“Indeed, then,” says Taig, “I’m every bit as lazy.”
“How can that be ?” says the Judge.
“Well,” says Taig, “if I was lying on the broad of my back in the middle of the floor and looking up at the rafters, and if soot drops were falling as thick as hailstones from the rafters into my open eyes, I would let them drop there for the length of the lee-long day sooner than take the bother of closing the eyes.”
“Well,” says the Judge, “that’s very wonderful entirely, and” says he, “I’m in as great a quandary as before, for I see you are the three laziest men that ever were known since the world began, and which of you is the laziest it certainly beats me to say. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” says the Judge, “I’ll give the field to the oldest man of you.”
“Then,” says Conal, “it’s me gets the field.”
“How is that ?” says the Judge; “how old are you ?”
“Well, I’m that old,” says Conal, “that when I was twenty-one years of age I got a shipload of awls and never lost nor broke one of them, and I wore out the last of them yesterday mending my shoes.”
“Well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “you’re surely an old man, and I doubt very much that Donal and Taig can catch up to you.”
“Can’t I?” says Donal; “take care of that.”
“Why,” said the Judge, “how old are you ?”
“When I was twenty-one years of age,” says Donal, “I got a shipload of needles, and yesterday I wore out the last of them mending my clothes.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he “you’re two very, very old men, to be sure, and I’m afraid poor Taig is out of his chance anyhow.”
“Take care of that,” says Taig.
“Why,” said the Judge, “how old are you, Taig ?”
Says Taig, “When I was twenty-one years of age I got a shipload of razors, and yesterday I had the last of them worn to a stump shaving myself.”
“Well,” says the Judge, says he, “I’ve often heard tell of old men,” he says, “but anything as old as what you three are never was known since Methusalem’s cat died. The like of your ages,” he says, “I never heard tell of, and which of you is the oldest, that surely beats me to decide, and I’m in a quandary again. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” says the Judge, says he, “I’ll give the field to whichever of you minds [remembers] the longest.”
“Well, if that’s it,” says Conal, “it’s me gets the field, for I mind the time when if a man tramped on a cat he usen’t to give it a kick to console it.”
“Well, well, well,”says the Judge, “that must be a long mind entirely; and I’m afraid, Conal, you have the field.”
“Not so quick,” says Donal, says he, “for I mind the time when a woman wouldn’t speak an ill word of her best friend.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, “your memory, Donal, must certainly be a very wonderful one, if you can mind that time. Taig,” says the Judge, says he, “I’m afraid your memory can’t compare with Conal’s and Donal’s.”
“Can’t it,” says Taig, says he. “Take care of that, for I mind the time when you wouldn’t find nine liars in a crowd of ten men.”
“Oh, Oh, Oh!” says theJudge, says he, “that memory of yours, Taig, must be a wonderful one.” Says he “Such memories as you three men have were never known before, and which of you has the greatest memory it beats me to say. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do now,” says he; “I’ll give the field to whichever of you has the keenest sight.”
“Then,” says Conal, says he, “it’s me gets the field; because,” says he, “if there was a fly perched on the top of yon mountain, ten miles away, I could tell you every time he blinked.”
“You have wonderful sight, Conal,” says the Judge, says he, “and I’m afraid you’ve got the field.”
“Take care,” says Donal, says he, “but I’ve got as good. For I could tell you whether it was a mote in his eye that made him blink or not.”
“Ah, ha, ha!” says the Judge, says he, “this is wonderful sight surely. Taig,” says he, “I pity you, for you have no chance for the field now.”
“Have I not?” says Taig. “I could tell you from here whether that fly was in good health or not by counting his heart beats.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “I’m in as great a quandary as ever. You are three of the most wonderful men that ever I met, and no mistake. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” says he; “I’ll give the field to the supplest man of you.”
“Thank you,” says Conal. “Then the field is mine.”
“Why so?” says the Judge.
“Because,” says Conal, says he, “if you filled that field with hares, and put a dog in the middle of them, and then tied one of my legs up my back, I would not let one of the hares get out.”
“Then, Conal,” says the Judge, says he, “I think the field is yours.”
“By the leave of your judgeship, not yet,” says Donal.
“Why, Donal,” says the Judge, says he, “surely you are not as supple as that?”
“Am I not ?” says Donal. “Do you see that old castle over there without door, or window, or roof in it, and the wind blowing in and out through it like an iron gate ?”
“I do,” says the Judge. “What about that?”
“Well,” says Donal, says he, “if on the stormiest day of the year you had that castle filled with feathers, I would not let a feather be lost, or go ten yards from the castle until I had caught and put it in again.”
