""Well," ses the hen, "I come of good stock myself. The members of my family always supplied eggs to the King of Spain, the Mayor of Boston, and the Royalty of England and America."
""Wisha," ses the pig, "what are a few eggs, even when they are fresh inself, compared to a fine ham, two pork chops, a soft crubeen, or a flitch of bacon, boiled down with plenty of cabbage, and set before a battalion of hungry policemen on a cold winter"s day?"
""Oh," ses the hen, "no one would think of eating bacon and cabbage all the time, while eggs are always in season. But "tisn"t quarreling about such a trifle that we should be, when we have no great grievance against ourselves, but against mankind in general."
""The inconsistency of mankind is disgusting, to say the very least of it," ses the pig. "Every one from the king to the beggar has a bad word to say for the pig. We stand for all that"s contemptible, loathsome and vile, and yet the most delicate and refined people will always call for ham and eggs, in the morning, in preference to anything else. And if one of those genteel young men who might have had my poor grandmother"s liver for supper, was to meet myself on the road, and he with a young lady by his side, and she as fond of ham and eggs as himself, neither of them would bid me the time of day, or ask how I might be, or say as much as go to Belgium, or anything at all, but make disparaging remarks about my idiosyncracies."
""And think of myself," ses the hen. "I that have laid more eggs than you could count in a lifetime, and I have reared five large families, besides. And the day I can"t lay any more, I"ll be killed by some caubogue of a churn boy, and sold to some landlady who boards tramps, navvies, and all kinds of traveling tinkers. I wouldn"t mind inself if I went to nourish and sustain some decent people, who could appreciate the tender parts of my const.i.tution. Or if I could be like my poor father, who was killed with a new razor, stuffed with bread and currants, roasted on a spit, and exhibited in a shop window before Christmas."
""Ah! we live in a thoughtless and heartless world!" ses the pig.
""I know it," ses the hen. "Only about one in every ten thousand has either the power or the privilege of thinking for themselves."
""Everything seems to go by contrary. Take the decent people,--the Jews, for instance. They have no respect for the members of my family, but they are consistent. They wouldn"t write their name, or my epitaph, on my back with a hot poker, and make fun of my table manners, and then go home and have pork for dinner and say "twas worth walking to America for," ses the pig.
""Nevertheless," ses the hen, "when I think of what yourself and myself does for mankind, and the poor return we get, I feel proud to know that we can be of service to those who don"t and can"t appreciate us."
""Yes, indeed, and so do I," ses the pig. "What would life be to most people without their ham and eggs every morning, and the newspaper thrown in. And a cigar never tastes sweeter than after a good feed of spare ribs and yellow turnips."
""Or even sausages," ses the hen.
""I object to sausages and salt meat in general, because it makes people cranky and disputatious," ses the pig.
""Of course," ses the hen, "there"s no doubt but we do a lot of good, though we have been neglected. And it makes my heart bleed, when I think of the stupidity of man and his perverted sense of honour. After all those years of preaching and reform, no poet has ever written an ode to a hen or a pig, and all the poets liked their ham and eggs. There was Shakespeare himself,--people thought he forgot nothing, or what he forgot wasn"t worth remembering, but where"s the mention of either hens or pigs in all his highly respected works?"
""Tis no wonder there is war in the world to-day," ses the pig.
""Indeed it is not, when married men will spend all their money on finery for their wives, so that they can look better than they really are, and elope with other women"s husbands. Sure, only for the motherly instinct that"s in myself, I would leave my family of ducklings and die by my own hand, but I don"t want one of them to be neglected and feel the pangs of adversity, like yourself and myself," ses the hen.
"""Tis instinct rather than reason that guides most people. If we were always to act reasonably, people would think we had no sense, at all. However, there"s a compensation in all things, and we can enjoy ourselves in our own old way. And while it is a great consolation to know that we can do a lot of good, it is a greater consolation still to know that we can do a lot of harm as well," ses the pig.
""Like myself, you share the same sentiments as all good and pious people. The satisfaction of doing harm is the only enjoyment some of us receive for doing good, when our kindness is not appreciated,"
ses the hen.
""When I think of all those who suffer from dyspepsia after eating my friends and relations, I ses to myself: "Well, things could be worse even for such as my humble self. You mightn"t have the satisfaction of knowing that there was such a thing as indigestion." And when I think of what people must pay for pork chops, in a restaurant after the theatre at night, and how they must suffer from cramps, pains in the stomach, and a bursting headache next morning, well then I feel as happy as a wife when she is abusing her fool of a husband for giving her too much of her own way," ses the pig.
""And when I consider the little nourishment there is in cold storage eggs, and the price the poor lodgers must pay their landladies for them, I feel like dancing a jig on a milestone. And whenever I hear of some one eating a bad egg, disguised by frying it hard in margarine, and seasoning it with salt and pepper, I takes a holiday for myself. Ptomaine poisoning is as good as cramps, or pains in the head, at any time," ses the hen.
""Of course, when we are really hungry, we don"t care what we eat. I have eaten pieces of my relatives and friends dozen of times, when they were mixed with my food, but to tell the truth it never gave me any trouble. And in many respects I am no better and no worse than those who don"t care how they make their living, so long as they have what they want," ses the pig.
"And then two farmers came on the scene, and one ses to the other, as he pointed to the pig with a stick: "How much do you want for the beast?" ses he.
