ONE
Father Tells a Story
BRIGID sat in the corner of the big kitchen, trying to put a patch in one of Liam's breeches. She had to help her mother as much as she could, for Mrs. O'Sullivan had her hands full with the washing and cleaning, and the feeding of the men folk, not forgetting the chickens and pigs and the cabbage patch. Father was out all the time in wind and weather; he did the rough work, the haying and the plowing, the fishing and the cutting of turf. There was little he could not do, from mending Mother s pots and pans and broken furniture to slaughtering pigs and playing the pipes. But he would leave odds and ends scattered about the place and Mother was forever tidying after him. Brigid sighed. She had no liking for needlework; she would rather have been a big boy like Michael, able to help his father shoot rabbits. "Ow!" she cried as the needle stuck in her thumb and the blood pearled up like a round, red jewel. Brigid sucked the sore spot and watched Mother, who was putting plates on the scrubbed deal table for tea. It would soon be time for Father to come home, and then she could stop sewing.

The black kettle, hung on the chain over the fire, sang softly as Mother moved about, cutting the bread and putting scant butter on each slice. Then she kneaded something in a bowl and flattened it out on the table, fashioning nice round slabs.

"Oh, is it potato cakes you're making, Mother?" cried Brigid, sitting straight with sudden interest.

Mother smiled. "It is so bad a day, there was need for something to fill ye all," she said.

Indeed it was bad weather. The rain had been beating against the windowpanes all day long, and dark clouds chased over the mountain tops.

Mother put the cakes into a skillet and crouched in front of the fire, turning them quickly with a fork. A A delicious smell of fried butter filled the kitchen. Suddenly Mother stopped and turned around.

"I haven't heard the twins this long time," she said. "Do you know where they are?"

Brigid gladly put down the breeches and jumped up. "They're sure to be out in the rain," she said. "Shall I fetch them in?"

"Do so. Francie's so delicate he might catch his death of cold."

Brigid threw a shawl over her head and slipped out of the back door. She looked all over the yard, the mud squeezing between her bare toes, and called: "Francie! Liam!" but there was no answer. The chickens left their shelter and ran to her, hoping with greedy little eyes that she would throw them some food. But she was intent on finding the boys and called again, cupping her hands around her mouth: "Francie and Liam!"

The blue Kerry mountains, looming behind the green fields, threw the sound back at her; still there were no answering shouts from the twins. She went around the whitewashed cottage and peeped down the road. The cottage stood halfway up a hill; below she could see sev eral thatched roofs, with turf smoke curling from the chimneys. Through the trees there were silver glimpses of Bantry Bay. But it was not at the scenery Brigid gazed; there was something else to attract her attention. For, in the middle of the road, where horses' hoofs had pawed a groove which the rain was transforming into a river, two little boys stood ankle deep in the water, spattered with mud from grimy legs to sopping hair. They were scooping up the dirt with some old battered cans, and they hailed her gladly.

"Come and see, Biddy: Come and see!" cried Francie, dancing up and down in his excitement. "We've built a. bridge that'll keep the enemy out of the country entirely. Liam is the Sassenach and I'm a Sinn Feiner. When he comes with his men I'll knock them all into the river. ..." He brandished a stick.

Liam seemed less happy. "I'm no Sassenach," he kept repeating. "I'm a patriot." But Francie would not listen. "Come and see, Biddy," he repeated. "It's the grandest bridge ever you saw, and I've me fleet ready!" He pointed to an empty matchbox which was floating uncertainly in the puddle. But Brigid did not admire.

"Shame on ye!" she cried. "It's kilt ye'll be, with the damp and the dirt. Come along in now, or Mother'll be after ye!"
"You're always spoiling the game!" Francie grumbled indignantly. "It's a real woman ye are an' no mistake." Liam was more lenient. "Sure, she means no harm," he said protectively. "Come, Francie."

"Wait a minute." Francie rescued his matchbox, wiping it carefully and stuffing it into one of his pockets, the one without a hole. He threw one last rueful glance at his lovely bridge and, as he did so, saw something else which made him cry out.

Brigid and Liam turned around and repeated his cry. "Father! What's after happening to him?" It was a sorry pair they saw stumbling up the road, Michael supporting his father, who seemed scarcely able to walk.

Brigid flew to meet them, Liam at her heels, and Francie last, for the poor lad had a crippled foot. Michael hailed them from afar and tried to tell them what had happened, but there was no making it out until they had come closer. It appeared that Father had stumbled into a rabbit hole and twisted his ankle so that he could hardly walk. Michael had had some trouble getting him on his feet again and down the treacherous mountainside. Once on the road, it had been easier, although Father had been forced to rest ever so often and had suffered great pain. His ankle was badly swollen.