“Well, surely,” says the Judge, says he, “you are a supple man, Donal, and no mistake. Taig,” says he, “there’s no chance for you now.”
“Don’t be too sure,” says Taig, says he.
“Why,” says the Judge, “you couldn’t surely do anything to equal these things, Taig?”
Says Taig, says he: “I can shoe the swiftest race-horse in the land when he is galloping at his topmost speed, by driving a nail every time he lifts his foot.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “surely you are the three most wonderful men that ever I did meet. The likes of you never was known before, and I suppose the likes of you will never be on the earth again. There is only one other trial,” says he, “and if this doesn’t decide, I’ll have to give it up. I’ll give the field,” says he, “to the cleverest man amongst you.”
“Then,” says Conal, says he, “you may as well give it to me at once.”
“Why? Are you that clever, Conal?” says the Judge, says he.
“I am that clever,” says Conal, “I am that clever, that I would make a skin-fit suit of clothes for a man without any more measurement than to tell me the color of his hair.”
“Then, boys,” says the Judge, says he, “I think the case is decided.”
“Not so quick, my friend,” says Donal, “not so quick.”
“Why, Donal,” says the Judge, says he, “you are surely not cleverer than that?”
“Am I not?” says Donal.
“Why,” says the Judge, says he, “what can you do, Donal?”
“Why,” says Donal, says he, “I would make a skin-fit suit for a man and give me no more measurement than let me hear him cough.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “the cleverness of you two boys beats all I ever heard of. Taig,” says he, “poor Taig, whatever chance either of these two may have for the field, I’m very, very sorry for you, for you have no chance.”
“Don’t be so very sure of that,” says Taig, says he.
“Why,” says the Judge, says he, “surely, Taig, you can’t be as clever as either of them. How clever are you, Taig?”
“Well,” says Taig, says he, “if I was a judge, and too stupid to decide a case that came up before me, I’d be that clever that I’d look wise and give some decision.”
“Taig,” says the Judge, says he, “I’ve gone into this case and deliberated upon it, and by all the laws of right and justice, I find and decide that you get the field.”
Manis the Miller
THERE was a man from the mountain, named Donal, once married the daughter of a stingy old couple who lived on the lowlands. He used to stay and work on his own wee patch of land all the week round, till it came to Saturday evening, and on Saturday evening he went to his wife’s father’s to spend Sunday with him.
Coming and going he always passed the mill of Manis, the miller, and Manis, who used to be watching him passing, always noticed, and thought it strange, that while he jumped the mill-race going to his wife’s father’s on a Saturday evening, he had always to wade through it coming back. And at last he stopped Donal one Monday morning, and asked him the meaning of it.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” says Donal, says he. “It’s this: My old father-in-law is such a very small eater, that he says grace and blesses himself when I’ve only got a few pieces out of my meals; so I’m always weak coming back on Monday morning.”
Manis, he thought over this to himself for a whuile, and then says he: “Would you mind letting me go with you next Saturday evening? If you do, I promise you that you’ll leap the mill-race coming back.”
“I’ll be glad to have you,” says Donal.
“Very well and good. When Saturday evening came, Manis joined Donal, and off they both trudged to Donal’s father-in-law’s.”
The old man was not too well pleased at seeing Donal bringing a fresh hand, but Manis, he didn’t pretend to see this, but made himself as welcome as the flowers in May. And when supper was laid down on Saturday night, Manis gave Donal the nudge, and both of them began to tie their shoes as if they had got loose, and they tied and tied away at their shoes, till the old man had eaten a couple of minutes, and then said grace and finished and got up from the table, thinking they wouldn’t have the ill-manners to sit down after the meal was over.
But down to the table my brave Manis and Donal sat, and ate their hearty skinful. And when the old fellow saw this, he was gruff and grumpy enough, and it was little they could get out of him between that and bedtime.
But Manis kept a lively chat going, and told good stories, that passed away the night; and when bedtime came and they offered Manis a bed in the room, Manis said no, that there was no place he could sleep only one, and that was along the fireside.
The old man and the old woman both objected to this, and said they couldn’t think of allowing a stranger to sleep there; but all they could say or do wasn’t any use, and Manis said he couldn’t and wouldn’t sleep in any other place, and insisted on lying down there, and lie down there he did in spite of them all, and they all went off to their beds.
But though Manis lay down, he was very careful not to let himself go to sleep; and when he was near about two hours lying he hears the room door open easy, and the old woman puts her head out and listens, and Manis he snored as if he hadn’t slept for ten days and ten nights before.