""As much as he will fetch," ses the owner.
""One would think "twas a work of art you were trying to dispose of,"
ses the man with the stick. "I"ll give you the market price and not a ha"penny more."
""Very well," ses the owner, "I"m satisfied."
""And what do you want for that old hen?" ses the man with the stick.
""Oh," ses the owner, "she is no more use to me, and for that reason I must charge you ten or a hundred times her legitimate value. She is an antique. You can have her for ten shillings, and be under a compliment to me for my decency, besides."
""I"ll owe you the money," ses the man with the stick, "so that you won"t forget your generosity." And with that they walked away, and I jumped off the ditch and turned home," said Micus.
""Tis a queer world," said Padna.
"A queer world, surely!" said Micus.
THE WHITE HORSE OF BANBA
"Come in, come in, and make yourself at home; for the flowers of spring couldn"t be more heartily welcome," said Micus Pat to his friend Padna Dan, as he held the latch of his cottage door. And when Padna crossed the threshold, Micus turned from his place by the hearth and said: "Close the door, take off your topcoat, and pull the blinds, while I will heap logs and f.a.ggots on the fire, for "tis five feet of snow there may be on the ground before morning, I"m thinking. And who knows but the house itself may be covered up, and we may not be able to move from where we are for days and days, or a week inself."
"True for you," said Padna. "We never know what good luck or bad luck the morrow may have for any of us. Howsomever, "tisn"t grumbling we should be about anything, but take things as they come. The storm rages furiously without, and to-night, for all the wisest of us can tell, may be the very last night of the world. The end must come some time, and when the sun rises on the morrow, this earth of ours, with all its beauty and all its mystery, and all its splendour, may be reduced to particles of dust, that will find its way into the eyes of those who dwell on other spheres. If the gale continues, the world will be swirled from its course, and "twill surely strike some weighty satellite of the sun or moon with a mighty crash, and that will be the end of all joy and sorrow. Then the king will be no more than the beggar, and the beggar will be as much as the king."
"I will place the kettle on the hob," said Micus, "for "tis true courage we will want to put into our hearts with a good drop of poteen this blessed night. And a drop of poteen is a wonderful thing to drive away the melancholy thoughts that haunt and bother so many of us. We can fill gla.s.s after gla.s.s of steaming punch, until the jar in the cupboard is empty. For what is life to some but so many gla.s.ses of poteen, the best whiskey or brandy, or wine all the ways from France itself, and so many meals of food, a few good books to read, and maybe a congenial friend or two."
"Life is a rugged and a lonely road, but flowers always grow on the wayside," said Padna.
"And when you try to pluck a flower, "tis a thorn you will find in your hand, maybe," said Micus.
"That is so, indeed. But let us forget the pitfalls that await us at every turn, and while the wind blows let us fill our pipes and fill our gla.s.ses, and sing a merry song if we should feel like doing so, for there is no use looking for the Devil to bid him good-morrow until we will meet him. And the best thing to do when he appears in person, or in disguise, is to pa.s.s him by the same as if he was no relation of yours at all," said Padna.
And then Micus heaped dried f.a.ggots and logs on the glowing hearth, and as they crackled and blazed, red sparks flew up the chimney, and the shutters of the windows, and the latch of the door, and the loose tiles on the ridge, and the loose slates on the gable, shook and rattled, and trees were uprooted, and slates were blown from the roofs of houses and so was the golden thatch, and havoc was wrought in the city, the town, and the hamlet, on the mountain side, in the valley, and by the seash.o.r.e. And as Micus and Padna settled themselves comfortably in two armchairs, the white dog and the black cat drew closer to their feet, while a thrush in his large white cage made of twigs, and a linnet in his small green cage made of wires and beechwood, closed their eyes and buried their heads beneath their wings.
Flash after flash of lightning lit up the darkened countryside, and each peal of thunder was louder than its predecessor, and at times one thought that the whole artillery of h.e.l.l with the Devil in command had opened fire, and that the fury of the elements would send all to perdition. But Padna and Micus looked on unperturbed at the crackling f.a.ggots. And as the first gla.s.s of warm punch was raised on high, Micus up and said: "Here"s good luck to us all, the generous as well as the covetous, for "tis little any of us know why we are what we are, or why we do the things we do, and don"t want to do. And as we can"t always be decent, we might at least be charitable when we can."
"But alas! alas! we seldom think before we act, and usually act without thinking, and that"s why there are so many strange doings and happenings," said Padna. "Be all that as it may, neglect not your duty as my host to-night, and take charge of the decanter, and keep my gla.s.s well filled with punch, and my pipe well filled with tobacco, and I will tell you a story that may set your heart beating against your ribs, and your knees knocking together, and your hands may shake till the tumbler will fall from your fingers, and your teeth may rattle until the pipe will fall from your mouth."
"Tell it to me, for I"m filled with curiosity to hear a strange tale. And maybe "tis a story about some beautiful woman, or the Aurora Borealis, or some monster of the deep," said Micus.
"It isn"t either one or the other, but the story of a horse,"
said Padna.
"A horse, is it?"
"Aye, the White Horse of Banba," said Padna.
"And how came you to hear it?" said Micus.
"It was an old man of dignified bearing, tall and stately he was, with a long flowing beard, clear grey-blue eyes, nicely chiseled features, keen wit, and a soft easy tongue, who told me the story."
"And where did you meet him?" said Micus.