Children of the Dead End: The Autobiography of an Irish Navvy. Patrick MacGill

through the window," said Norah.

      "Who made the moon?" asked Fergus.

      "It was never made," answered Dan. "It was there always."

      "There is a man in the moon," I said. "He was very bad and a priest put him up there for his sins."

      "He has a pot of porridge in his hand."

      "And a spoon."

      "A wooden spoon."

      "How could it shine at night if it's only a wooden spoon? It's made of white silver."

      "Like a shillin'."

      "Like a big shillin' with a handle to it."

      "What would we do if we had a shillin'?" asked Ellen.

      "I'd buy a pocket-knife," said Dan.

      "Would you cut me a stick to drive bullocks to the harvest fair of Greenanore?" asked Fergus.

      "And what good would be in havin' a knife if you cut sticks for other folk?"

      "I'd buy a prayer-book for the shillin'," said Norah.

      "A prayer-book is no good, once you get it," I said. "A knife is far and away better."

      "I would buy a sheep for a shillin'," said Fergus.

      "You couldn't get a sheep for a shillin'."

      "Well, I could buy a young one."

      "There never was a young sheep. A young one is only a lamb."

      "A lamb turns into a sheep at midsummer moon."

      "Why has a lamb no horns?" asked Norah.

      "Because it's young," we explained.

      "We'll sing a holy song," said Ellen.

      "We'll sing Holy Mary," we all cried together, and began to sing in the darkness.

      "Oh! Holy Mary, mother mild.

      Look down on me, a little child.

      And when I sleep put near my bed

      The good Saint Joseph at my head,

      My guardian Angel at my right

      To keep me good through all the night;

      Saint Brigid give me blessings sweet;

      Saint Patrick watch beside my feet.

      Be good to me O! mother mild,

      Because I am a little child."

      "Get a sleep on you," mother called from the next room. "The wee red-headed man is comin' down the chimley and he is goin' to take ye away if ye aren't quiet."

      We fell asleep, and that was how the night passed by in my father's house years ago.

      FOOTNOTE:

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      [1] The evening of All Souls' Day.

CHAPTER II OLD CUSTOMS

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      "Put a green cross beneath the roof on the eve of good Saint Bride

      And you'll have luck within the house for long past Lammastide;

      Put a green cross above the door—'tis hard to keep it green,

      But 'twill bring good luck and happiness for long past Hallow E'en

      The green cross holds Saint Brigid's spell, and long the spell endures,

      And 'twill bring blessings on the head of you and all that's yours."

       —From The Song of Simple People.

      Once a year, on Saint Bride's Eve, my father came home from his day's work, carrying a load of green rushes on his shoulders. At the door he would stand for a moment with his feet on the threshold and say these words:

      "Saint Bride sends her blessings to all within. Give her welcome."

      Inside my mother would answer, "Welcome she is," and at these words my father would loosen the shoulder-knot and throw his burden on the floor. Then he made crosses from the rushes, wonderful crosses they were. It was said that my father was the best at that kind of work in all the countryside. When made, they were placed in various parts of the house and farm. They were hung up in our home, over the lintel of the door, the picture of the Holy Family, the beds, the potato pile and the fireplace. One was placed over the spring well, one in the pig-sty, and one over the roof-tree of the byre. By doing this the blessing of Saint Bride remained in the house for the whole of the following year. I liked to watch my father plaiting the crosses, but I could never make one myself.

      When my mother churned milk she lifted the first butter that formed on the top of the cream and placed it against the wall outside the door. It was left there for the fairy folk when they roamed through the country at midnight. They would not harm those who gave them an offering in that manner, but the people who forgot them would have illness among their cattle through all the length of the year.

      If my father met a red-haired woman when he was going to the market he would turn home. To meet a red-haired woman on the high-road is very unlucky.

      It is a bad market where there are more women than men. "Two women and a goose make a market," is the saying among the Glenmornan folk.

      If my mother chanced to overturn the milk which she had drawn from the cow, she would say these words: "Our loss go with it. Them that it goes to need it more than we do." One day I asked her who were the people to whom it went. "The gentle folk," she told me. These were the fairies.

      You very seldom hear persons called by their surname in Glenmornan. Every second person you meet there is either a Boyle or an O'Donnell. You want to ask a question about Hugh O'Donnell. "Is it Patrick's Hugh or Mickey's Hugh or Sean's Hugh?" you will be asked. So too in the Glen you never say Mrs. when speaking of a married woman. It is just "Farley's Brigid" or "Patrick's Norah" or "Cormac's Ellen," as the case may be. There was one woman in Glenmornan who had a little boy of about my age, and she seldom spoke to anybody on the road to chapel or market. Everyone seemed to avoid her, and the old people called her "that woman," and they often spoke about her doings. She had never a man of her own, they said. Of course I didn't understand these things, but I knew there was a great difference in being called somebody's Mary or Norah instead of "that woman."

      On St. Stephen's Day the Glenmornan boys beat the bushes and killed as many wrens as they could lay their hands on. The wren is a bad bird, for it betrayed St. Stephen to the Jews when they wanted to put him to death. The saint hid in a clump of bushes, but the wrens made such a chatter and clatter that the Jews, when passing, stopped to see what annoyed the birds, and found the saint hiding in the undergrowth. No wonder then that the Glenmornan people have a grudge against the wren!

      Kissing is almost unknown in the place where I was born and bred. Judas betrayed the Son of God with a kiss, which proves beyond a doubt that kissing is of the devil's making. It is no harm to kiss the dead in Glenmornan, for no one can do any harm to the dead.

      Once I got bitten by a dog. The animal snapped a piece of flesh from my leg and ate it when he got out of the way. When I came into my own house my father and mother were awfully frightened. If three hairs of the dog that bit me were not placed against the sore I would go mad before seven moons had faded. Oiney Dinchy, who owned the dog, would not give me three hairs because I was unfortunate enough to be stealing apples when the dog rushed at me. For all that it mattered to Oiney, I might go as mad as a March hare.