the " rats " and " fiddlesticks " from our everyday conversation.
What would be the effect of such a week? Well, it
would certainly sweeten our travelling system. As passengers, we should say " please " when asking for our
tickets and the conductor would say " thank you " when
taking our money. It is remarkable how little this procedure is carried out on our trams and buses. London
passengers and conductors would put us to shame in this
regard.
I am glad to say that the average Belfastman has still
the chivalry to offer his seat to a lady when no other is
avaliable. But there are a few (particularly young
bloods) who seem to have a firm belief in the equality
of the sexes. " Politeness Week " would urge these
" moderns " to waive their rights.
Then we should carry it into our business and shopping life. We would remember that the girls behind
the counter are not magicians, and they in turn would
not harbour murderous thoughts after showing almost
everything in the shop. And we should sign our business letters " Yours cordially "—and mean it.
Even our entertainments would be enhanced. For it
is remarkable how much cattishness has crept into them.
We should not rave at the boy in buttons when we learn
that all the back seats of the cinema are filled, and he
123
AND WHY NOT?
in turn would not shout " Chocolits, cigarettes, or
matches " into our ears just when the hero is declaring
his love.
The thought of " Politeness Week " in the football
field may be distinctly humorous to some, but it would
only mean a more stringent code of sportsmanship.
Footballers, as a rule, do not wear their hearts on their
sleeves, but they can be just as kindly and sympathetic
as other folk. This is amply shown when a team member or his family are in a tight corner. And certainly
if a player said " Sorry " to an opponent after giving
him a particularly hefty charge he would mean it.
If anything, the effect would be more noticeable in
the conduct of the spectators. They would treat the
referee like a human being and maybe see both sides of
the picture now and again.
But politeness, like charity, should begin at home. I
quite believe that the Belfast heart is usually in the right
place, but this is not made evident half enough in our
home life. We have a silly shyness about it, and true
politeness would be an effective if startling remedy.
A young Belfastman, all dressed up, said to his
mother, " Did you do up this shirt, Ma? "
" Yes," she answered. " What's wrong with it? "
" Nothing, only it's awfully well done," he replied.
His mother almost fainted. Past experience had led
her to expect a harangue about the buttons or some124
AND WHY NOT?
thing. And since then the boy's shirts have been works
of art.
Of course there would have to be a limit to this politeness. It would be awful, for instance, if a crowd of
people spent half an hour outside a bus each wanting the
other to get in first.
But it is only reasonable kindliness and consideration
that are required. And the beauty of the scheme is
that the effect of " Politeness Week " would long outlive the seven days. The spirit would continue, for the
Belfast public, like the Japs, would find that politeness
pays. So why not a " Politeness Week " in Belfast?
125
A CENOTAPH CAMEO
Scene—In the crowd in front of the City Hall, Belfast. Time—Shortly before the memorable II o'clock.
Characters—An elderly woman in black, with a row
of medals on her breast, and a younger woman, with a
boy of about twelve by her side.
FIRST WOMAN : He wuz a good boy, my Jamesie.
Always kind tae his oul' mother.
SECOND WOMAN : Ay, them's the sort that go first.
Ye cudn't hiv found a finer, stiddier man than my
Robert.
FIRST WOMAN : Ye know, Jamesie wuzn't the age for
enlistin' at all. The boy wuz fist left school. Man,
but we'd the fine career mapped out for him.
SECOND WOMAN : My man said it wuz his duty, an'
right enough A wuz proud iv him—ay, and A am still!
BOY : What's all the people here for, ma?
SECOND WOMAN : Tae do honour tae yer da an' them
like him.
BOY : But me da's not here.
SECOND WOMAN : That's what we're here tae remember, son.
FIRST WOMAN : Jamesie wuz a fine build iv a boy. A
129
A CENOTAPH CAMEO
big, upstandin' fella. A think it wuz that that got him
through. A mind the day he tuk the shillin' all unknown tae us. He comes intae the kitchen, his face
shinin' and his blue eyes twinklin'. " Ma," says he,
" A'm a sodger."
SECOND WOMAN : Ay, there was a lot did that.
FIRST WOMAN : Well, iv coorse A cudn't say anything
then. Tae tell ye the truth, A wuz glad that a son iv
mine had so much spunk in him.
SECOND WOMAN : It wuz the partin' that hurt me.
The " leaves " were a Godsend. Wee Alex here wuz
born when his father wuz in the trenches.
BOY : Ay, an' he sent me a wee silver bugle, so's A
cud blow it when A wuz older. A've got it at home
yit. Ye'll let rue blow it the day, won't ye, ma?
SECOND WOMAN : Yis, son. Ye'll blow it the day.
FIRST WOMAN : Jamesie wuz the funniest wee lad.
A mind wan day he come home from school wi' a bran'
new three-cornered pencil. " That's for you, ma,"
says he. " A bought it wi' me own money." " Boysa-dear," says I, " what wud I do wi' a pencil? " " Write
love letters," says he, " an', ma, it won't roll aff the
table—it's three-cornered, ye see." And, d'ye know, it
wuz wi' that pencil that A wrote all the letters tae him
in France.
SECOND WOMAN : Me an' Robert wuz only married
when he went tae the front. It wuz a short honey130
A CENOTAPH CAMEO
moon, but A often think that these things will be made
up tae us some day.
BOY : What kind iv a flower is this, ma?
SECOND WOMAN : It's a poppy, son, made by the men
that were wi' yer da. The real ones grow in Flanders,
where yer da is restin' now.
FIRST WOMAN : A always put wan in front iv
Jarnesie's photo on this day. But he's niver out iv me
mind. He wuz a determined wee fella, too. Wan
Christmas he went intae wan iv the big Belfast shops
tae buy a lace collar for his sister, an' the young lady
at the counter cudn't help smilin' at the idea. " What
is there tae laugh at? " says Jamesie. " Can't a fella
buy a present for his sister? If ye hivn't got a collar
say so, an' All go somewhere else."
SECOND WOMAN : Robert wuz awful fond of sport.
He wuz captain iv his futball team, an' A don't know
what else.
FIRST WOMAN : It wuz a tarrible shock tae me when
A heard that Jamesie wuz killed, but A didn't show it
much. A jist went intae my wee room an' got down
on my knees. It wuz the best thing tae do. He had
bin wounded twice before, ye know, and A went tae
London wan time tae see him.
SECOND WOMAN : The word iv Robert's death come
when A wuz washin' the clothes. Me heart wuz near
broke, but A went on wi' me washin'. A wuz weanin'
131
A CENOTAPH CAMEO
wee Alex at the time, an' A didnt want tae hurt him.
But many's a time since then A've cried me eyes out.
FIRST WOMAN : These are Jamesie's medals. A don't
know what he got them for, but A know he wuz a
brave lad. Hush, there's the bugle goin'.
BOY : What's that for, ma?
SECOND WOMAN : That's " The Last Post,'" darlin'.
Maybe you'll sound it some day on yer wee silver bugle.
Keep quiet now, an' think iv yer da that's dead.
FIRST WOMAN : My Jamesie!
SECOND WOMAN : My Robert!
THE SLEEPING CITY
I came from sounds
Of revelry by night,
And trod homeward :
The clock struck one
As I crossed Castle Junction;
It was deserted,
Save for a hurried footstep
Here and there,
And taxi drivers
Hoping for a fare;
No proof of life,
Except a furtive sign
That winked monotonously.
Where is the city's cymbal,
The passionate clangour
Of the resounding street?
All is asleep,
Brooded over by the dome
Of the City Hall,
Only disturbed
By the distant hoot
Of a motor-horn.
