In Chimney Corners - McManus Seumas - Страница 16
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“Ye have a wee throuble on yer heart ?” sez the wee red man, sez he, when he come forrid.
“No lie for ye,” sez Donal, “I have.”
“I know it all,” sez the wee red man, “an’ cheer up, for I’ll pull ye through.”
“Is it you?” sez Donal, sez he, lookin’ up and down the wee heighth of hill, with a comical look; for disthressed an’ all as he was, he couldn’t help smilin’ to himself at the consait of him. “Is it you to pull me through?” sez Donal, sez he.
“Oh, never mind,” sez the wee red man, “there’s people isn’t to be judged by their size,” sez he, “I’m under obligations to your family,” sez he, “an’ I’ll do you a good turn now. Take that bridle, an’ when ye meet the loy-on,” sez he, “shake it at him, and he’ll be as meek as a mouse till ye put it on him an’ lead him where ye like. But take that auger, too,” sez he, “and when ye’ve caught the loy-on, bore a hole in the biggest tree in the wood, run the loy-on’s tail through the hole an’ knot it on the other side. Start him off then for the house,” sez he, an’ he reached the bridle an’ the auger to Donal.
Donal was all dumbfoundhered seein’ he’d made light of the little red man, for he now saw, sure enough, he belonged to the Good People, that no man should spake or say ill of in their hearin’. But off he starts, with the bridle an’ the auger, an’ a light heart, an’ he soon fell in with the wild loy-on that was comin’ on hot-foot, roarin’ an’ rampagin’, to devore Donal.
“It’s hungry ye are for a toothful,” sez Donal, sez he, “an’ maybe it’s not just doin’ the daicent thing to disappoint ye,” sez he. “But,” sez he, shakin’ the bridle at him, “there’s a time an’ place for everythin’ but cuttin’ corns; an’ you’ll get feedin’ enough if ye only hould on till I fetch ye up to my masther an’ his ould mother,” sez he.
An’, sure enough, the vartue was in the bridle, for the minnit Donal shuk it at him the loy-on give over his rampagin’, an’ let Donal slip the bridle on him.
“This way, now, yer worship,” sez Donal, sez he, leadin’ him to the biggest tree in the wood, where he bored a hole with the auger an’ knotted the loy-on’s tail through it, an’ then touchin’ him up, started off for the house. An’ the loy-on dragged up the big tree, an’ ten acres of land that stuck to the roots of it, an’ off to the house.
But, that was the play, when Donal come throttin’ up to the house, drivin’ the wild loy-on with the tree and ten acres of land to his tail, afore him, an’ whistlin’ like vingeance, “Whin Johnny comes marchin’ home!” Och-och, but the ould boy his masther was in the devil’s own quandarry, whin Donal pulled up the devorin’ brute and the luggage behind, right at his hall-doore, same as you might pull up an ass an’ cart an’—
“Gwoh, Johnnie,” sez Donal, sez he, to the loy-on.
But, me sowl! the masther didn’t wait to say, “It’s thankful I am,” or “—’Tis well ye done it,” or any other little civility of the sort but slammin’ out the hall-door an’ barrin’, boltin’, an’ double-lockin’ it, gallops away, an’ away up the stairs to the top o’ the house, an’ lookin’ out of the garret windy.
“Hilloa, Donal,” sez he.
“I’m lindin’ ye my attintion as hard as I can,” sez Donal.
“Clear off out o’ that, ye scoundhril ye—yerself an’ that brute baste. A nice article, that,” sez he, “to fetch to a man’s hall-doore.”
“Well, whither he’s purty or not,” sez Donal, sez he, “he’s as God left him—an’ that’s a quistion by itself. But as for takin’ him away, the bargain was, I was to fetch him here; but ye forgot to put in a coddy-stool that I was to fetch him back; so, he’s here now; an’ here, with the help of the Lord, he’ll remain, for, so far as I’m consarned, the sight of him at the hall-doore doesn’t disturb me in the laste little bit, an’ he may sit on his hunkers there till they make a guager of him, for all I care. In throgs, maybe I had my own throuble gettin’ round the same buck—puttin’ the comether on him first, an’ the bridle afther, an’ maybe, too, afther I had the bridle on him, an’ all—maybe it would be a bit pleasanter job to ate one’s breakwist than to fetch the same lad home,” sez Donal, sez he.
