The Haunted Bell (Collier's)

SUPPOSE your honor, like all the rest of the world, has heard of the terrible night of the Big Wind, but I have my doubts whether your honor ever has been tould how that unnatural storm arose from a sartin wild thransaction betwixt Belzebub and a gran'father of me own. The fact is that Sattin on that memorable night, in rage and turpitation ag'in me laynial ansister let loose the iliments of rain and wind and tunder in a furious endayvor to disthroy the Irish nation

But so it was, and it's meself that'll be proud to relate the sarcumstance as we dhrive along.

Me gran'father, Jerry Murtaugh—the heavens be his bed!—was a carman be thrade, an' barrin' one unsignificant fault was as good a man as ever put feet into brogues. An' that same failing was no more nor less than a daycided parshality for a game of cyards; he'd gamble the coat off his back and—this is a part of me story—he's done it.

'Twas seldom that me gran'father ever lost a game, d'ye mind, for he and his thrusted comrade, Tim Maylowney, had betwixt themselves such a system of saycret signs and signals for playin' that the crook of a finger, the lift of an eyebrow, or the twist of a lip, had each its well-known maning; added to this the pair had such gr-reat skill in mixing an' shufflin' the cyards that a sthranger stood as little chanst ag'in the two as if he had been born blind. Howandever me gran'father, bein' a just man, med it a strict rule never to play for more than sixpence a game. He had a pious feeling that to chate for more than sixpence a game wouldn't be honest.

You'll agree that there was a taste of excuse for this great fondness for cyards, bekase a carter's thrade takes him into all kinds of distant places an' laves him many a lonely night to while away. Me gran'father often druve as far as the Killinturf hills and, in thim days, the hills were a good fufty miles from the Sleive-na-mon Mountains. So ye see be this what a great thraveler the poor man had to be.

But, notwithstandin' his daily timptaytions, me gran'father had vartues too many to count. He could lift with his bare hands a load that it'd take two common men to budge; while as for fighting—well, there was only one other man in the barony who could stan' ferninst him—his buzzum friend, Tim Maylowney.

Indade, I think there was only one mortial man on airth me gran'father was afeard of, an' that same one was me gran'mother—an' she no bigger than a wisp of hay as the sayin' is.

Now this same Tim Maylowney bein' likewise a carter, he an' me gran'father always sthrove to manage to take their thrips together. This sometimes med it mighty inconvanient for the parish, bekase, such prime favorites were the two at home in Ballinderg that a neighbor'd be very loathe to give his job of carryin' to one carman lest be so doin' he'd be dayprivin' the other. So, for that rayson, whin the bell for the chapel was to be carted from Carrickthor to Ballinderg, ye may well aymagine how sore vexed an' purplexed was the whole parish to daycide whether Tim Maylowney or me gran'father was to have the honor of the job.

The way Ballinderg came to have a bell at all at all was this a-way:

Father Murphy of the rich parish of Carrickthor had a beautiful thraymendous new bell given to him by Lord Killinberg; so what did Father Murphy do but do-nate his ould bell—an' a grand one it was—to his friend Father O' Leary of Ballinderg. (The two clargymen long ago were collations together at the same college in France.)

But whin they came to take the dayminsions of the bell it was found to be too large for the chapel tower. Howandever that throuble didn't last long, for the parish came together an' soon raised a belfry tower close beside the chapel itself.

Now, of course, aich of our two cronies wanted for himself the honor of carting the bell from Carrickthor. An' the only pay he'd ax or expect for carryin' the bell would be the credit it 'ud bring to himself and family. Some of the parish sided with me gran'father, others with Tim Maylowney, an' Father O'Leary was fairly at his wits' end to know which side to take. So what does the good man do but call a meeting at the chapel steps for Sunday afthernoon, that he might put the question to a vote—in that way the raysponsibility 'd be on the congregaytion, d'ye see?

Howandever, whin the time for the meeting was come, and all the people, men, women an' children, were gathered in the churchyard, me gran'father, with that wisdom which the most ray-putable people say has always run in our family, walked firmly up the chapel steps and stood just below the clargyman, where, afther wavin' his hand for attintion, he cried. “Let the bell be put on Tim Maylowney's cart,” he says, “an' let me own two foine ponies, Anthony an' Clayopathra, dhraw the cart,” sez he; “that'll make things ayquil, an' there will be no ha-ard feelin's.” Ah, then, wasn't he the saygacious man!