When the old woman heard this, she came on up the floor and looked at him, and saw him like as if he was dead asleep. Then she hastened to put a pot of water on the fire, and began to make a pot of stir-about for herself and the old man, for this was the way, as Manis had well suspected, that they used to cheat Donal.
But just in the middle of the cooking of the pot of stir-about, doesn’t Manis roll over and pretend to waken up? Up he sits, and rubs his eyes, and looks about him, and looks at the woman and at the pot on the fire.
“Ah,” says he, “is it here ye are, or is it mornin’ with ye?”
“Well, no,” says she, “it isn’t mornin’, but we have a cow that’s not well, and I had to put a mash on the fire here for her. I’m sorry I wakened ye.”
“O, no, no!” says Manis, says he, “you haven’t wakened me at all. It’s this sore ankle I have here,” says he, rubbing his ankle. “I’ve a very, very sore ankle,” says he, “and it troubles me sometimes at night,” he says, “and no matter how sound asleep I may be, it wakens me up, and I’ve got to sit up until I cure it.” Says he: “There’s nothin’ cures it but soot -- till I rub plenty of soot out of the chimney to it.”
And Manis takes hold of the tongs, and he begins pulling the soot down out of the chimney from above the pot, and for every one piece that fell on the fire, there were five pieces that fell into the pot. And when Manis thought he had the posset well enough spiced with the soot, he raised up a little of the soot from the fire and rubbed his ankle with it.
“And now,” says he, “that’s all right, and I’ll sleep sound and not waken again till mornin’.” And he stretched himself out again, and began to snore.
The old woman was pretty well vexed that she had had her night’s work spoiled, and she went up to the room to the old man and told him what had happened to the stir-about. He got into a bad rage entirely, and asked her was Manis asleep again, and she said he was. Then he ordered her to go down and make an oat scowder [a hastily baked oat-cake] and put it on the ashes for him.
She went down, and got the oatmeal, and made a good scowder, and set it on the ashes, and then sat by it for the short while it would be doing.
But she hadn’t it many minutes on the ashes when Manis let a cry out of him, as if it was in his sleep, and up he jumps and rubs his eyes and looks about him; and when he saw her, he said: “Och! is it here ye are? And I’m glad ye are,” says he; “because I’ve a great trouble on me mind, that’s lying a load over me heart and wouldn’t let me sleep, and I want to relieve me mind to ye,” says Manis; “an’ then I’ll sleep hearty and sound all the night after. I’ll tell you the story,” says he.
So he catches hold of the tongs in his two hands, and as he told the story he would stir them about through the ashes.
Says he, “I want to tell you that my father afore he died was a very rich man and owned no end of land. He had three sons, my self and Teddy and Tom; and the three of us were three good, hard workers. I always liked Teddy and Tom; but howewer it came out, Tom and Teddy hated me, and they never lost a chance of trying to damage me with my father and turn him against me. He sent Teddy and Tom to school and gave them a grand education, but he only gave me the spade in my fist and sent me out to the fields. And when Teddy and Tom came back from school, they were two gentlemen, and use to ride their horses and hunt with their hounds; and me they always made look after the horses and groom them and saddle them and bridle them, and be there in the yard to meet them when they would come in from their riding, and take charge of their horses, give them a rubbing down, and stable them for them.”
“In my own mind, I use to think that this wasn’t exactly fair or brotherly treatment: but I said nothing, for I liked both Teddy and Tom. And prouder and prouder of them every day got my father, and more and more every day he disliked me, until at long and at last, when he came to die, he liked Teddy and Tom that much, and he liked poor Manis that little, that he drew up his will and divided his land into four parts and left it in this way”
“Now, supposin’,” says Manis, says he, digging the point of the tongs into the scowder, “supposin’,” says he, “there was my father’s farm. He cut it across this way,” says he, drawing the tongs through the scowder in one way. “Then he cut it across this way,” says he, drawing the tongs through the scowder in the other direction; “and that quarter,” says he, tossing away a quarter of the scowder with the point of the tongs, “he gave to my mother. And that quarter there,” says he, tossing off the other quarter into the dirt, “he gave to Teddy, and this quarter here,” says he, tossing the third quarter, “he gave to Tom. And this last quarter,” says Manis, says he, digging the point of the tongs right into the heart of the other quarter of the scowder, and lifting it up and looking at it, “this quarter,” says he, “he gave to the priest,” and he pitched it as far from him down the floor as he could. “And there,” says he, throwing down the tongs, “he left poor Manis what he is today -- a beggar and an outcast! That, ma’am,” says he, “is my story, and now that I’ve relieved my mind, I’ll sleep sound and well till morning.” And down he stretched himself by the fireside, and begins to snore again.