Herminie Templeton Kavanagh - Darby OGill and the Crocks of Gold: And Other Irish Tales

Darby OGill and the Crocks of Gold

And Other Irish Tales

Herminie Templeton Kavanagh

SOPHIA INSTITUTE PRESS
Manchester, New Hampshire

Darby OGill and the Crocks of Gold: And Other Irish Tales was originally published in 1926 by Jordan Publishing Company, Chicago, under the title The Ashes of Old Wishes and Other Darby OGill Tales. This 2003 edition by Sophia Institute Press does not include the tale Patrick of the Bells and contains illustrations and minor revisions to the original text.

Copyright 2003 Sophia Institute Press

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

Illustrations and cover design by Ted Schluenderfritz

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Sophia Institute Press
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1-800-888-9344
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kavanagh, Herminie Templeton.
Darby OGill and the good people / Herminie Templeton Kavanagh.
p. cm.

Summary: Six Irish tales about Darby OGill and his adventures with the little people, a leprechaun, and a banshee.

ISBN 1-928832-35-0 (alk. paper)
[1. Fairies Fiction. 2. Ireland Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.K1713 Dar 2002
[Fic] dc21

2002014400

02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Also by Herminie Templeton Kavanagh from Sophia Institute Press:

Darby OGill and the Good People

To my dear husband, Judge Marcus Kavanagh, who has dreamed those dreams with me and lightened with his courage and inspiration the weariness of my work, this book is dedicated.

Mrs. Marcus Kavanagh

Preface

T he hearty welcome accorded Darby OGill and the Good People kindness that still continues, I am grateful to say emboldens me to offer another volume of Irish folktales to the public. Only the garments these legends wear are my own; the stories themselves are as old, as deeply planted, and as real as the gray sentinel cliffs along the Antrim coast.

These tales are no ones and everyones. The wind whispers them through the lonesome hedges and along the white, winding roads; they creep out of the gray mists that float up from the regretful, unforgetting ocean; the curlews cry them to one another across the wide, mysterious bogs at dusk-fall. At evening turf fires, I have seen them shining in the wistful eyes of long-remembering old men. Through all the mystical, ancient byways they linger, half a dream, half a memory, so elusive that no two may hold them the same.

Herminie Templeton Kavanagh

Chapter One

The Ashes of Old Wishes

A ll day long, big flakes of soft, wet snow had flurried and scurried and melted about Darby OGills cottage, until, by twilight, the countryside was neither more nor less than a great white bog. Then, to make matters worse, as the night came on, that rapscallion of an east wind waked up, and came sweeping with a roar through the narrow lanes and over the desolate fields, gleefully buffeting and nipping every living thing in its way. It fairly tore the fur cap off Maurteen Cavanaughs head, and gaily tossed that precious relic into the running ditch; it shrieked mockingly as it lifted poor old Mrs. Maloneys red cloak and swirled that tattered robe over the good womans bewildered head, twisting her this way and that till she was so distracted, she had to go into Joey Hoolighans for a sip of hot tea and a soothering bit of fresh gossip. Then growing more uproarious, the blackguard gale, after swooping madly around and around Darby OGills cottage, leaped to the roof and perched itself on the very top of the chimney, where, for three mortal hours, it sat shouting down boisterous challenge to the discontented man who crouched moody and silent before his own smoky hearth.

Darby heard the challenge well enough, but wasted little heed. A shapeless worry darkened the lads mind. Ever since supper, when Bridget and the children went to bed the better to get an early start for midnight Christmas Mass Darby and Malachi, the yellow cat, sat opposite each other in the glow of the smoldering turf. Theres nothing can equal in its comfort the comfortableness of a contented cat.

Lately Darby had taken great satisfaction in talking to Malachi. The cat proved to be a splendid listener never contradicting any statement, however boastful, but receiving all his masters confidences with a blinking gravity that was as respectful as it was flattering.

This is Christmas Eve, Malachi. I suppose ye know that. Im going to tell ye a great saycrit. By all the tokens, I ought to be a happy man. Well, youll be surprised I am nt! Im far, far from it! Everything in the world is growing moldy. Nothin tastes as it used to taste. Have ye noticed the flavor of the petaties lately, Malachi, or the tang of the bacon? No, to be sure, how could ye? Darby discontentedly scratched his head with the stem of his pipe and heaved a deep sigh. Heigh ho! Oh, what petaties we used to get when I was a gossoon! The way Bridget could bile cabbage in the ould days would be a model for a quane, so it would. But, now well, we wont disparage her. Theres nothing I put into me mouth has the right smack to it. Theres something or other I want bad, Malachi, and whisht! he bent over and this is me saycrit: I dunno rightly what it is I want, but whatever it is, Ill never be rightly happy till I get it.

Darby had often claimed that Malachi, with a blink of his green eye, could tell the unspoken word in a mans mind. Sure, everyone knew how, at the first breath of a rise in Bridgets temper, the wise old lad would, with one nimble spring, land on the cottage roof, and there, safe from the broom, he would crouch, peering over the edge of the thatch till the storm went down. So now, visibly impressed with the great secret, Malachi turned his back to the fire and began thoughtfully stroking his left ear.

While the cat was thus engaged, the peaceful quiet of the hearth was rudely broken by a sudden shaking of the door and a rattling of the latch, as though nervous fingers were striving to lift it. Darby, in alarm, threw back his head to listen. Could it be a wraith? No! it was only the wind. Baffled in its attempt to open the door, the ruffian gale then began flinging white dabs of soft snow at the black window panes for all the world like a blackguard boy. At last, with an exultant shout, it leaped to the cottage roof again and, whoop! down the chimney it came.

Poof! bad cess to the smoke an bad luck to the wind, if they havent the two eyes stung out of me head. Id wind the clock and you and med go to bed this minute, so we would, Malachi, if I didnt know that Brian Connors, the King of the Fairies, would surely pay us a wisit the night. Malachis back stiffened immediately, and with quick, indignant switches of his tail, he swept the hearthstone where he sat.

Oh, I know ye dont like the Good People, me lad, and you may have yer raysons. But you must admit that the little man has never failed to bring us some token for Christmas since first I met him. Though, to tell the truth, he added, a sudden scowl furrowing his face, for a man who has the whole worruld in his pocket, the fairy gives oh, by the powers, Malachi! I came near forgetting to tell ye me dhrame. I dhramed last night I was picking up goold suverings till me back ached. So, maybe the kingll bring me some thraymendous present oh, millia murdher, me sights gone entirely this time. Conshumin to the minute longer Ill stay up phew! ugh! ugh! ugh!

The great puff of bitter pungent smoke that blinded the lads eyes also sent him off into a fit of coughing. He was still choking and gasping and sweeping the water from his swimming lids when, happening to look up, whom should he spy through the blue smoke, calmly sitting on his favorite stool on the opposite side of the hearth, but the little Master of the Fairies himself. As usual, the Kings gold crown was tilted rakishly to one side, his green velvet cloak was flung back from his shoulders, and he sat with one short, pipestem of a leg dangling carelessly over the other. Put into a scale, he might have weighed, crown and all, about as much as Malachi.