132
133
THE SLEEPING CITY
Suddenly I hear
Approaching footsteps :
It is the echo
Of my feet on the pavement :
I am alone;
This is my city,
And I am lord of it :
Above, the silver
Of a million stars,
Below, the lesser lamps,
And all around
Grim buildings, still as death.
THE SLEEPING CITY
Then home at last;
Key gently into lock,
On tiptoe,
Lest I should be heard :
Some coffee,
A slice of bread,
And so to bed.
A woman's cry
Is borne upon the air,
And then I hear
The flutter of a flag,
Like the beating wings
Of a mighty bird.
A few policemen,
Muffled and helmeted,
Look me up and down.
Strolling cats
Regard me with suspicion :
Who is this fool
Who would disturb their peace?
134
135
PA AT THE PICTURES
" WE hivn't been tae the pictures since before Christ-
mas," says Mary Jane. " A'm jist dyin' for a bit iv
romance."
" Don't ye git romance enough here," I protests.
" Now do you iver take me in your arms, gaze at
me wi' piercin' eyes an' tell me all that is in yer
soul? "
" Well, I give ye my pay, anyway," I says. " An'
besides, if A gazed at ye wi' piercin' eyes ye'd land me
one wi' the scrubbin' brush."
" Ay, an' if ye toul' me all that wuz in yer soul, A
suppose A'd have tae send for the police."
" Anyway," I says, " A can't think iv any man, an'
particularly them fillim actors, takin' ye in their arms.
They'd need tae hiv long ones."
" An' A can't think iv any wumman, an' particularly
them fillim actresses, lettin' you take them in yer arms,"
snaps Mary Jane. " Ye may luk like a coalman but
ye'll niver luk like Ronald Colman. An' don't let me
git ye up tae any such tricks," she adds.
" Well, A suppose All hiv tae give ye the money," I
says. " A don't know what ye want wi' the pictures at
your time iv life."
136
PA AT THE PICTURES
" Ay, an' A don't know what ye want wi' so many
futball matches at your time iv life," replies Mary Jane.
" Ye'll give me the money an' ye'll come along wi' us.
Who d'ye think cud luk after the childer? "
" A needn't take three guesses," I says sarcastic-like.
" For Hiven's sake git them ready an' let's git it all
over us."
" A nice way tae talk iv takin' yer own wife an'
weans out. Ye'd think we were cod liver oil or some
thin'."
In an hour and three-quarters they were ready and
we went down town. (" Went " is a very poor word
there.)
" It'll hiv tae be one iv the big ones," said Mary
Jane.
So we went to " one of the big ones " and had to
take our place in the queue (a stickler that !). Everything would have been all right if Mary Jane hadn't
blamed the door attendant for not having a seat for us.
She couldn't understand why we should have to wait.
Poor fellow. He had my sympathy.
" There'll be room at the end of the comedy," he
says.
" A'm goin' tae sit on no comedy I " barks Mary
Jane.
We got in at the end of the picture, and for the first
time in seventeen years, Mary Jane held my hand,
137
PA AT THE PICTURES
going down the aisle in the darkness. We were halfway down before we missed wee Alex.
" Alex! " shouts Mary Jane at the top of her voice.
,
" For Hivin's sake
" I says.
Then I heard a giggle that I knew too well, and
there was Alex calmly seated in the row besides
us.
" Come on, Alex," says Mary Jane.
" No, let him stay," I says.
" Ye know what Alex is," says Mary Jane.
" A do," I says. But he came all the same.
The big picture was just starting.
" A hope it's a Wild West," I says.
" Bloodthirsty as usual," says Mary Jane. " A hope
it's a love one."
Then I had the shock of my life. Our Maggie was
reading the words and it► no uncertain voice.
" You — are — the — light — that — shines —
in — the — darkness," she chants.
" Shut up! " I whispers.
" Do nothin' iv the sort," says Mary Jane. " Let her
read it if she wants tae. We paid our money."
She seemed to be proud of the fact that Maggie
could read.
" But what about the people," I asks.
" It'll save them readin' any," says Mary Jane.
The people seemed to want to read for themselves.
138
PA AT THE PICTURES
I could feel them gazing at me. Thank Heaven the
lights were down.
" Let — me — take — you — away," chants
Maggie.
She took them away from the picture all right.
With that Mary Jane dropped her umbrella, and I
spent the next five minutes on the floor looking for it.
The people didn't like that either. But Mary Jane
couldn't wait till the lights went up.
When I got up, wee Alex was trying to blow the
hair off an old gentleman's neck. He had wanted a
Wild West too.
I felt that something would have to be done.
" What about a little fish supper," I suggests. " We
cud go now."
" We'll hiv one after we git out," says Mary Jane.
," I
Then I had a brainwave. " What about a
whispers.
" An' it's near ten now. Ye'll jist hiv time tae git
the childer home an' come out agin."
It worked. " We might as well," says Mary Jane.
139
THE ANTRIM ROAD
0, THE Antrim Road is a pleasant road,
With houses big and clean;
And the gardens fronting each abode
Are the fairest e'er were seen :
Happy the man that way has strode,
When his daily work was done;
But, alas, the lovely Antrim Road
Was never the road for one.
0, the Antrim Road is a lively road,
For its wayfarers are young;
It has lightened many a heavy load
The clatter of youthful tongue;
But it's not for those whose steps are slowed,
Whose race is well nigh run,
For the Antrim Road is a cheery road,
But never the road for one.
0, the Antrim Road is a friendly road,
But maybe not to you,
For it has a strange, unwritten code
That its folk walk two by two :
So do not dare to break the mode,
Unless at the rise of sun;
For the Antrim Road, though a splendid road,
Was never the road for one.
14o
Place—Castle Junction, Belfast.
Time—About 1.3o p.m. Saturday.
(A group of hockey girls have congregated at an
appointed spot.)
TALL BLONDE : Well, that makes seven of us, but
where are the other four? Powdering their noses at
home, I expect. You'd think they couldn't do it in
public.
SHORT BRUNETTE : Dorothy's round getting half-ayard of muslin to finish off that mauve thing of hers.
Here she comes!
DOROTHY : Hope I haven't kept you waiting?
(Chorus of " Oh, no
" Only twenty minutes," etc.)
How are you feeling, Alice? Fit?
ALICE : I've been in training all the blessed week for
this match. Haven't touched a marshmallow or cream
bun for three days, and refused an invite to an all-night
dance on Thursday. Why, I wouldn't even go to the
Plaza with Bertie last night. If we don't win this
match, after all my sacrifices, I shall forget myself.
143
TALL BLONDE : Don't worry. We shall absolutely
dazzle them with science. Where did you get the
stockings, Flo? Real silk?
FLo : Every thread—I don't think! Three-andeleven, I simply had to get them yesterday. I hadn't
a clean pair left.
(Two more members of the team appear from
Donegall Place.)
FIRST : Sorry to keep you, an' all that. We've been
standing round at the City Hall. Thought we were to
meet there?
SECOND : Yes, and since twenty past one. Weren't
we to meet there at one o'clock?
TALL BLONDE : If you keep arrangements with the
weak-headed sex like that, you'll give yourselves a
reputation.
SHORT BRUNETTE : Well, they've come, anyhow.
That's more than Marjorie has done. Wonder what's
keeping her. We were to be at Balmoral at 2.15.
ALICE : Marjorie will be late for her wedding, if she
has one. We'll just have to wait, meekly wait, and
murmur not.
DOROTHY : I'll never forgive her if she doesn't turn
up. We've got to make a good show to-day. By the
way, did you see the two-piece wool costumes in
also a few of the naughty references to Marjorie during
that time.)