I needn't tell you that thim pathriotic worruds sint the multitude wild with dayloight and admayration. I'm tould that the cheerin' was heard be Father Nale himself in Ballinthubber. Through all the hurrayin' an' hurrooing me gran'father, solemn an' proud, stood planted on the steps, lookin' for all the worruld like the ould ancient hayro Hayjax dafyin' the weather

As Father O'Leary stood waitin' for the cheering to stop it was aisy to see that a good joke was stirrin' in his mind; for he kept chuckling to himself an' half explodin' with the laughter; he couldn't spake a worrud durin' a full minute, but waited with his hand pressed ag'in his mouth keepin' back the merriment.

Even the little childher knew be this that a raymarkable joke was to the fore; an' half the parish was in roars at the fun before the good man opened his lips. “Me childher,” says he, ketching his breath, “these two good neighbors, Jerry Murtaugh an' Tim Maylowney, are goin' two long days' journey to Carrickthor for us, an' two hard days' journey back ag'in, expectin' no more pay than my blessing an' your thanks”

“They are! they are!” roared the parish splittin' with laughter.

“But they're far mistaken,” the priest wint on.

“They are! they are!” ag'in shouted the whole churchyard.

“We can't give them money,” says his riverence. “but we'll pay them with something else which no fire can burn, no thafe can steal, an' no wather can drown, so long as the bell hangs in that tower.”

Be this time, as you may well aymagine, the crowd was swaying an' surgin' with excitement.

“He's goin' to give them the bell itself,” shouted long Pether McCarthy.

“No, no, no!” answered his riverence. “Nothin' of the kind,” says he. “We'll give thim for their pay”—“we'll give them,” says he, lookin' roguish at me gran'father—”the music of the bell.”

For five wild minutes one couldn't have heard the bell itself above the jolly uproar over this good joke. Every one was screeching and screamin' except me gran'father, who, loike all great thravelers, was not much given to fryvolity. So in this way the matther was daycided and then and there settied.

But, ochone mavrone, if the parish had rayalized what fright an' disthress was to folly in the wake of that same funny joke. 'twould have been terrified faces instead of merry ones they'd have brought home with them on that ayventful night.

Howandever, no one foresaw the fuchure, so bright an' airly the next mornin' our two carters, sittin' side be side in Tim Maylowney's cart, proud as paycocks, started for Carrickthor with Anthony and Clayopatlira to the fore.

ELL sorra thing worth mentionin' happened till the expaydition arrived at Father Murphy's house, an' there, afther much histing and pullin' and gruntin' an' shoutin', the bell was lifted on to the cart and fastened in. The next mornin' at cock crow, with the wind to their backs, the proud boneyfactors started home.

The first day back passed aisy an' paceful enough, only it was harrud work on the two hayros to be ridin' along side by side pious an' saydate, mindin' their tongues for fear of sayin' an unrayligious werrud with the chapel bell listening in the cart behind.

But black and airly their throubles began the last day of the journey. They were about an hour on the road an' had raiched Kelly's bog—me gran'tather was dhrivin'—whin the left front wheel dhropped intil a rut and before one could say “Jack Robinson” me gtan'father was trun off his seat and landed on his head in the ditch. But worse luck of all, the axle was broke, and our two pious min near suffocayted with anger.

“If the bell behind wasn't a chapel bell,” says Tim Maylowney, “I'd say a worrud now that'd do me a power of good,” he says.

“Why don't you say it to yer rotten ould cart?” roared me gran'father, comin' muddy up out of the ditch.

Tim flared up imayget at this belittling of his share of the honor. “No” he says, “but 1'll say it to the wooden-headed omadhaun with the thick fingers who was dhrivin' the cart,” says he. “Or maybe I'd say it to Anthony an' Clayopathra, yer pair of common nannygoats that's pullin' the cart,” he says.

“You know well. Tim Maylowney, I'm in a state of grace bekase of hauling the bell,” says me gran'father, thremblin' all over with rage. “But I hope I'll not be to-morrow,” he says, “and thin I'll make surgent's worruk of ye, you slandherin' blaggard ye,” says he.