"The rabbits got meself this time," he said, with a faint smile; Michael had to do the rest of the explaining because Father was too busy stifling his groans. Brigid offered to support him on the other side and between her and Michael the poor man was brought safely home. The twins ran ahead to tell Mother, who came to meet Father with outstretched arms. Father was soon settled in a comfortable chair by the fire, his sprained foot on a stool. Mother bathed his ankle many times in hot water till he began to feel a little better and was able to eat some potato cakes and drink a cup of tea. What with the excitement and bustle Mother had paid no attention to the twins. Now she noticed their appearance as they stood eating their cakes with grimy hands, the gray mud slowly drying in patches on their faces and clothes.

"Mercy on us!" she said, staring. "Is there any dirt left outside at all, at all?"
After that she had no peace until the little boys were thoroughly scrubbed and cleaned-even their ears got a turn, much to Francie's disgust. Then the two were allowed to sit near the fire to dry and had to drink hot tea to keep colds away.

Mother washed up the tea things and settled herself in a chair with her knitting. Michael fetched Father's pipe and tobacco and took a stool to sit beside him, whilst Brigid and her homemade rag doll shared the bench in the chimney corner with the twins. They made a nice picture, as they sat around the flickering fire. Michael, the eldest boy, had a round freckled face, merry blue eyes, and a mop of red hair; Brigid was the pretty one with red- gold curls and an elfin face. The chubby twins looked like sweet blond cherubs, though they often acted otherwise.

"How are ye feeling now, Father?" Mrs. O'Sullivan asked anxiously, when she had finished counting stitches. "Better, much better," Father said. "But I'm afraid I won't be able to go to Kenmare tomorrow to bring Farmer Flynn the donkey he wanted to buy from me."

"Will he mind, Father?" Michael asked.

Father smiled sadly. "He may not, son-o, but I do. He may buy some other donkey, and then where will we be? Mother needs the money, doesn't she?"

'Mother sighed a little, but she smiled bravely and said: "No harm, we'll manage." By the way her needles clicked the children could tell she did mind. There was always a lot to be bought and never much money to do it with. Though Mother did turn around clothes till they looked like new and managed to use every scrap of food to great advantage, Michael and Brigid knew full well there was need of money always. Never had there been enough to buy Bridy a proper doll, and she did so long for one. For though the doll she had was fondly cherished, it had no face. One misses a face. Brigid wanted a doll with blue eyes and a red mouth full of pearly teeth. She had seen several in the shop windows when Father took her to town on market days, but she was afraid she would never have one. She was now nine years old; when you were twelve, you were too old to play with dolls. What a pity it would be, thought Brigid, if she had to grow up without ever having a real doll! She sighed a little as she thought of it. Grownup people led such dull lives. It was a wonder they got through the days. They were always mending and working and worrying. Of course, she would have to grow up sometime, but she'd like to enjoy herself first, and then, when the mysterious thing happened and she had to let down her skirts and put up her hair, she would at least have something to look back on. But she was afraid there never would be enough money, and so she gazed sadly at the faceless creature on her lap. There were other things that could not be had because they cost money. There was the cow Father had set his heart on, the Sunday hat Mother needed, and Michael wanted to go to a good school, for he was clever and the village teacher said he was getting too knowing for her. Money was needed most for poor Francie, who had a club-foot and could not walk well. The doctor who had seen him said there was a hospital in Dublin where he would be treated free of charge, but Dublin was a long way off, and it would cost so much to get him there.

"Couldn't I sell the donkey for you, Father?" Michael asked.

"It's too far, me lad," said his father, but he looked as though it was not such a bad idea.

"It's not so far. Many's the day I've walked further than that. I'm sure I can do it!"

"Oh, I wish you'd take me with you!" cried Brigid. "I'd love to go!"

Mother sat frowning; presently she looked up and said: "It may be a good plan, Father, to let both of them go. They're fine healthy children, God bless their hearts, and if one of them is in trouble the other can let us know. I'd sooner they went together. It's safer I think, and we're in sore need of the money."

Father stroked his chin, looking doubtful. "It's a deal of money to carry all that way, boy-o," he said. "Are ye able for it, Micky? Can I be trusting you to bring it to me and not to lose it foolishly on the road?"

"Oh, Father, you can surely! I was eleven last Easter."

"Faith and that's true," said Father with a little chuckle. "Your age frightens me." And he put his hand caressingly on the boy's head. "Maybe now you are able to do it, but will it be too much for Biddy?"

