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Penelope's Irish Experiences-Part21_Kate Douglas Wiggin(1856-1923)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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with little presents for blind Timsy, 'dark since he were three

years old,' and for lame Dan, or the 'Bocca,' as he is called in



Lisdara. Mida was named for the virgin saint of Killeedy in

Limerick.* "And it's she that's good enough to bear a saint's name,



glory be to God!" exclaims the old mother returning Mida's

photograph to a hole in the wall where the pig cannot possibly



molest it.

* Saint Mide, the Brigit of Munster.



At the far end of the row lives 'Omadhaun Pat.' He is a 'little

sthrange,' you understand; not because he was born with too small a



share of wit, but because he fell asleep one evening when he was

lying on the grass up by the old fort, and--'well, he was niver the



same thing since.' There are places in Ireland, you must know,

where if you lie down upon the green earth and sink into untimely



slumber, you will 'wake silly'; or, for that matter, although it is

doubtless a risk, you may escape the fate of waking silly, and wake



a poet! Carolan fell asleep upon a faery rath, and it was the

faeries who filled his ears with music, so that he was haunted by



the tunes ever afterward; and perhaps all poets, whether they are

conscious of it or not, fall asleep on faery raths before they write



sweet songs.

Little Omadhaun Pat is pale, hollow-eyed, and thin; but that, his



mother says, is 'because he is over-studyin' for his confirmation.'

The great day is many weeks away, but to me it seems likely that,



when the examination comes, Pat will be where he will know more than

the priests!



Next door lives old Biddy Tuke. She is too aged to work, and she

sits in her doorway, always a pleasant figure in her short woollen



petticoat, her little shawl, and her neat white cap. She has

pitaties for food, with stirabout of Indian meal once a day (oatmeal



is too dear), tea occasionally when there is sixpence left from the

rent, and she has more than once tasted bacon in her eighty years of



life; more than once, she tells me proudly, for it's she that's had

the good sons to help her a bit now and then,--four to carry her and



one to walk after, which is the Irish notion of an ideal family.

"It's no chuckens I do be havin' now, ma'am," she says, "but it's a



darlin' flock I had ten year ago, whin Dinnis was harvestin' in

Scotland! Sure it was two-and-twinty chuckens I had on the floore



wid meself that year, ma'am."

"Oh, it's a conthrary world, that's a mortial fact!" as Phelim



O'Rourke is wont to say when his cough is bad; and for my life I can

frame no better wish for ould Biddy Tuke and Omadhaun Pat, dark



Timsy and the Bocca, than that they might wake, one of these summer

mornings, in the harvest-field of the seventh heaven. That place is



reserved for the saints, and surely these unfortunates, acquainted

with grief like Another, might without difficulty find entrance



there.

I am not wise enough to say how much of all this squalor and



wretchedness and hunger is the fault of the people themselves, how

much of it belongs to circumstances and environment, how much is the



result of past errors of government, how much is race, how much is

religion. I only know that children should never be hungry, that



there are ignorant human creatures to be taught how to live; and if

it is a hard task, the sooner it is begun the better, both for



teachers and pupils. It is comparatively easy to form opinions and

devise remedies, when one knows the absolute truth of things; but it



is so difficult to find the truth here, or at least there are so

many and such different truths to weigh in the balance,--the



Protestant and the Roman Catholic truth, the landlord's and the

tenant's, the Nationalist's and the Unionist's truth! I am sadly



befogged, and so, pushing the vexing questions all aside, I take

dark Timsy, Bocca Lynch, and Omadhaun Pat up on the green hillside



near the ruined fort, to tell them stories, and teach them some of

the thousand things that happier, luckier children know.



This is an island of anomalies: the Irish peasants will puzzle you,

perplex you, disappoint you with their inconsistencies, but keep



from liking them if you can! There are a few cleaner and more

comfortable homes in Lisdara and Knockcool than when we came, and



Benella has been invaluable, although her reforms, as might be

expected, are of an unusualcharacter, and with her the wheels of



progress never move silently, as they should, but always squeak.

With the two golden sovereigns given her to spend, she has bought



scissors, knives, hammers, boards, sewing materials, knitting

needles, and yarn,--everything to work with, and nothing to eat,






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