There's no knowin' how the argymint would have inded if Danny O'Brien's empty cart hadn't druve up at the moment. Danny ginerously offered to bring help from the nearest smithy, and bring it he soon did. But do their best endayvor there wor four hours' delay before the cordage again got on its way.

Aggrwaytin' as was this mishap sure it was nothin' but a necessary pruperation for the rale misfortin' which was yet in store. And the place set for that misfortin' was no less a place than Paddy Carroll's public house. two miles this side of the village of Killgillam, an' tin dark lonesome miles from their own waiting Ballinderg.

The clouds had been gathering dark an' threatening all afthernoon, and the night swept up with a rush and aroar. Afther only tin minutes of warning twilight it grew black as yer hat. The horses could barely kape the road. And thin while the wind was whistling a doleful chune through the hedges, flash—a blaze of lightening flung high the hills. The two hayros braced themselves for the tunder crash, and well they did, for when it came it almost bate them flat. Imaagetly afther, it was just wolley afther wolley of tunder, and thin the rain—Noah himself would have been dhrownded be it.

What would have become of the parsecuted boneyfacthors I don't know, only that a bend in the road brought them the first sign of cheer; just ahead through the slantin' rain shivered low near the ground the one gleamin' yellow eye of Paddy Carroll's inn.

Phil O'Conner, Paddy Carroll's rid-headed hostler boy, answering Maylowney's doleful call, led the dhraggled ponies back to the inn-yard, while our two disappinted hayros, dhrenched an' shiverin', hurried jnto the tavern.

They were standin' in front of the fire shakin' the water from themselves like two dhrownded huntin' dogs, and Paddy Carroll at the bar was mixin' stiff noggins of hot Scotch, whin there come so blindin' a flash of lightening that it med everything in the room dance green before their eyes, and in its glare they saw a great black coach dash past the windy. And, be the powers, on that same instant the door swung open and a tall dark sthranger dhressed like a lord stood bowin' an' scrapin' on the thrashold.

So surprised and aystounded was everybody that not a worrud was spoken until the sthranger, walking over an' putting his back comfortable to the fire, says aisy and cajolin': “Landlord,” he says, “I'm both wet and dhry; put some more turf on the fire to dhry me wetness and give me a glass of yer best to wet me dhryness—an' while yer about it, brew for this brace of foine scoundhrels here their heart's daysire!”

While the three thravelers were sippin' their dhrink, friendly as ye plaze, an' Tim Maylowney was relaytin' the throuble they'd had with the bell, the rid-headed hostler boy stuck a frightened white face inside the door, an', callin' Paddy Carroll over, whispered: “The coach an' horses must have sunk intil the ground. I can't find hide nor hair of thim!” he says, every flaming hair brustlin'.

Without lookin' 'round the sthranger spoke up. “Never mind thim,” he says, “I sint them on a message to the village. They'll be back for me. Glasses round, landlord, and bring us a pack of cyards. I'll play yez for the dhrinks, juntlemen, that is, if yez understhand how to play cyards,” he says polite.

Paddy Carroll came near smothering with the laughter.

While me gran'father was wondherin' over this well-dhressed condaysintion, an' keepin' a savare raypressive eye upon the grinning hostler boy, Phil, who was juggling a round table and three chairs into place, he sez: “It's seldom I touch the cyards, sir. I'm that feard of bein' chayted,” sez he; “still, as be the looks of the weather we have a heavy hour upon our hands, and as your honor seems so rayspectable a man, I'm willin' to take the chanst fer onct.”

Sure he hadn't the worruds half out of his mouth whin the shameless Tim Maylowney was already in a chair fumblin' careful and affectionate at a pack of cyards.

Me gran'father, with a rayluctant but raysigned air, sat down to the table; but no sooner had he touched the chair than he was half up to his feet again, for, never since the worruld was creayted had been seen such a pair of ears as those which brustled on the head of the sthranger. Although they had no hair on thim, d'ye mind, they were long and narrow and thrimmed up to a point like a bull terrier's.

“Dale the cyards,” sez the juntleman, greatly annoyed at me gran'father's spachless onpoliteness. “I'm a Boolgarian Jook,” he says, “an' where I come from all my counthrymen have ears like thim.”