"Oh, no, Father!" cried Biddy. "We can be riding the donkey one way and walk back!"

"Well," said Father, pulling at his pipe, "it will ease my mind if you can sell the creature. He is eating all my grass and sorra a bit of work he does."

"Oh! Won't it be the grand journey, Michael?" cried Brigid excitedly. "Isn't it through the tunnel we go?" "We do, and we'll see the fine new bridge over Kenmare River ..."

The word "bridge" woke up Francie, who had been dozing on his bench. "It's meself had the fine bridge," he said with an angry glance at Brigid. "But women will never leave a man alone."

"What's that?" Father asked, and Brigid had to explain Francie's game.

"And I was to be a Sassenach!" Liam cried indignantly. "An O'Sullivan can't be a Sassenach, can he now, Father?"

"But you wouldn't be an O'Sullivan then," said Francie. "It's somebody else you'd be entirely. You wouldn't even know yourself "

Liam looked as though this was small consolation. He was ready to burst into tears, when the thought of his noble O'Sullivan blood restrained him.

"Will you pass the Eagles' Nest tomorrow, Michael?" Francie asked.

"We will then, we'll pass all the high mountain peaks and go right into Kerry; It will be a proud journey."

"Oh, Father," coaxed Liam. "Tell us the story of the Eagles' Nest again. I do want to hear it, and you said you were going to tell us a story if we were good. We have been powerful good, haven't we, Francie?"

"I have," said Francie, virtuously.

"Don't let them bother you, Father, if your foot hurts," Mother warned. "Just take it easy."

But Father said that what with the flickering of flames in the hearth and the rustling of rain on the roof he could not be in a better mood for telling a tale. He filled his pipe anew, and Brigid put some more turf on the grate. Let the winds howl outside; they were going to have a grand time, for Father was the best story-teller in County Cork. Father blew a big cloud of smoke up the chimney, looked at the firelit faces of his four children, and began:

"Ye know that this country was not always a free state. Years and years ago it was independent and was governed by a high king, called Ard-ri. Then the English came with their fine armor and hired soldiers, and the Irish had to put up a fight for seven hundred and fifty years to win their freedom."

"Seven hundred and fifty years!" cried Liam. "Sure an' weren't some of 'em tired fighting that long!"

"Och," said Francie. "Little ye know. Irishmen never get tired of fighting, do they now, Father?"

"They do then, son-o! The story I am going to tell happened when they were weary of it, indeed. The war of Munster had been going on for a long time, and the Irish warriors were half starved, for the crops had failed, and the people were crawling in ditches to eat the greens!"

"Raw?" asked Brigid.

"Raw, indeed," said Father. "They weren't particular. So when our ancestor, the great O'Sullivan who owned a castle on Bantry Bay, was driven out by the English, he took his cattle with him to have something to eat whilst he hid in the woods with his men and his wife and children.

"But och! The English were too wise for him; they pursued him and robbed all his cattle.

"Now the great O'Sullivan and his people seemed lost entirely, the way they were left in the deep dark woods with ne'er a bite to eat. The mistress fell to grieving and weeping over her children, but a great anger came upon our brave ancestor and he vowed to make the English pay.

He gathered his men around him and was for joining his friends who were fighting the English in a different part of Munster.

"It's only me wife and children I'm worried about," he said. "Who'll stay behind and take care of them?"

"There was an old bard in his household, a man of great wisdom and learning, famous for his poetry and wit. His name was Gorrane McEgan, and it was he who stepped forward and said: 'The years weigh upon me and it's not my feeble arm that will conquer the Sassenach. But I will take care of your lady and her babes if you will trust me with them."

"The great O'Sullivan thanked the old bard warmly and took leave of his wife, who clung to him in the way of a woman, crying that it must be a heart of stone he had, to be deserting her. Then he went off with his men to uphold the honor of Ireland. Poor Gorrane was left behind with his weeping mistress and children, and he thought at first that the load of the world was on him, for not a bite nor a sup did he have to give them. And all around the enemy lurked, ready to pounce on them if they moved out of the shelter of the woods. First they must have a home and a place where they could lie down to sleep without fear. So Gorrane used his knowledge of secret places and took the fugitives to a cave in the mountains, so well covered with greenery that ye couldn't find it if ye were a nail's breadth away from it. It was a roomy cave, and he lit a charcoal fire and made beds of fern to lie on. Then he took his gun and went out to look for food. Alas! Too many had been shoot- ing rabbits and squirrels and ne'er a one did he see. He was just going back sadly when he passed a steep rock and looking up he saw an eagles' nest on an outjutting crag. A big parent bird came swooping down with a fat rabbit in its claws and the next minute the young eagles had fallen on it with loud screeches and were tearing it to bits, the way ye could see the fur fly. Gorrane put his finger to his nose and his eyes lit up. 'It's a breakfast I'm seeing, a fine savory breakfast!" he said, and hastened back to the cave. He consoled his mistress for his coming empty handed."Wait now till the morning and then I'll bring ye food as fine as ever ye've tasted," he said.

