room. Daly bore her reproaches with patience. Only when he had a few brother priests to dinner, did he eject the dogs from the Yet they were not wholly banished; from outside, with their fore-paws planted on the window-sill, they followed the festivities with wistful eyes. On these occasions the old priest was careful to sit with his back to the window and nobody was supposed to notice the onlookers from the window, even when Jerry, the first favourite, unable to control himself any longer, would emit a mournful and puzzled howl. . Far beyond the priest's house, and well into the turf country, was Tommy Murray's forge. Like Longfellow's smithy, it stood in the shade of a spreading chestnut. Tommy too, like the poet's smith, was a mighty man, with plenty of brawn and muscle; and no doubt his sparks flew up in the same jolly way that the Village Blacksmith's did. But here all likeness to that respectable farrier and his forge ended. For Tommy's forge was a ramshackle affair, with large lumps missing from the thatched roof, and tall grasses growing all over it, wherein the wrens and swallows made their nests and in and out of which they were constantly flitting. Even the wasps made themselves at home among Tommy's possessions, and one year they had a nest in the foundations of his old turf-rick. They used to crawl over his hands, and light on his face, without stinging him-to the wonder and delight of chance urchins. Nor had Tommy, to renew our comparison, any wife, or pretty daughter singing in the village choir. Indeed no girl would have even looked at him, unless he decided to mend his ways. Most of his earnings found their way into the till of the public-house at the cross-roads, and instead of taking his night's repose, like a respectable blacksmith, he used to stay up till shocking hours, carousing, and roaring patriotic songs, such as "Rise up, Willie Reilly," "The Risin' o' the Moon," and "Farewell Love, Farewell Love." This last-named ditty concerned Robert Emmet and ended: "I'll die for my country, Green Erin-and thee." At this line Tommy and all his audience felt ready to die for their country, which latter would have benefited more had they been willing to live a little more soberly instead. But this harmonious, though disreputable, blacksmith had a kindly soul and loved little children. To the gossoons and girshas, who came with a donkey or horse to be shod, he would give the few apples that grew on his solitary apple-tree, which they ate swinging their bare legs on his fence and watching him work. If he had no apples to give, he told them all about himself, which was just as delightful. He was, it appeared, by night the fairies coachman; hence all his good luck. Wasps did not sting him, nor did the horses kick, nor the sparks flying upwards burn his thatch-all because he was the fairies' coachman. "And there's me red tall hat," he would say, pointing at his drunken-looking chimney. "At twelve o'clock she turns, as you'd see if you were here." It was wonderful all the things Tommy learned from the fairies. Me and the Fairy Queen does have long chats," he told the children, "when I do be driving her about at night." She told him whether the blackberries would be plentiful this year or not; whether the cuckoo had come yet; where eels were to be caught, and birds' nests found. But sometimes the Fairy Queen was cross, and said that there was too much mitching going on in this parish, and too little slapping; and that she knew who went fishing with a pin and worm at Catechism-time on Sundays; and who used to be swimming in bog-holes showing off his webbed toe; and who was going to get prizes from the bishop when he came next; and it wouldn't be the people that stole Miss Farrelly's apples; and that she was thinking of going over to have a talk with Father Daly about it all. Thus did Tommy, who, alcohol apart, was a stern moralist, admonish his young friends, and he had the uncomfortable knack of remembering when sober what had passed under his notice when in a semi-intoxicated condition. The Miss Farrelly whom the blacksmith championed just now was an elderly girl, the dressmaker of the countryside. She lived with her mother, Mary McKeown, who following the Irish custom was known by her maiden name. Miss Farrelly was a timid, genteel-looking person in sedate black, while Mary McKeown was a voluble, sprightly little woman who wore a white frilled cap and a check apron. They were devoted to one another, and it was Mary's sole regret that her poor hands were too stiff and awkward with digging and hard work to help her daughter with the sewing. But her interest in it was none the less. The only drawback to Miss Farrelly's tailoring was that your clothes always came home reeking with the smell of turf. Even to this day, whenever I open out a parcel of new clothes I almost fancy I get a faint aroma of turf. But no matter. For us children the day you went to Miss Farrelly was a red-letter day. It meant no school, your best clothes and necessarily a fine day. Then, when you arrived, was there ever such a welcome given to customers, such exclamations of surprise at your growth, such admiration at your material, such royal entertainment after the fitting? Could Switzer's, pray, give hot currant cake, tea with goat's milk, and apples roasted in the greesha? Then to end it all Mary McKeown would sometimes yoke her little black ass in the cart and drive us home-" for fear of the dark," as she used to put it. Kind, timid Miss Farrelly-meekest of dressmakers-good luck to you wherever you are; and you, Mary McKeown, God rest your soul, for I heard long since that you lie in the churchyard sharing the clay with Rosy Claffey and Michael Mullen and Father Daly. Kindly neighbours, living and dead, God be with you all. EMILY DOWLING. TWO SEANACHIES* 'Tis the queerest trade we have, the two of us that go about, [The author of these lines, whose works, both in prose and verse, have been repeatedly the subject of praise in these pages, is accustomed to lecture on "The Land of Song" in various New England cities, accompanied by a young relative who illustrates the lecture by his singing. Ed. I. M.] Sure it is the wonder land, richer than the books it is, Faith and near the mountains and the sunny lakes and brooks it is, Like the olden seanachies, the pair of us belong. Far and broad our journeyin', up and down the land we go, To-day among the mountains and to-morrow by the sea, Pleasant are the roads with us, and to a welcome grand we go, Erin wins the stranger's heart whoever he may be. Erin's song will capture you, if you will but listen now, Rest awhile and I will tell the fame of Tara's Halls to them, them, Come, my lad, it's Ninety Eight and sing Boy." "The Croppy Long ago the foeman came and learned to love the ways of her, Irish more than Irish sure the Norman foe became, Yes, and here across the sea, the world is full of praise of her, The tear and smile within her eyes that always are the same. Not for gold or little fame, the two of us to go about, The wonder land of Erin and the memories it brings. MICHAEL EARLS, S.J. THE TWO TEMPLES T is only a few days since I left the blare and din of IT buzzing noise for ever in my ears, and now and then I stop and start at the slightest sound as if expecting to see some motor monster roll past me. Ah, loud, bellicose London! Yet for all that London is a city of silence. It is not a town nor a city in the old sense of words. It is rather a temple, a temple of silence and of worship. Of silence, for if you go there and speak to a fellow human being he is apt to look upon you with a certain amount of suspicion. It is not the place to go to chat with your brother man. You may pass thousands in the street in the course of an hour, but they march steadily by as if they were all engaged in the worship of some hidden power, as they truly are. You are not long there before the feeling creeps over you that you too must be silent and worship this something. You know how it feels to be in a great church when the organ peals out and fills the lofty space with its varying notes; it is no place for talk, but you sit still in silence and perhaps your mind passes to the contemplation of other things, sometimes noble, sometimes pagan-you are either allured to the worship of the All Pure, or else you allow your thoughts to remain behind among your false gods, the world with all its pasty pearls. So it is with London. There is a huge organ constantly bellowing as you pass along and you must keep very quiet, for you are in a temple, and your business in a temple is to worship-to worship something; and that is why London is silent. No, this is not the wild and diseased imagination of some wayward poet; these are cold, hard facts that must needs be looked square in the face. The facts can be looked in the face, often the facts are faces, very human faces too. Stand, for instance, at any of the big railway stations in London for a few minutes on any morning of the week and look at |