THE evening of the second Cailey turned out very wet; in spite of which, the children flocked in and squatted in front of the fire, turning their little bare, muddy toes up to the blaze, but ready at any moment to shift their position to one more ‘convaynient’ for hearing the promised story.

As it happened, old Mickey Donovan and Pat Holohan had, each, one to tell. In order to decide the question who was to begin, Smith took a penny out of his pocket and tossed it up. ‘Heads!’ cried Pat, and ‘heads’ it was; so he lost no time in taking possession of the chair reserved for the story-teller, and began.

‘ The st ory I have for yees is wan that I heerd when I was in the County Wexford ever so long ago. I won’t say it’s true, for bedad there is n’t a scrap av truth in it; but it’s a rale owld story for all that.

‘Oncest upon a time, an’ a very long time ago it is, too, — there was an owld woman, an’ no wan belongin’ to her only a boy called Larry, an’ he was little betther nor an idjit. Well, wan day in summer, nothin’ would sarve Larry but he must go out into the worrld an’ thry to arn a little money to get thim over the winter. His mother did n’t like to let him go, for fear he’d do some fool thing; but he was that set on it that at last she give her consint, an’ away goes Larry, quite plazed wid himself, an’ all his mother could say was that she hoped he’d larn some sinse out in the worrld.

‘Well, he walked on an’ on till he comes to a farmhouse. “ Maybe they ’d give me a job here,” thinks he to himself; so up he goes to the house, an’ the farmer’s wife comes out; but she said they had no call for a sarvint but that she’d let him shlape in th’ hayloft. An’ she give him a bit av supper and some bread an’ a sup av milk in the marnin’, an’ the next day away he starts agin on his thravels.

‘He walked on an’ on, till he was near bet out, and at last he comes to a hill, an’ on the side av th’ hill there was a big rock, and in the rock was a house an’ cow-sheds an’ a pigsty, an’ a lot av cocks an’ hens peckin’ about in front av th’ house, an’ an owld woman lanin’ on th’ half-doore lookin’ at him. An’ ses she, “ What do you want, dacent boy? ” ses she.

‘“Do ye want a sarvint boy, ma’am?” axes Larry. “Sure, I’d be contint wid any wages you’d give me, an’ I’d sarve ye well,” ses he.

‘Well, she tuk him to mind the cows an’ the pigs an’ a goat or two that she had, an’ do anny odd jobs she’d set him; an’ at th’ end av the half-year she’d give him good wages.

‘ When th’ end av the half-year come, “ Larry,” ses the Misthress, “would ye like to go home an’ see how yer mother’s gettin’ on?”

‘“I’d like it well,” ses he. “An’what wages will ye be afther givin’ me? ”

“‘You’re not such a fool afther all, Larry,” ses the Misthress; so she cot a hen an’ set her on the table. “Whatever ye do,” ses the Misthress, “don’t ax th’ hen to do annything till ye get home; an’ as soon as you’re home, set her an the table an’ throw a few grains av oats forninst her, an’ ye’ll see wondhers.”

‘Well, Larry takes th’ hen under his arrm, an’ away wid him for home; but as he was passin’ the farmhouse, he thought he’d ax would they give him another night’s lodgin’. They brought him in, an’ axed a power av questions — where he was an’ what wages he got; an’ when they saw th’ hen, they laughed an’ said was n’t he the fool to sarve half a year for nothin’ but an owld hen; an’ they had him tormentid till he set th’ hen on the table an’ throwed a few grains av oats he brought wid him in front av it. An’ if th’ hen did n’t start layin’ gould eggs as quick as she could, till he stopped her for fear she’d lay them all before he got her home. He give all the eggs to the farmer’s wife, an’ she give him a grand supper, an’ made a bed for him in a spare room they had, an’ put th’ hen in a basket beside him the way she’d be safe; an’ in the marnin’ Larry starts off airly to show th’ hen to his mother.

‘ His mother was rale glad to see him; but when he took th’ hen out av the basket to show off her thricks, not an egg would she lay for him good or bad.

‘Well, Larry did n’t stay long at home, bekase no wan would believe a worrd about th’ hen layin’ gould eggs, an’ said it was romancin’ he was. So he sets off agin for th’ house in the rock, an’ on his way he stopped agin at the farmhouse an’ tould them there that the hen did n’t lay wan egg afther him bringin’ her home. The farmer’s wife, an’ the whole lot of thim, had him pershwaded that it was only dhramin’ he was, an’ that th’ hen never laid a gould egg at all; it was only a common little hen that they was wondherin’ he’d be bothered takin’ home wid him at all.

‘ When he got to th’ house in the rock, the owld woman was quite glad to see him an’ engaged him for another halfyear; but, whan he tould her about th’ hen, all she said was, “Do what you’re tould next time; I’m afraid, me poor Larry, that ye did n’t larn sinse yet, nor never will,” ses she. “Sure th’ hen ye tuk home is n’t the wan I give ye at all.”