TALL BLONDE : If I had her now— But there, we
have no hatpins!
ALICE : Hullo! There's her brother George over
the street. He'll know the worst.
CHORUS : Yo ho!
GEORGE: Good after-lunch, ladies! What are you
doing here? Aren't you due at Balmoral to-day?
TALL BLONDE : Yes, we ought to be there now. But
I say, where's
were're waiting for that infern
Marjorie?
GEORGE : Didn't she tell you? She's stopping at
Aunt Rena's this week-end, out Balmoral way. She
said she'd go straight to the ground. I'm sure she's
there now.
(Chorus of caustic comment lost in the general rush
for Balmoral car.)
(These dots indicate a lapse of twenty minutes, and
1 44
145
WE had been talking about prizes in general and cups
in particular. Sandy Robinson, who was a Blue supporter of the deepest dye, had just been reminding us
of the year that Linfield carried off most of the trophies
and had them displayed in Gibson's window. " Man,
that wuz a gran' year," he said. Jimmy Mulholland,
who thought that there was no team like the Glens
(excepting perhaps Glasgow Rangers), and Billy
M'Fetridge, whose favourite colour was Red, did not
answer the glowing Sandy. Their looks spoke volumes.
Paddy M'Quillan, a keen Celt, was quite happy. " It's
well seen the Stripes weren't playin' that year," was
the remark.
Wee Hughie M'Kinstry sat over in a far corner
smoking a chimney of a pipe and saying nothing. That
was a habit with him. Besides, he wasn't a sporting
man. To him a cup was a receptacle for tea. He
would have been more at home in a sewing circle than
at the Pinkites Club.
Certainly he was rather weak. A little, wizened
customer with a large moustache, a greasy waterproof
and a wet blanket of a cap. One could not imagine
him playing Soccer, let alone beating carpets. One
THE CUP HOLDER
could never think of him in running shorts except as
a film comedian. A swimming costume would have
made him look like a scarecrow. He was one of
Nature's frail plants.
You can imagine our surprise then, when he slowly
took Vesuvius out of his mouth, and said : " Jever see
the cup I have at my place? "
We stared.
" A moustache cup? " asks Sandy.
" Ye don't mean tae say ye've won the Snakes and
Ladders Championship? " Jimmy says.
" No—it's for runnin'," answers Wee Hughie.
We laughed.
" Go on," roars Billy. " Ye'll be tellin' us ye have
one for swimmin' nixt."
" So I have," says Hughie calmly. " To say nothin'
of half-a-dozen medals."
Paddy winked at us. " That's the worst of that Red
Biddy," he sniggers. " It works on you for weeks."
" How many hiv ye for boxin'? " grins Sandy.
" Four," sa,7s Wee Hughie.
" I always toul' ye that pipe wud injure his brain,"
says Billy. " That is, if he's got a brain."
Wee Hughie looked at us over his glasses. " I'm
thinkin' ye don't believe me," he says.
" Oh, yis, we do," sneers Jimmy. " An' we believe,
too, that it's goin' tae snow tanners."
146
147
THE CUP HOLDER
THE CUP HOLDER
Wee Hughie's eyes had a spark of fire. " I'm willin'
tae gam'le on it," he offered.
With that Sandy sat up. He was always a terrible
one for betting. He used to play cards with himself
when he hadn't anyone else to play with.
" I'll bet ye a quid," he says, " that ye don't hold a
single cup."
" I'll take ye," nods Wee Hughie. " I have a
dozen."
" They maybe belong to your relations," interrupts
Billy cleverly.
" They don't," says Hughie. " I hold them myself."
Of course the only way to settle the matter was to go
and see for ourselves and there and then Wee Hughie
offered to take us to the treasure.
When we got off the tram he led us up the street.
" I suppose ye'll have a lot of balls about the place,
too," says Billy sarcastically. He made a hobby of collecting those used in important matches.
" Only three," says Wee Hughie quietly.
And sure enough he was right. It was a pawnshop.
148
SHIRTS AND SAFETY PINS
DERRY has evidently been squaring up things for the
New Year. A review of her industrial situation has
just been issued by the Ministry of Labour. It is largely
a maze of figures, in which I will not dare to tread for
fear of losing myself, but one item demands detailed
attention, and that is the statement that shirts are to be
more sober in colour, judging by current orders.
Now that, to me at any rate, is bad news. It is the
last straw in the question of sex equality. For a time
we Ulstermen asserted ourselves. We wore pull-overs
which would have made the rainbow break its promise
and weep. But even then we were cowards, for many
of us hid them from the light of day by means of a
conventional coat.
Then we broke out into a rash of Oxford Bags. We
flaunted them in Donegall Place and defied feminine
opinion. They floated gaily in the breeze. Then they
fluttered. And then they sank to rest, so that now they
are largely (and widely) fragrant memories of the past.
And now we are going to subjugate our shirts. We
may as well give up wearing trousers.
Man has not always been mild in the matter of dress.
Time was when he flaunted frills and satin suits and
149
silk stockings and what not. Earl Cairns, a brilliant
Belfastman, the foremost lawyer of his time, and twice
Lord Chancellor of England, knew how to dress.
Disraeli, who termed one of his speeches as " the greatest ever delivered in Parliament," also stated that his
" only frailty was a passion for spotless linen and a
flower in his evening dress "; but Cairns did not consider it a frailty. He took a pride in his appearance.
Woman is mainly responsible for the present submission in shirts. She has but to raise her eyebrows
and man crawls back into his former shell. Once I
blossomed out in a bow, not a flowing one, just a
modest little thing in heliotrope with green spots. In
two days seventeen of my acquaintances (mostly
feminine) informed me that they would not speak to
me again until the " obstruction " was removed. Then
I donned a silver grey felt hat with a brim like a dirt
track, and discarded it after overhearing a remark
about it taking more than a Tom Mix hat to make a
Tom Mix. After that I adjourned to the old bowler
and black tie.
But there is a Saturday night for every Monday
morning, and there is a heartening side to this Derry
decree. We are also told that men are going back again
to safety pins for collar fasteners. That is a sop to my
sorrow. There is something sure and steadfast about a
safety pin. It has filled the breach (and held the
15o
breeches) time and again. Our poets have been singing about cuckoos and daring deeds and things like
that, but one day I shall immortalise the safety pin
in song.
There is hope for the shirt where there is a safety
pin. But how much better if it could reflect the radiant
glory of the garment it adorns. We still have plus
fours, but even they, too, may pass, and man will indeed be an insignificant creature.
So let us throw off the shackles of sober shirts ! Let
Joseph's coat of many colours be as sackcloth to the
adornment of our manly chests! How else shall we
match the ties that we got as Christmas presents?
151
SWITHERIN'
SWITHERIN'
As I went to market one Omagh Fair Day,
I met a sweet girleen alone by the way;
The sun was in heaven, the dew on the ground;
Says I, " My dear girlie, where may ye be bound? "
But she tossed her proud head,
And her glance it was witherin',
As coldly she said,
" I'm switherin'."
Says I, " Well, the loneins are lonely and long,
And it's me that can whistle the cheerfullest song;
Come with me, my love, to the fun o' the fair,
And I'll buy ye a ring if I sell the grey mare."
But away turned her head,
(Though her step it was slitherin')
As slowly she said,
" I'm switherin'."
But, for all that, she daundered along by my side,
Though the distance between us seemed uncommon
wide;
So says I, " D'ye think it would be any harm
If I circled your waist with this bit o' an arm? "
152
But she cocked her gold head,
As though I was blitherin',
And smilin' she said,
" I'm switherin."