“Oh, but Donal, ye know, Donal,” sez the masther, “sure there’ll be no livin’ in the counthry at all, at all, with him, if he’s goin’ to make his sait there at my hall-doore,” sez he.
“Well, there ye are now, masther,” sez Donal, sez he, “an’ there’s the loy-on, an’ between yerself an’ him be it. Maybe,” sez he, “if ye comed down an’ had a collogue with him, ye might be able to raison him over, an’ he might see his way to get up an’ go off, himself and his applecart, back to the woods again,” sez he, “won’t ye come down, an’ misure logic with him?” sez Donal.
“Well, troth, an’ I’ll not Donal,” sez the masther, sez he, “thry anything o’ the sort. I don’t fancy at all, at all, the sort of logic that’s in that lad’s eye. But do you, Donal avic, like the good, daicent, obligin’ boy ye always were—do you take and thurn his head right roun’ and laive him back in the same place ye tuk him from, an’ I’ll not aisy forget it to ye; an’ moreover nor that,” sez he, “I’ll niver, niver more, Donal, ax ye to do anything hard or conthrairy again,” sez he.
“Phew! not if I know it,” sez Donal. “It’s the dickens’s own throuble he give me to fetch him here, an’ as I’m no-wise covetious of honours I’ll give some other man,” sez he, “the privilege of laiving him back.”
“Donal,” sez the masther, sez he, “how many poun’ over an’ above yer wages will ye take, an’ laive him the spot ye fetched him from?”
“Well, masther,” sez Donal, “like Terry Hanney’s Pig, thon (yon) time—not puttin’ the Christian in comparishment with the pig—ye have raison with ye now. Over an’ above me wages, considherin’ the mortial troublesome job I’m goin’ to give meself, sez Donal, ”I’ll have no objection in the world to takin’ fifty poun’,“ sez he, ”an’ laive the loy-on the spot I fetched him from.“
“Donal,” sez the masther, “ye couldn’t do it aisier.”
“Oh, the ding a aisier I could do it,” sez he. “As you think it can be done chaiper, there he is, an’ just say yer prayers, an’ square up yer wee accounts betwixt yerself an yer sowl, an’ then come down an’ start in on him.”
“Oh, for the sake of all the powers ever was cray-ated,” sez the masther, “don’t laive go of him for yer life an’ sowl. Ye’ll have the fifty pounds,” sez he, “with a heart an’ a half; only laive him back where I’ll nivir see a sight o’ him more,” sez he.
“Me jew’l, are ye,” sez Donal, sez he, touchin’ up the wild loy-on, “I’ll soon rid ye o’ the menagerie;” an’ in a jiffy he was off, himself an’ the loy-on, an’ the wee farm at their tail an’ me brave Donal niver halted till he left back the loy-on at the very identical spot he caught him, an’ onloosin’ his tail an’ takin’ the bridle off o’ him, he let him go, an’ the wee red man then an’ there appaired, an’ Donal handed over the bridle to him, an’ thanked him from his heart, an’ the both o’ them parted.
Afther all this was over, the ould masther had a great consultation entirely with his ould mother as regards what they’d do with Donal, or how they were to get him away at all, at all, for the Ould Fella in the Lower Counthry could be no match for Donal; that he was a scoundhril, a rogue, an’ a robber, an’ that if they had him much longer they wouldn’t maybe be able to call the very noses on their faces their own; an’ by the time the cuckoo’d call, it’s in their cowld graves they’d be when they’d hear it. So they made up a plan that the very nixt night they’d have a regular spree an’ jollification, an’ invite in a wheen o’ the naybours an’ make Donal right hearty; and in the middle of it the ould mother would go out an’ go up into the bush outside the house an’ call “Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!” three times, an’ when Donal would hear this—seein’ he’d have the dhrop in—he wouldn’t know the differ, but what it was the rale cuckoo that was callin’, an’ so they’d make him pack up an’ go in the mornin’.
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