S

CHAPTER V

A SUNDAY at KnockaGaR

UNDAY was a blessed day of peace and rest at Knockagar, when care slipped like a

cloak from all shoulders, when all faces reflected the brightness of the world, or it may be shone with the inward happiness of joyful rest well earned. And, however it comes, as I look back to that time, through the years, I see every Sunday sunny and joy-giving; and I hear every little noise, as the cackling of one of Susie Gallagher's hens, or the barking of Matt McCourt's dog farther away, or clean-shaven, white-shirted Toal at his door, giving time of day to Dan the blacksmith at his own-I hear every one of these sounds come floating up the hill to Uncle Donal's with a reposeful ring that I caught not on any of the other six mornings of the week. When I called, too, from outside our door, or when our terrier barked, a gladdening echo came up from Knockagar. And I thought that surely Nature, too, was joyful, and making holiday. That was my Sunday morning feeling, under the influence of which I loved before it was yet time to join the throng setting off for Mass-to spend a happy hour loitering down the Black Braes and over the meadows, to take a peep at my nests and at my snares, and sit awhile to see the trout in the Dark Poolor to visit my den of sloes, or my den of hazel-nuts, or of wild cherries, at other timesor my bird-traps, at a later season still. Sometimes I took Billy Brogan with me; oftener I preferred going along with my lively imagination only.

On Sunday evening, when the shadows got long-and they always seemed much longer on that evening than on any other-my feelings were graver, with a pleasing gravity; and I could then all the more readily sit in John Burns's among the neighbors, and hear The Nation read and discussed; and steal glances at Ellen as she read aloud.

I do not know what first inspired me with such regard for Ellen. But for many years it was a great pleasure to me to drop into John's and receive the tribute of her beaming smile; seeing her either go about her household duties, humming to herself the while; or seated on one end of her father's board, basting the cut-outs for him, and singing "The Croppy Boy."

It was early, early in the Spring,
The birds did whistle and sweetly sing,
Changing their notes from tree to tree
And the song they sang was "Old Ireland free."

And it was surely no less a pleasure to go there on Sunday evenings, when, sitting on a chair upon the board, she gave to the crowd of neighbors assembled the great and hopeful news of the progress of Ireland's cause which The Nation brought to them weekly. In reward for her service she always got a handsome Christmas box, as well as many little remembrances at other special times, from the half-dozen or so who, clubbing together, were enabled to pay sixpence per week for their copy and another sixpence to Conal McFaddien for travelling the seven miles to Donegal for it.

Even Billy Brogan, out of his hard-earned few pence gave a half-penny a week to The Nation club; and was one of the most constant attenders at the Sunday evening gathering in John's, and one of the most eager listeners. Billy did not comment much, he left that to those of bigger calibre-to John, to Toal, to Corney, to Owen a-Slaivin even, and the Widow's Pat. But when there was a ballad with a good swing, in the issue, then Billy got Ellen to re-read that to him a number of times, after she had finished reading the paper to all. I always seconded Billy in his demand upon Ellen. And Ellen, tired though she was in all probability, would gladly consent. And finally I would get the paper; whereupon Billy and myself would retire to a quiet corner, and go over and over it many times for ourselves.

When Billy came, he chose a seat wherefrom he could watch Ellen-just as I did. As she read, he was with chin resting on hand, and elbow on knee-gazing intently up into the reader's countenance. Billy and I were evidently two favorites with Ellen; for when we entered and we generally came together-she would drop the paper while she gladly greeted us, and not resume reading till we had got ourselves well and comfortably seated.

When the Master came in, though he was always very free and in joking humor with "fair Eleanour" as he addressed her, she did not make nearly so much ado. She smiled kindly on him, of course, and showed her appreciation of the facetious things he said; but she always looked a bit uncomfortable, I fancied, on these occasions, and resumed the reading without much delay.

As Billy and I walked home from John's on one Sunday night, Billy struck me as being-a strange thing for him-absent-minded. He sang snatches of "The Red-Haired Man's Wife" between silent intervals. Suddenly he said:

66

Dinny Friel!"

"Well, Billy?" I said.

"Aren't you a purty good han' at a letter?"

66

Purty fair, I think."

"Did ye ever write a love-letter?"

"No."

"Well, couldn't ye write a love-letter?"

" I don't know, Billy," I said.

"If a fella give in the sintiments to ye, couldn't ye put them down in good spellin', and all the rest of it?"

"I could spell them right, anyhow," I said. "I'm a good speller."

"Ye could spell them all in good English?" "All in good English."

"Could ye-did ye ever try yer han' at a piece of poetry?" Billy asked.

"I'm not able to make poetry, I'm afraid," I said.

"Just wan varse or two beginning something like:

"Ye Muses nine with me combine

an' so on? Why, if I had the larnin' of you I would write poetry by the Irish acre."

"It doesn't depend on the larnin', Billy; it's it's-Oh-”

"Ye mane to say it's a thing can't be helped or hindered, like Shusie Maguire's flat feet."

"But, ye know, John Burns is a good hand at the poetry, Billy. Why not try him?" "John? Ah, no, that 'ud niver do," Billy said, reflectively. And then he sang softly:

My poor heart's bethrayed.