" There are folks and to wonder just fills them wi' joy,"
Says I, " And it's me that's the wonderin' boy;
And just at the moment I'm wonderin' this,
Would ye shout for the law if I give ye a kiss? "
But she hung her sweet head,
Though in sowl she was ditherin',
As blushin' she said,
" I'm switherin'."
Says I, " I've a farm and a horse and a cow,
But it's little I'm carin' for things like them now;
I have only one aim and one object in life,
And that is to make ye my own darlin' wife :
It's a chance for to wed,
And ye mayn't get anither yin."
But softly she said,
" I'm switherin'."
That Omagh Fair Day was a quare while ago,
And it's much that I've come for to see and to know;
But my mind travels back to that wonderful day,
When I met the sweet girleen alone by the way :
153
SWITHERIN'
And when I'm druv mad
By a tongue that keeps litherin',
I wish that she had
Kep' switherin'.
MY FIRST PIPE
My head was light, my stomach was light, my pocket
was light, but the tobacco—oh, the tobacco was heavy !
My eyes were weak, my legs were weak, my whole
body was weak—but, by George, the tobacco was
strong!
154
i
I was with a bunch of the boys, and we were whooping it up down town. In each and every jowl was a
tasty briar, filled with the fragrant weed. In all, that
is, except mine. And, as I watched them puffing contentedly, I began to feel that I was missing something.
There was a deep yearning within me to partake of
the same solace. I had an aching void. (I was sure of
this afterwards.)
My desire gave place to resolve. At that moment we
were passing a tobacconist's, and there and then I
entered and purchased a pipe. Most of the tragic things
in life happen like that, on the spur of the moment. It
was a large, contorted sort of pipe, a shape that would
have delighted the heart of Sherlock Holmes. I felt
even greater than that great man, as, pipe between
teeth, I rejoined my companions. My nerves must
have been at a very high pitch, for, try as I might, I
155
i
MY FIRST PIPE
could not keep the pipe rigid. It would persist in
quivering like a leaf on an autumn day.
So excited was I, that I quite forgot that tobacco was
also required, and, being no judge of the stuff myself,
one of the boys volunteered to procure it. " Get me the
mildest in the shop," I warned him. And it was not
until after the tragedy that I discovered that he had
asked for the opposite.
Then came the packing of the bowl. Not until then
did I realise the many intricacies of the art. Little did
I know that a small piece of paper or cinder helps the
thing to draw. At the first attempt I packed it (vide
one of the boys) as though it were someone else's pipe—
the tobacco was loose and meagre. The second attempt
was in the nature of a holiday trunk—there was no
room left, even for air. As though it were somebody
else's tobacco, said the cynic. Again one of the
veterans had to come to my aid.
From an inner pocket, I produced a box of matches,
which had hitherto been kept only for the benefit of
humanity. (" Got a match? "—" Yes, here you are! ")
I applied one to the flowing bowl, but with no result.
At the fifteenth match, there were small volumes of
smoke issuing from my mouth, and at the twenty-third,
by dint of " cocking my ears and pulling like a donkey "
(I was a donkey) the pipe was well under way.
I could not refrain from affecting an intellectual and
156
MY FIRST PIPE
thoughtful look, as I swaggered along the street, puffing like a train leaving the station. I thought myself
a combination of a sporty gent in plus fours, and a college professor in a science study.
Then came disaster. I had been smoking serenely
for about ten minutes, when my bliss became just too
supernatural. I did not walk—I floated. There was
nothing to hold me down. And, when I ceased to do
this, the earth took on the job and floated still more.
There were spots before my eyes and my head resembled a miniature shipyard. But, through it all, I
puffed on bravely, with a sickly grin of satisfaction on
my face. I was determined that these people should
not gloat over my weakness. By Heck, I could smoke
a pipe as well as the best of them! Such must have
been the spirit of the Light Brigade at Balaclava. Only
once did they notice that anything was amiss, with the
remark, " I say, old man, you're looking greener than
usual." And I stifled it with the assurance that I had
been using green soap.
It seemed an age till the time of breaking-up arrived.
I was broken up all right ! I tottered home, succeeded
in inserting my Yale at the thirteenth attempt, refused
all nourishment, and crawled up to the favourite cot.
The sufferings of Job were not to be compared with
mine. Job never smoked a pipe! The fragrant weed !
Bah! It was the vagrant weed!
157
MY FIRST PIPE
Next morning I woke up as fresh as a fairy. The
old glow had returned to my cheeks and the old pep to
my tissues. I had an overwhelming desire to smoke a
pipe. I wanted to be comforted—sustained. From a
drawer, wherein it had been unceremoniously cast, I
retrieved my purchase of the previous night. In a
moment I had packed it like an expert, and lo, and
behold, it smoked like a chimney on the application of
the first match.
I lay back in my arm-chair, a radiant beam of peace
on my countenance, puffing and pulling with calm
complacency; soothed by the thing that had treated me
so savagely—like a maiden petted by a heretofore caveman lover. This was Utopia. But there, I must stop.
This is an account of my first pipe. This is a tragedy.
158
ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN
AN ULSTER EPISODE
Characters :
WILLIAM JOHN BRENNAN
A Well-to-do Farmer
SARAH ANN
His Wife
A Neighbour
MRS. JOHNSTON
JACK MCCULLOUGH
The Boy from Belfast
Time—The Present Day.
It is about six o'clock of an evening in April. The
scene is the kitchen of Brennan's farm-house. It is the
usual large room, and, if the furniture is not showy, it
is certainly comfortable. There is a door on right, leading from hall, another at back, leading to scullery, and
a large open fire on the left. In the centre, WILLIAM
JOHN is seated at a table laden with solid food, and
partaking thereof. The door on right opens to admit
SARAH ANN, supported by JACK MCCULLOUGH. She is a
woman of large proportions and looks thoroughly upset.
Her hat is on the back of her head, her black costume is
spotted with mud, and the eyes behind large spectacles
have a martyred look. Jack is a sleek-looking youth of
161
nineteen, well-dressed, and typically " city."
JOHN stares at them.
WILLIAM
SARAH ANN (weakly): Oh, my poor back!
WILLIAM JOHN (astounded): In the name iv all that's
wonderful
SARAH ANN (as before): Oh, my poor leg!
WILLIAM JOHN : What on earth's the matter wi' ye?
SARAH ANN : I've been lamed for life! I'm a done
woman!
JACK MCCULLOUGH : Pardon me, Mr. Brennan. Your
wife has
SARAH ANN : Get me into a chair, William John.
(He does so, amid much groaning.)
JACK McCuLLouGH : She has had an accident.
She
SARAH ANN (half moaning): It was them stone steps
at the Ballymagraw Hall. I fell from the top to the
bottom. " Poor Mrs. Brennan," says wee Mr.
Montgomery. He thought I was kilt. It's a mercy
to God I wasn't! Ay, " Poor Mrs. Brennan," he says.
JACK MCCULLOUGH : You see, there had been a
shower, Mr. Brennan. The steps were a little greasy,
and when Mrs. Brennan got near the bottom she
slipped.
SARAH ANN : I fell from the top, I tell ye! Didn't I
feel them? Oh, my poor side!
162
WILLIAM JOHN : What were ye doin' at the Ballymagraw Hall, anyway?
SARAH ANN : I was at the Festival of coorse—the
Music Festival. Don't ye know it's on all week?—
Oh, my knee!
WILLIAM JOHN : Wasn't that where ye were yisterday
afternoon?
SARAH ANN : Yes—but I cudn't miss the sopranny solo.