Fair and aisy Maylowney dealt. The little cyards from the top of the pack fell to the sthranger, an', wondherful to raylate, all the big cyards, which some way happened to be on the bottom of the pack, fell to himself an' to me gran'father.

I needn't tell ye that the first game was over in a jiffy, an' that the dark man lost.

Me gran'father laned over and said in a sootherin' way: “Ye had the divil's own luck that time, sir.”

“I had!” says the Jook. Wid that he trew back his head and let a screech of a laugh out of him that rattled the windys.

The dhrinks were handed round.

“Have ye a toast?” says the Jook.

“I have,” says Maylowney, liftin' his glass. “Here's that we may all be in heaven tunty-four hours before the divil knows we're dead!”

“I'll not dhrink it!” says the dark man, frowning an' layin' down his noggin.

“Whist! Tim, maybe the juntleman has a betther one,” me gran'father says, cajolin'.

“I have,” says the sthranger. “Such good company as this should have a friendlier toast. Here's that we three may soon meet again for betther and closer acquaintance.”

Many an' many's the time aftherwards both me gran'father an' Tim Maylowney would wake up in the night and fair shake the bed with their thremblin' at the raymembrance of how careless an' free they swallyed down that toast.

To make a long story short, the second game was over as quick as the first, an' the third game was like it, but as the Jook was picking from a fistful of silver the pay for the third round of dhrinks he seemed to be very much vexed at his misfortune.

“Here,” says he, in a blustherin' voice, shakin' the handful of money undher the noses of both of thim, “play me for this! I dare yez!”

For a moment you could have heard a pin dhrop. Knowing well what was in store for the sthranger, Paddy Carroll turned his back on the room quick, purtendin' to wind the clock, an' Phil O'Conner, whustling, wint over an' begun polishing the pewther as hard as he could; but all the time with one merry eye over his chowldher.

Me gran'father was sarching careful through a handful of shillin's an' pennies an' brass buckles an' horseshoe nails for a sixpence, and had just picked one out, when, happening to look up, he caught the scornful eye an' dishdainful smile of the dark sthranger fixed on the sixpence in his fingers.

The most raynowned thing always about the Murtaugh family has been their pride, and that same scornful smile lashed me gran'father like the cut of a whip. His face blazed red with raysentment, and without a word he planked down in the centre of the table buckles, nails, money, an' all—a matther of eight shillin's and threepince ha'penny.

Tim Maylowney scraped anxious every pocket, but, sarch as he would, all he could find was five shillin's; he flung them to the table with the air of a lord.

“I'll put all this ag'inst the two of ye,” the dark juntleman says, careless houlding up a fistful; “I haven't time to count it,” says he, letting a silver rain of shillin's an' sixpences slither through his fingers, until it hid and covered the threasure of the two carmen, nails, brass buckles an' all. There must surely have been at laste four poun' tin in the pile.

Well, me gran'father, his heart in his eyes, was watchin' Tim Maylowney fumblin' an' fixing careful the cyards (for 'twas Tim's dale onct more), and the juntleman with eyes shut was lighting his poipe with a sthraw careless an' slow, whin me gran'father's Conscience plucked him by the sleeve and It whispered: “Ye're playin' for more than sixpence and ye're chatin',” says It.

Me gran'father turned fierce on his Conscience, an' he says to It, “Blur an' ages! I'm not chaytin'! Isn't it Tim Maylowney that's daleing the cyards? Lave me alone! Are ye my Conscience or are ye Mr. Tim Maylowney's? That's what I'd like to know.” Without another worrud he took up the cyards which had just been dealt to him, an', raisin' his right elbow as high as his chowldher (a habit he had while runnin' the cyards over betwixt his forefingers and his thumbs), whin sudden every dhrop of blood in his body rushed up to his head, for, tare and 'ounds, there wasn't in his hand a single cyard higher nor the noine spot of clubs and—hearts were thrumps.

He flashed a surprised and indignant glare over at Tim Maylowney. But Tim sat looking at his own hand, with jaws dhroppin' and eyes bulging, staring as though he were looking at a ghost.

A sickening fear pressed down on me gran'father, and he spread two fingers on the ind of his chin, which was a signal to Tim: “What is the highest cyard in yer hand?” And Tim, with the bewildhered face of a man who had been trun from his horse an' is just pickin' himself up off the ground, crooked the third finger of his left hand, and that signal meant: “The highest cyard in me hand is the noine spot of spades.”