"The rest of the day and part of the night he spent twisting a big strong rope of bogfir, and at the crack of dawn he wakened his son Patrick, a boy of fifteen years, and told him to come along. The astonished boy followed his father through the gloaming until they reached a mountain top whence they could look down on the ea- gles' nest. They were just in time to see one of the parent eagles soar off in search of food, leaving six screeching babies. "Now, son," said Gorrane. "It's down into that nest I'm wanting ye to go, and you're to tie the bills of those little monsters with bits of string so they can't eat." "But, Father darling," said Pat, wondering greatly. "If it's the birds ye want why can't we kill them and have done with them? There's little enough meat on them anyway. If that's the treat ye're after promising the mistress she must be in a bad way altogether!" "Hold your prate, laddie," said his father impatiently. "There's no time to be telling ye the this and that of it. Do as I bid ye and tie the beaks of these creatures so they can't open them at all, then jerk the rope and I'll haul ye up again."

"So it was done. Gorrane fastened the rope around his son's waist and lowered him carefully into the nest, frightening the little birds out of their wits. Pat then took hold of each fluttering eaglet and tied its bill firmly, after which he was safely drawn up. For an hour or so he and his father watched and waited. At last the parent birds returned, one with a rabbit and one with a grouse in its talons. They dropped their prey into the nest and flew off again. The poor little birds fell upon the feast but pecked vainly, for, sure enough, not the smallest piece could they bite off. Now Pat was let down again and grabbed the rabbit and the grouse, after which he freed the baby eagles' bills. Safely up again, he handed his prey to Gorrane, who cut off the precious meat and threw the skin and bones to the hungry birds, for wasn't it right that they should have something? Oh, the joy that was on the mistress and her children when they saw Gorrane and Pat return laden with food, and the gorgeous feast they made of it! But it's hard work the old eagles had from that day on, for they were obliged to feed a human family as well as their own. They must have wondered at the appetites of their youngsters.

"At last the Sassenach grew weary of the siege and left the neighborhood. Then O'Sullivan's wife and children could move to a place of greater plenty and comfort whilst the eaglets grew up and flew away. In this manner it was that our ancestors were saved and the mountain on which the birds nested is called to this day 'N ead an Iolair', or 'Eagle's Nest.'"

. When Father had finished, the children drew a deep breath for, though it was an old story, they were always thrilled to hear it.

"Were poets cleverer than other people in those days?" asked Michael.

"They were, son. They were the scholars, since the times of the old high kings, before even Saint Patrick came over. The chief poet came next to the king in rank, he was honored greatly and wore a mantle made of the finest bird feathers."

"Did Gorrane wear a mantle like that?"

"Ah, no. He lived much later, when the English were persecuting the bards because they kept the love of Ireland warm in the hearts of her people. When Queen Elizabeth came to rule our country she forbade the teaching of poetry, but the Irish bards couldn't be silenced. They gathered in hedges and ditches with their children and went on teaching history and Latin and the right use of the Gaelic, at the risk of their lives. It was rags they wore in those days.

"Like Paddy the Piper. Is he a bard, Father?" asked Brigid. Paddy the Piper, a traveling musician and the son of Mrs. O'Flaherty, who lived next door, was a great friend of the children.

Father smiled into the fire. "Maybe so," he said. "Did Gorrane's son become a poet too?" asked Brigid again.

"Very likely," Father agreed.

"I would be proud to have been that boy, Father. He was brave, wasn't he?" said Michael.

"Pooh!" grumbled Francie. "Is it him ye call brave an' his father holding him by a rope all the time? It's loose I would have gone into that nest!"

"You would not," said Liam. "Mother wouldn't have let ye!"

They all laughed, but Mother said it was bedtime and carried Francie into the other room, to his great disgust. Liam followed meekly. Though much stronger than his brother, his spirit was gentle. Francie, the delicate one, had the heart of a lion. Brigid and Michael sat up a little longer, chatting with their father. Then it was their turn, and, when they had said their prayers and were tucked under, Mother kissed them and drew the curtains. Outside the rain still fell in long silver streaks; the children heard its pitter-patter on the roof and fell asleep.