WILLIAM JOHN : What do you want wi' the sopranny
solo! Now, if ye'd been feedin' the pigs
SARAH ANN : Feedin' the pigs! That's all he thinks
about—feedin' the pigs! An' other men's wives
sportin' their figures at the event of the year. Iv'rybody that was anybody was there.
WILLIAM JOHN : A good wife doesn't want to sport
her figure, even if she has one. She shud be darnin'
her husband's socks.
SARAH ANN (whimpering): This is a nice way tae
talk tae your wife, an' her nearly kilt.
WILLIAM JOHN (softening): There now—only ye will
gallivant about the countryside, ye know. Last week
it was the Flower Show—before that it was the Cradle
Roll—nixt it'll be
SARAH ANN : Oh, my left fut!
WILLIAM JOHN (to McCullough): This isn't a very
nice reception for a visitor, Jack. I got your letter all
right. Ye're stayin' the night aren't ye?
163
JACK MCCULLOUGFI : Yes—if it's not too much
trouble, after this.
JACK McCuLLoucH : Yes, quite a lot of women.
Montgomery is the Secretary of the Association I think.
He was just behind Mrs. Brennan.
SARAH ANN : " Poor Mrs. Brennan," he says, when
he seen me lyin' there. " Poor Mrs. Brennan." He
thought I was kilt. When he seen I wasn't, he sends
for his motor
JACK McCuLLouGH : We came up in it, you know.
SARAH ANN : It was him that lifted me up, though I
was terrible throughother at the time. " Poor Mrs.
Brennan
WILLIAM JOHN (to McCullough): Did she fall far?
JACK MCCULLOUGH : About three steps I think
SARAH ANN : I tell ye it was the whole way ! An'
even if it was near the bottom.—D'ye know the iron
railin'?—Well, I might have hit my head there.
Merciful Providence! I'd niver have spoke!
WILLIAM JOHN : Ye know, Sarah Ann, ye're the
terrible one for fallin'—Ye fell down McCartney's stairs
last time ye were there—Ye fell comin' out iv the
church
SARAH ANN : Will ye stap castin' up an' do somethin' ! A suppose ye want me to die.
WILLIAM JOHN : D'ye want a drap iv tay?
SARAH ANN : What good's a drap iv tay to a broken
leg?
WILLIAM JOHN : Your leg isn't broke, surely?
165
WILLIAM JOHN: Ye're welcome!—How did ye come
across her?
JACK MCCULLOUGH : I got in on the four o'clock train
and I thought I'd put in an hour or two in the town.
I knew you usually went to market on a Tuesday and
I thought you mightn't be in.
WILLIAM JOHN : Ye're right there. I was jist half-anhour in front iv ye.
JACK MCCULLOUGH : I had heard about the Competitions, so I thought I'd go along there
SARAH ANN : Isn't anybody goin' tae git somethin'
for my back?
WILLIAM JOHN : We'd better git aff your coat first.
Git up a minute now.
(Sarah Ann gets up with great difficulty, and the
coat is removed in anguish and mourning.)
WILLIAM JOHN : Where does it hurt ye?
SARAH ANN : I'm hurt all over, I tell ye! Didn't I
fall down a flight of stone steps? Them people will
push an' shove. No wonder I lost my feet. " Poor Mrs.
Brennan," says wee Mr. Montgomery. He thought I
was
WILLIAM JOHN (to McCullough): Was there a big
crowd there?
164
it's not far off it! It might be for
all you care! Go an' git a drop of methylated spirits
an' rub it into this back.
WILLIAM JOHN : I hope there is a drap.
SARAH ANN : If there isn't, I suppose I'd better give
up. It's a nice thing that when a woman falls there's
not a drop of spirits to rub into her!
WILLIAM JOHN: Now, now! Houl' ye wheesht!
I'll luk in the scullery.
SARAH ANN : Well,
(He goes out door at back.)
SARAH ANN (to McCullough ): Dear, dear! I suppose I'm awful lukin', Jack? What will your Aunt
Lizzie say when she hears this is what ye came to
see?—" Poor Mrs. Brennan," says wee Mr. Montgomery
(William John comes in with bottle.)
WILLIAM JOHN : There's some in this, anyway. Keep
yer head down now, Sarah Ann.
(He applies some of the stuff below the back of the
neck, rather vigorously.)
Hi! Ye're not rubbin' down the horse,
William John! D'ye want tae knock the head aff me!
WILLIAM JOHN : It's no good unless it's rubbed in.
SARAH ANN : Ay, well ye needn't rub it right
through!—There, that'll do.
WILLIAM JOHN : Do ye feel easier now?
66
SARAH ANN :
SARAH ANN : No, but I want a rest.
(She leans back with a sigh, and closes her eyes.)
WILLIAM JOHN : So ye're thinkin' iv goin' tae London, Jack?
JACK MCCULLOUGH : Yes, I'm paying farewell visits
to all my friends.—I think I'll have better scope there.
WILLIAM JOHN : Ye had some bits in the Tele., hadn't
ye?
JACK MCCULLOUGH : Yes, and in some English
papers too.
WILLIAM JoHisr: Well, I know nothin' about writin'.
—When ye're in the fields from early mornin' to late
at night, there's little time for pushin' a pen—but I
know ye've a diver head on ye.
JACK MCCULLOUGFI : Oh, I don't know. I'm going
to try my luck anyhow.
WILLIAM JOHN : There's nothin' beats a trial.—Always remember the oul' country, anyway.—We've some
fine stories in our history, mind ye. I read one in the
Irish Weekly one time. Man, it was a quare yarn
SARAH ANN (without opening eyes): I suppose ye
niver thought of takin' aff them boots iv mine, William
John?
(He kneels down and begins to unloose them.)
WILLIAM JOHN : It was all about a woman. She
must have been a brazen hussy too, for it was her job
167
to destroy men. There was one man in partic'lar that
she wanted tae git—a big fella I think—an' after
stavin' all for a bit he went like all the rest. She lured
him tae the edge iv a cliff, an' then, jist when he was
goin' tae kiss her, shoved him over intae the sea. She
must have been a quare nice
SARAH ANN (sharply): I think I'll have that cup of
tay now, William John. My head's splittin'. Maybe
it'll help it. Oh, I'll niver forgit this day ! " Poor
Mrs. Brennan
WILLIAM JOHN : Ye were niver built for fallin',
Sarah Ann.
SARAH ANN: Well, can I help it—can I? Did I do
it on purpose? Ye'd think I'd fell over a straw and
let a hen kick me, to hear ye!
(William John goes to table for tea. He limps very
slightly, and carries the cup back rather unsteadily.)
SARAH ANN : What's the matter wi' ye? A hope ye
weren't at the drink the day!
WILLIAM JOHN : Who'd be at the drink wi' the price
it is.
SARAH ANN : Well, the price didn't scare ye last
Tuesday.
WILLIAM JOHN : Now, ye know I met Barney
McQuillan that day.—Besides, it's only my rheumatics
I suppose.
168
SARAH ANN : Yes—ye will gallivant in the wet!
WILLIAM JOHN : Now drink that an' none iv yer oul'
gab.
SARAH ANN : D'ye hear that, Jack? That's the way
he talks tae his sick wife.
JACK MCCULLOUGH : Do you think we'd better get a
doctor, Mr. Brennan?
SARAH ANN : It's hardly worth while now.—I'm
about past help.
WILLIAM JOHN : I'll tell oul' Doctor Mackintosh
when I'm goin' tae McBurney's in the mornin'. Not
that he'll do ye much good.