‘But he could n’t be pershwaded that the people that give him such good tratement would do such a mane thrick an him.

‘“Never mind, Larry,” ses she, “mind yerself betther the next time ye goes home, an’ don’t let thim be makin’ a fool av you agin.”

‘Well, things went on just the same. Larry minded the cows an’ all the bastes well, an’ give satisfaction to the Misthress till the end av th’ half-year; an’ then she ses, “Would n’t ye like to go home an’ see how yer mother is gettin’ on, Larry?”

‘An’ he said he’d like it well. So, for his wages, she give him a tablecloth, an’, ses she, “Mind ye don’t show this to annywan till ye gets home, an ’then spread it on the table in front av your mother, an’ ye’ll see wondhers.”

‘Well, Larry went on his way, an’ he gets a night’s lodgin’ at the farmhouse; but when they axed him what wages he got, he would n’t tell them wan word.

‘ “ Maybe ye dremt it,” ses wan of the boys; an’ Larry was that mad that he tuk the tablecloth from where he had it rowled round him for fear av annywan seein’ it. An’ then they laughs more till they had him in a proper rage, an’ he puts it on the table, and ses: “Tablecloth, do yer duty”; an’ immajetly the tablecloth was covered with the grandest gould plates an’ dishes an knives an’ forks, an’ the best av good things to ate, an’ bottles av wine an’ whiskey; an’ they had the grandest feast ever ye seen. Larry was that plazed that he give all the gould plates an’ iverything else to the Misthress in payment for his night’s lodgin’; an’ if they did n ’t make a fuss over him, it’s a pity!

‘ Well, he shlep’ well that night with the tablecloth that the woman rowled up for him undher his head for a piller; an’ the next marnin’ off wid him agin for home.

But when he spread the cloth on the table, sorra the thing it wud do for him; an’ his mother an’ the neighbors said he was a bigger fool nor ever; an’ that annoyed him so much that away wid him the next marnin’ to his Misthress in th’ house in the rock.

‘He stopped agin at the farmhouse; an’ did n’t they all laugh when he began to talk about the wondherful tablecloth an’ the gould dishes an’ all; an’ they said he was a terror to dhrame, for he had nothin’ but a common tablecloth wrapped round him to keep him warrm. They give him his supper an’ a night’s lodgin’, but he was away as soon as it was light the next marnin’, bekase they had him annoyed laughin’ at his dhrames.

‘When he got back to th’ house in the rock, the Misthress was rale vexed wid him. “ Ye ’ll never larn sense, Larry,” ses she, “an’ ye can’t stand a joke, but must be showin’ off to make the people think ye cliverer nor ye are. Go back,” ses she, “an’ take this stick wid ye; an’ when they axes ye at th’ farm what ye brought for wages this time, just you take out the stick an’ say: ‘Stick, stick, do yer duty!’ an’ then ye’ll see what’ll happen.”

‘Well, he did n’t delay, but away he starts back for the farrm; an’ when they wants to know what brought him back so soon, he had the sinse to wait till he got a bit to ate, an’ then he takes out the stick, an’ ses he: “Stick, slick do yer duty! ” Wid that, the stick lep out av his hand an’ commenced to bate every wan av thim. Was n’t there the shoutin’ an’ bawlin’ an’ tellin’ Larry to make it stop leatherin’ them!

‘“Not till I gets back me hen,” ses Larry; an’ the stick playin’ on their shouldhers like mad.

‘ “Here she is Larry! ” ses the farmer’s wife. “Won’t ye make the stick stop now? ”

“‘I thought it was only a dhrame,” ses Larry, “but I must get back my tablecloth before tellin’ the stick to stop batin’ yees.”

‘“Here it is, Larry!” ses th’ oldest daughter, runnin’ in wid it in her hand.

“‘I thought it was only a dhrame,” ses Larry; “ but now that I’ve got back my hen an’ my tablecloth, the stick may stop.”

‘Well, Larry would n’t shlape in the house that night for fear they’d take thim all off him agin; but he shlep’ in th’ barrn wid the hen in a basket beside him, an’ the tablecloth rowled up under his head for a piller; an’ he kep’ a tight howlt av the stick. But nobody interfared wid him; they was all too sore afther the batin’ they got; an’ away wid him home to his mother in the marnin’.

‘Well, to make a long story short, th’ hen laid so many gould eggs, an’ the tablecloth pervided thim with more food than they could ate, an’ it was n’t long before Larry an’ his mother got rich. The first thing they done was to buy a nate pony an’ trap an’ drive to th’ house in the rock, to thank the Misthress for all she done for Larry. But when they got there, there was no house at all, only th’ hill an’ the rock, but not a sign av annything else could they see! ’

‘An’ what happened Larry an’ his mother? ” inquired Patsey with interest.

‘Troth, I d’know,’ said his father. ‘There was never a worrd more about thim in the story annyhow.’