Newspaper Page Text
aked: "What had the poor little fel
low dpne that these big policemen are
The old fellow, taking his eyes out
of the newspaper, looked for a few
moments over his bone-rimmed
glasses at the ridiculous race, snorted
and replied: The little vagabond
pulled up a tree back here and man
slaughtered what policemen aren't
after him?" Then, snorting again, he
buried himself in his paper.
There is not in Ireland any char
acter more joking, nor yet bejoked,
than the jaunting car driver, the jar
vey. And with an eye-tipping time,
he is the most politic of men also.
Riding on -the long-car . that ran
around the coast from Sligo to bonny
Bundoran, I had the fortune once to
be entertained by a wonderful argu
ment upon whisky, its celestial and
its infernal qualities carried on be
tween a publican (saloonkeeper) who
sat on the storm side of the car and
a preacher who sat on the inland side.
Some one at length appealed to the
jarvey for his opinion on the question.
Leaning down toward the publican
who sat under him to the left, the
jarvey, said: "Whisky is all right."
Then looking ahead and flicking a fly
from the off-horse's ear continued to
the company generally, "In its right
place." And finally, leaning down to
ward the preacher on his right, con
cluded, "And hell's the place for it."
Profanity was the next subject
taken up by the preacher. The jarvey
had his own opinion upon this and
pronounced the heretical opinion
that "sometimes a rattlin' good cuss,
just rapped out while it's white hot,
may save ye slathers o' sin." The
preacher vigorously protested.
"And after all," replied the jarvey,
"wan qthe dandiest -cursers the wort'
ever knew was at the same time wan
o' the most notorious saints."
"Who do you refer to?" asked the
"Job," replied the jarvey. "I some- j
times wish I had his knack."
"That was a very different thing,"
the preacher protested.
"But then," the jarvey went on,
"small thanks to-him. He begun the
cursin' thrade early."
"Began it. early? What do you
mean, sir?" asked the preacher.
"Shocking early," said the jarvey.
"I wanst read an account of how Job
cursed the hour he was born! Gee up,
ye bastes," he said as he lightly fleck
ed his horses with the cracker of his
whip, at the same time turning the
tail of one of. his eyes in the direction
of an, indignant clergyman.
Because on anti-Irish Irishman, Sir
Boyle Roche, who a hundred years
ago helped to. sell his country to Eng
land, used to clown for English ap
plause by expressing himself in care
fully prepared bulls, the world came
to assume that a bull was always
Hibernian, no matter where it was
born. The fact is that, while Ireland's
neighbors are more prolific in the
"matter of bulls than is Ireland, the
truly Irish bull alone has breeding to
it. Exempli gratia, the bull of Tim
Healy. It was during a stormy debate
in the British, parliament, in the Boer
war time, when an indignant Scot,
answering the taunt of cowardice
flung at a Scotch regiment by an
Irish M. P., proclaimed that "under
the frieze coat of an Irishman there
never beat a braver heart than under
the kilt of a Hielandman." Then, to
the redoubled amusement of the
House, sat -down upon his silk hat,
crushing it like a paper bag. Tim
Healy, arising, solemnly congratu
lated the Scot upon the fortunate
fact that when he sat down on his
hat his head didn't happen to be in it.
It was not our jarvey (though it'
might well have been he) who, en
deavoring in his hurry to rush
street crossing, and having a big
Belfast policeman of extraordinary
large extremities throw back his
mare upon his haunches with the