SARAH ANN : Ye'd better take Jack up and show him
where tae put his things an' so forth. Ye can git him
a cup iv tay after. I'm able for nothin'.
WILLIAM JOHN : Ye won't die till we come back?
SARAH ANN : A lot you care! You just leave him up.
(They both go out door on right, and immediately
Sarah Ann gets up and parades nimbly round the
place, looking at a letter rack, eating a scrap of meat
from the table, and finally taking a pull from a bottle
in the cupboard. She has just done this and dashed
back to her chair when William John comes back.)
SARAH ANN : Oh, my poor back !
WILLIAM JOHN : A night's rest will do ye a world iv
good. Ye'll be as fit as a fiddle in the mornin'.
169
SARAH ANN :
It's little rest I'll have this night, what
wi' pains an' aches.
WILLIAM JOHN : Ye'll no' die yit awhile.
SARAH ANN : That reminds me—oul' Mrs.
Mawhinney hasn't long to live. She sent for me this
mornin'.
WILLIAM JOHN : It wasn't so long since ye were
called to Mary Hamilton's. Why is it they all sen' for
ye at the last? Ye must be a quare han' wi' a
corpse.
SARAH ANN : Mary left me two hundred in her will,
don't forgit !
WILLIAM JOHN : Ay, an' I suppose oul' Mawhinney'll
make it five.
SARAH ANN : Don't be diver now. Kindness always
pays. Besides, I am a good han' at a bedside.—How
did the prices go the day?
WILLIAM JOHN : Oh, middlin'.
I've seen them
better. Pigs'll soon have to rear themselves I'm
thinkin'.—I seen John James Murphy there wi' the
wife.
SARAH ANN : What had she on?
WILLIAM JOHN : What do ye think she had on? A
hat an' coat iv coorse.
SARAH ANN : I was wonderin' if she still had that
oul' blue thing.
WILLIAM JOHN : Well, ye can't herd cows in silks an'
70
satins, can ye? It wud do you more good, Sarah Ann,
if ye paid more attention tae the bastes and less tae the
ministers an' sopranny solos.
SARAH ANN : There ye go again. Will ye rub this
back of mine an' houl' yer tongue. Ye'd think I was
a hearty woman tae hear ye.
(He rubs in more of the methylated spirit.)
WILLIAM JOHN : Well, how did the singin' go? Was
Rebecca McMurtry anywhere.
SARAH ANN : She come in about thirteenth. Thon
girl hasn't a voice. It's like the scrapin' iv a hen's
dish or somethin'.
WILLIAM JOHN : Henry won't like that. He thinks
she's a lark.
SARAH ANN : So she is. I've never seen anything
funnier in my life. That yella dress of her's
WILLIAM JOHN : Who won the thing?
SARAH ANN : Wee Molly Caffery. Of coorse they
say she was flirtin' wi' the judge aforehand. Brazen
young strap wi' her glad neck an' short skirts! I
wonder her mother lets her out in such clothes. Why
she wud need more in bed!
WILLIAM JOHN : I hear the Ballymagraw Male Choir's
in the night—wi' oul' Tam Hopkins in it too. He has
a good voice for shoutin' at the mare, but
(Enter Jack.)
17 I
Oh, here's Jack.—What did you think of it all,
Jack?
JACK MCCULLOUGH : The Competitions ?—Not bad at
all. Quite a cute little thing won the soprano solo.—
How are you feeling now, Mrs. Brennan?
SARAH ANN : I'm bad, Jack—bad. I doubt if I'll iver
be the same again. It's a mercy tae God I wasn't kilt.
" Poor Mrs. Brennan," says Mr. Montgomery. He's
an awful nice wee man.
(A knock sounds on the hall door and a voice asks
" Ken A come in ? ")
WILLIAM JOHN : There's Mrs. Johnston.—Come
ahead, Martha!
(Mrs. Johnston enters. She is a frail woman of about
40, who has a habit of standing with her arms folded.
She has on a coat but no hat, and looks a little
agitated.)
SARAH ANN : Och, dear, dear ! I knowed she'd wud
come.
WILLIAM JOHN : How are ye, Martha. This a friend
of ours from Belfast—Mister McCullough.
MRS. JOHNSTON (shaking hands vigorously): Plazed
tae meet ye, Mister McCullough.—A wuz down in
Ballymagraw an' A heered
SARAH ANN : Sure I knowed ye wud come, Martha.
I suppose I'll have the whole countryside the morra.
172
MRS. JOHNSTON : McFetridge the grocer toul' me
about it. Isn't it terrible the way these things happen?
SARAH ANN : It is that, Martha. But we must remain
thankful, though I feel it bad.
MRS. JOHNSTON : I'm sure ye do, Sarah Ann.
Though, to be sure, he doesn't luk a bit the worse.
(William John is looking somewhat uneasy.)
SARAH ANN : Him! His wife cud be bruised tae
pieces for all he cares! He doesn't know the meanin'
iv pain.
MRS. JOHNSTON : Hugh was tellin' me he thought the
leg was broke.
SARAH ANN : It's a mercy tae God it wasn't.—An' I
might have hit my head on them iron railin's. " Poor
Mrs. Brennan," says wee Mr. Montgomery, an' sent for
his car. Jack was a boon too. He kep' me from faintin' in the motor. Oh, it's stiff an' sore I am!
MRS. JOHNSTON (amazed): D'ye mane you've been in
the wars too!
(Sarah Ann stares.)
Dear, dear ! This is terrible. Here A come tae see
about William John an' fin' you bad too!
SARAH ANN : William John? (She is astounded.)
MRS. JOHNSTON : Yis, didn't he fall aff the kert in
High Street the day? It's all roun' the countryside!
(Sarah Ann is bewildered for the moment. Her
173
speech is incoherent. William John comes forward
from back of stage where he has been slinking.)
WILLIAM JOHN : Yes, that's right, Martha.—I forgot
to tell ye, Sarah Ann.—I fell aff the kert opposite
Convery's the day.
SARAH ANN : Merciful God!
WILLIAM JOHN : Ye see, wi' all yer trouble
MRS. JOHNSTON : It's a mercy tae God he wasn't kilt!
SARAH ANN : What were ye doin', anyway? Had ye
jist come out of Convery's?
WILLIAM JOHN : That's what I thought ye'd think.
I was as sober as a judge at the time. Nellie jist happened to scare at a motor.
SARAH ANN : That's as it may be. Ye're not badly
done tae anyway, or we'd have heerd more about it.
It'll teach ye to be more careful in future an' keep out
iv public-houses. I suppose there was a crowd round
ye. Nice exhibition to make of yourself !
WILLIAM JOHN : Accidents will happen.
MRS. JOHNSTON : An' what's this A hear about you,
Sarah Ann? What in the name iv God happened?
SARAH ANN : Och, it was terrible all thegither,
Martha. Ye know the steps at Ballymagraw Hall?
Well, I fell down them—stone, mind ye! I'm black
an' blue! " Poor Mrs Brennan," says wee Mr.
Montgomery. He thought
(The Curtain falls on her lamentations.)
1 74
PA GOES OUT
SEEING it was the annual dinner ,of the Society, I
couldn't very well stay at home. But if I'd knowed
the bother it was going to give me getting there, divil
the bit of me would have given my word. However,
I had bought a ticket, and it's hard to get money back
out of our Society, so I decided to go.
The trouble started long before the night of the
thing, in fact when I first told Mary Jane about
going.
" A suppose ye'll hiv tae git evenin' dress," says she.
" Evenin' dress! " says I. " Jist imagine me in
evenin' dress! No, Mary Jane, A'm goin' in me blue
suit wi' the fancy buttons."
" Indeed ye're not," says she. " A wuz spakin' tae
Mrs. Mclldooda, an' her Sam's goin' in swallow tails.
No man iv mine'll be behind oul' Sam Mclldooda."
" Sarah Mclldooda's bletherin'," says I. " None iv
the boys'll hiv swallow-tail coats. Wee Alex McFetridge
wuz wonderin' if he shud wear his dungarees."
" Let me see yer ticket? " asks Mary Jane.
I handed it to her.
" There," says she. " ' Dress Optional.' That means
ye've got tae hiv swallow tails."
175
PA GOES OUT
I knowed there was something wrong somewhere, so
I just went and looked up the dictionary.
" No," says I. " It means that ye can dress if ye
want tae, an' if ye don't, well an' good."
That made things worse.
" No man iv mine," she shouts, " is goin' anywhere
in any such condition. Ye'll wear clothes an' evenin'
dress at that! Ye can hire them for the night. If ye
don't, ye can stay at home an' wind a lot iv wool for
me."
Well, that was that, so to speak. I got a fancy suit
at rzzy's, complete with striped trousers and swallow
tails. There was a smell off it that would have put an
army of moths to flight; and it wasn't just a skin fit for
me, if you understand, but them things is neither here
nor there.
Mary Jane had me near run in for a chimney-pot
hat, but I told her that bowlers were more the fashion
this winter, and showed her a picture in the Tele. of
one of them foreign princes wearing one.
Then come the night of the " do ", and I'll never
forget it. The preparations for the Royal Visit were
nothing compared to the preparations I had to make,
and the tram and bus trouble was nothing to mine.
You would have thought I was a mannequin or a
debutanty or something, and, dear knows, I'm like
neither of the two.
176
PA GOES OUT
Mary Jane opened with a sarcastic remark.
" It's a quare thing," says she, " that the men's wives
doesn't git goin' tae these things. Where is a wumman's place but at the side iv her husban'? "
I was going to say, " Yis, even when he's swingin' a
sledge hammer," but thank goodness I've got some
sense left.
" It's my idea," she went on, " that this is jist goin'
tae be anither iv them occasions for boozin' an' big
talk. A'm goin' tae wait up for ye, an' Hivin help ye
if ye come home blootered."
" An' mind an' show yer good breedin'," says she.
" There'll likely be about ten different coorses an' ten
different kinds iv knives an' forks. Mind ye use the
right ones. An' don't shove yer serviette down the
front iv yer dickey. Put it on yer knees like a gentleman, even if ye aren't one. An' don't use yer finger
bowl for drinkin' water. Ye'll hardly git yer fingers
intae one, so ye'd better lave them alone. But for
Hivin's sake don't lick them! "
" All give ye a tip," says she. " If ye're in swithers
any time, jist watch the man opposite tae ye an' do what
he does."
I was thinking it would be a funny thing if every
man's missis gave him the same advice. There wouldn't
be much eating done.
I near had a fit when Mary Jane produced the patent
'77
M
PA GOES OUT
shoes. Now I have hardly the feet for patent shoes.
They're the sort of feet that like liberty and great open
spaces. The sort that's more at home in a pair of
meleecha boots. These shoes that Mary Jane had got
had that pointy toes you could pick willicks with them.
Well, after a lot of puffing and blowing and pulling
I got them on. I tried to tear them in the act, but
Mary Jane caught me on.
Then it took me twenty minutes getting my butterfly
collar in its moorings. It always wanted to fly away,
and, to tell you the truth, I was feeling like that myself.
I thought then that my troubles were over, but, by
the look of things, they were only beginning. I was
brushed and hauled about till I felt like a peary. And
then, horrow of horrors, the whole street was out to see
me leave, and let up a cheer when I appeared in my
swallow tails and bowler.
I limped rather than walked to the tram, for the
patent shoes were having a great struggle with my
corns. I seemed to attract a good deal of attention. I
suppose it's what the papers call " excited admiration ".
But I was glad to get to the hall.
The first person I seen was Sammy Mclldooda, all
dickeyed up like myself, and looking just as miserable.
I waved to him, and we both went into the bar, or
buffay, as they called it there. Then we divested ourselves of our patent shoes and butterfly collars, and soon
178
PA GOES OUT
Mary Jane and Sarah Mclldooda were but spectres of
the past. (I got that in a book.) I may tell you again
of the home-coming. I couldn't thole it just at present.
179
THE HILL OF THE CAVES
HAVE you ever got up when the morn was young,
And the world was fresh and cool,
When the first blithe bird had scarcely sung
His song to the placid pool?
Have you ever left off Care's heavy load
For the things that the true heart craves,
And taken the rough, white, winding road
That leads to the Hill of the Caves?
THE HILL OF THE CAVES
But, beside it, all the blue of skies,
The shimmer of sun-flecked waves;
A view of the earth from Paradise,
On the old, grey Hill of the Caves?
Have you ever come down from the solitude,
Back to a work-a-day world,
With body restored and spirit renewed,
And banner of faith unfurled?
For the mountain air will purge your soul
Of the sin that damns and depraves,
And the broken in heart will be made whole
By the healing Hill of the Caves.
Have you ever knelt down by a quiet stream
To drink to your heart's content,
And felt, as you feasted on nature's cream,
That this was a sacrament?
Have you ever ascended the grassy slope,
Away from a world of knaves,
And thought you were climbing the Hill of Hope,
The heather-clad Hill of the Caves?
Have you ever reclined on the jutting peak,
And gazing serenely down,
Beheld the mist and the smoke and reek
That hung o'er the sleeping town;
18o
18
CITY COMMANDMENTS
that the proper authorities have caused a white
dividing line to be marked on the footpath at the
corner of Donegall Place and Castle Place with the
injunction—" Please Keep to Left." This for the
guidance and welfare of pedestrian traffic.
Now, I think this is a jolly good idea. In fact it is
so clever that I wonder why I didn't think of it myself.
It should have been carried out years ago, and will now
do much to alleviate the " bumping and boring " common to this particular spot. But the fact remains that
it adds another to the list of " City Commandments,"
and on tablets of stone at that.
These " City Commandments " are as numerous as
children at a Christmas toy display. They meet us at
every turn. I cannot walk fifty yards but I am told to
" Post No Bills " (I wish people wouldn't post me any),
" Drive Slowly " or " Keep Off the Grass." When I
seek refuge in buildings or vehicles, I am confronted
with " No Spitting," " No Smoking " (which means
" Thou shalt not smoke "), " Do Not Touch," and
" Ladies Kindly Remove Their Hats."
I know it is all for my good, but it is also very bewildering. I wonder is there any truth in the story of
182
I SEE
CITY COMMANDMENTS
the timid, short-sighted little man who stopped at every
tram halt until a policeman gave him permission to go
on. I am inclined to think there is. That "Stop " is
very imperative. And the tram itself is covered with
inscriptions such as—" Wait Until the Tram Stops,"
" Standing in Top Saloon Strictly Prohibited," etc.
Some of the " Commandments " seen on our public
thoroughfares are truly religious. For instance, on a
certain wall in North Belfast there is the injunction—
" Prepare to Meet Thy God." And certainly it is at
one of the trickiest corners for a motor-car to manipulate
I know.
Even our business offices are not immune. In fact
they appear to be happy hunting grounds for this sort
of thing. On the very door I am informed " This Door
Shuts—Try it." Inside I am told to " Do It Now,"
which is rather perplexing, seeing that I want to
murder the manager. " There's No Fun Like Work
seems to be a favourite in Belfast offices. I love to see
people enjoying themselves. But I was not particularly
pleased when, the other day, I went to pay my Income
Tax, and had to do so opposite a bright little card which
commanded me to " Smile. Dammit, Smile ! "
Shop windows are also special sites for " City Commandments." We are ever instructed to buy somebody's sausages or sardines. Just now we are explicitly
asked to " Shop Early For Christmas." Before that it
'83
CITY COMMANDMENTS
was " Join Our Christmas Club—Pay What You Like
—Have What You please." There is a story of a
Scotsman who took this " Commandment " to heart.
He paid a penny only, and, when Christmas came
round, demanded a large bottle of cordial (?). The
shopkeeper, under great stress, was compelled to comply. " I suppose," said one of the Scotsman's friends,
" he made a long face about it." " Aye," replied Jock,
" but ye should have seen his face when A returned
the bottle and got ma penny back."
We need not take these " City Commandments "
just so literally as that but we can never get away from
them. The best one I have seen for a long time was
inscribed on the counterfoil of a cheque, and ran :
" This cheque must be presented for payment within
fourteen days from date." That " Commandment " is
very dear to my heart, and I shall always observe it
faithfully.
SIX O'CLOCK
(BELFAST.)
THE Albert strikes; the sirens scream;
The hammer and the pen are downed;
And out there pours a living stream
Of toilers—homeward bound.
From every art and part they come;
From leafy lane and squalid street,
Or from suburban villadom,
The poor and the elite.
And yet it matters not if they
Be coated o'er with silk or grime;
They are but fellows who obey
The call of supper-time.
Yes—fellow toilers every one,
Amid the city's din and strife;
Co-workers—yet who fight alone
For daily bread and life.
184
185
SOMEONE has said that there are sermons in stones. I
say that there are characters in tram tickets.
It happened like this. The other evening I boarded
a
, well, I won't give you a clue as to the tram,
for reasons which will be seen later, but it was a Belfast
car anyway. Then I discovered that I had omitted to
get my paper. There were no boys in sight. I would
have to wait until I got to my destination. What was
I to do in the meantime? Twiddle my thumbs?
The conductor had begun to collect the fares, and
suddenly a thought struck me. " Why," I said (to
myself of course) " these people all seem to treat their
tickets differently. Is it not an index to personality,
nature, character, fortune, or whatever you like to call
it? Let's see if I can carry out the scheme." And I
did. So I pass the result on to you in order that you
may try the experiment for yourself.
In the first place I noticed how the tickets were
obtained. Some men held on to the money until they
got the ticket. Canny customers, surely ! Hard-headed
business men probably. Men of the world who had
been once bitten and were for ever shy.
Others were very particular about saying " please "
186
and " thank you." Well-mannered men, the sort of
chaps you could let loose in a drawing-room without the
slightest compunction.
In the seat opposite to me there were two men. I
had noticed them often on the car. And the bigger
of the two always managed, in some miraculous manner, to get the inside berth, with the result that the
other had usually to fork out. I will not say that the
big man hailed from Aberdeen. These kind of people
are born everywhere.
The fumblers were very noticeable. This type of
person dives his hand into his pocket at the last moment,
and then when his companion, who has had a liberal
start, proffers the fare first, he mutters something like :
" Now, don't, old man, this is my turn! " The fumbler
never loses. When things look dangerous he merely
produces half-a-crown. A mean streak here with a
touch of trickery.
But it was the treatment of the tickets that interested
me most. On receiving his ticket, the man beside me
placed it carefully in his breast pocket, within easy reach
should the inspector demand it. Here, I thought, is a
man of method. A man who has a pigeon-hole for
everything—his business, his pleasure, his religion. A
man who could not go to sleep while a picture hung
awry in his bedroom. A man whose life is an ordered
one, whose funeral will be carried out to his directions.
187
There was only one young lady in the top saloon, and
when her beau (presumably) got the tickets she leaned
over excitedly. " Oh," she gushed, " let me see them.
I want to see if there is a seven in the numbers. It is
terribly lucky." No mistaking the strain of superstition
here. This girl is no doubt forever getting her cards
cut, her hand and cup read. She would sail three times
under the Queen's Bridge in a coal barge on the first
Thursday of the month if The Sheik Fortune Book said
it was lucky.
As for the young man, he gave her one of the tickets
and immediately began to crush the other into a small
ball. Then he straightened it out, rolled it up, unrolled it, and crumpled it again. Very soon it was torn
in small pieces, and I began to hope that the inspector
wouldn't come. I was sorry for the young man. He
is one of those opposites of he-men—nervous, shy,
always in the background. Highly sensitive too, the
type that writes immortal literature, paints immortal pictures, and composes immortal music.
Or perhaps he was labouring under a great strain.
Maybe he was steeling himself to propose to the
young lady that evening. Surely he could not have
quarrelled and was now relieving his feelings in this
manner.
A few seats away a man held his ticket loosely in his
hand and promptly dropped it on opening his paper
i88
and then made no effort to retrieve it. Carelessness
was his keynote. The direct opposite of the methodical
man. I should not care to invest money (if I had it) in
a company of his. He wouldn't worry about anything.
And yet I feel somehow that he is a likeable chap. The
sort of pal for a dull day.
A dreamy-eyed old gent in the far corner placed his
ticket on the ledge below the window and then forgot
all about it. When the conductor came up again calling " Fare, please? " he made a frantic search of his
pockets and hastily examined the floor. All the time
the little piece of paper lay beside him. Ah, I thought,
here we have the absent-minded professor of the cartoons, the man who goes out to business in a bath-towel.
He always forgets to remember.
A small boy at the front of the car insisted on chewing his ticket. I did not attempt to surmise. It is a
moot point, whether he was prompted by a hunger
for food or literature. I am inclined to favour the
former.
Just then I arrived at my " stop " and so did my
character-reading. I was sorry. As I got off, I noticed
one man carefully deposit his ticket in the box for the
purpose. A woman gazed at him in admiration. She
was probably thinking, " There is the kind of man to
have about a house."
Some of you may wonder what I did with my own
189
ticket. Oh, well, that is a personal matter. You
mightn't believe me anyway, and besides it is a question
whether I had a ticket at all or not.
THE ULSTER TONIC
(Being a versified account of statements made to the
writer by an old Ulsterman.)
For forty years I roamed the world, from China to
Peru;
I mixed wi' men of every shade, exceptin' green an'
blue :
For forty years I roamed the world, an' then at last
says I,
" I'll hie me back to Ulster's shore an' lay me down
to die."
Nov it was twenty years ago I come to Belfast town,
To bid good-bye to all my friends afore I'd lay me
down;
But dang the bit of me cud die, I didn't feel like it,
An' the sight of dear oul' Ulster it has kep' me livin'
yit !
190
For when I landed at Belfast an' looked the country
roun',
An' when I sniffed the Antrim Hills an' dales of
County Down,
191
THE ULSTER TONIC
A strength came to my weary limbs, a new light to my
eyes,
Says I, " Bedad, ye needn't die to git to Paradise! "
They say that monkey glands are things that make oul'
fellows young,
But when they talk to me of them I say, " Man, houl'
your tongue!
Sure, dang it's skin, what's monkey glands compared
wi' Ulster air,
The sight of Carrick Castle an' the Glens of Antrim
fair? "
For forty years I roamed the world, oft roasted by the
heat,
An' sometimes feelin' colder than a bit of frozen meat;
Then twenty years ago I came some coffin for to fit,
But the sight of dear oul' Ulster sure has kep' me
livin' yit!

R. Millar, Stirabout

Transcription

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