But lo and behold! the sthrange Jook, smiling and ca'm, led out with the ace of hearts and follyed it with the quane; an' he lathered me gran'father's noine spot of clubs with the knave, an' he murdhered Tim Maylowney's noine of spades with the ten of thrumps. It wasn't a game at all—it was cowld-blooded robbery, that's what it was.

An' while the juntleman was pullin' over the pile of silver me gran'father, slow an' careful, raiched undher the table with his foot and med such a savage kick at Maylowney's shins that, if Tim hadn't guv a quick hist to his two legs, faith an' there was one carter who would have wint on crutches for the rest of his life. Before me gran'father could thry it ag'in the sthranger spoke up jolly an' cajolin': “Oh, well, what's a few shillin's that I should beggar you for the loikes of thim! Now listen! I'll give yez yer revenge. I'll put up every penny I've won from ye ag'inst—let's see—what have yez? Oh. yes,” he concluded, “ag'inst the hats on yer heads. Come, be quick? shuffle the cyards!”

It's no lie I'm tellin' ye! The sthranger won the hats on their heads; an' afther that, without losing a game, the jackets on their Lacks, their weskits, the brogues on their feet, and every stitch the two could afford to lose an' still go dacint.

And when the pair had put the clothes they had lost in a pile on the floor beside the sthranger and were sittin' miserable and shamefaced as a couple of plucked geese, what does the juntleman do but roar out laughing. “Ho! ho! ho! but yer a foine lookin' pair,” he screamed, an' the rafthers shook. “Haven't yez any- thing else?” says he. But the carters shook their dhroopin' heads.

“Think now,” cries the Jook, “haven't yez any debts comin' to you? What do ye get for cartin' the bell outside?'

Me gran'father an' Tim Maylowney exchanged one quick glance.

“Never mind what it is,” says the sthranger ginerously. “Be me sowl, I'll put up everything I've won against yer wages for cartin' that bell.”

In spite of his crushing misfortin' a grin spread over me gran'father's woebegone face, and without another worrud the three hammered at it again, an' in less than a minute by the clock the last game was played and the sthranger had won. The last cyard was barely on the table when the Jook rose, lookin' very tall an' grand, and he says: “I'll not take yer clothes, though they're mine be right, nor yet yer money, but the music of the bell” (now mind, no one had mintioned that to him, however he knew), “the music of the bell,” he says, “is mine and that I'll keep.”

As he spoke there came the swirl an' dash of horses in the road outside, and the great shining lamps of the same coach flared past the windys. With his hand on the latch the Jook turned about. “I'll see you all ag'in some time,” he says, “and whin that day comes“—he guv a most ojus smile—“be the powers, we'll have great goin's on together.”

With that—an' it's the thruth I'm tellin' ye—he disappeared through the door without opening it at all, and an unconthrollable shiver an' shudder doubled up every one in the room, for by that wondherful disappearance it was aisy known who they had been daleing with.

The rain was over an' the moon had come out in the sky, and nothing was left for me gran'father an' Tim but to hitch up Anthony an' Clayopathra an' purceed on their lonesome heavy journey back home.

I'll lave yez to aymagine their turror an' disthress. It was three o'clock in the mornin' whin they druve undher the belfry tower at Ballinderg. Leaving the car with the bell still on it undher the belfry, me gran'father led his tired ponies home. An' it was the sore an' sorrowful luck they brought to Ballinderg that night.

S it happened, the next day in the afthernoon was no less a day than Saturday, an' the counthryside gathered about the black, solemn-looking bell where it lay in the cart. The big clapper was wrapped thick in fold after fold of cloth, for fear that by accident it might give a sthroke or two and Father O'Leary bad daycided that its first sound should call the people to church Sunday morning.

Afther much histing an' “hu'hing” an' “ho-ho-ing”—even the women an' the little childher put their hands to the ropes—the bell was lifted up to the crossbeam, where Joey Hooligan, the smith, hammer in hand, sat straddling the beam ready to rivet the treasure to its place. And whin Joey's last blow was sthruck an' the bell swung free and clear, a proud and jovial shout roused the listening fields. Be-gar, ye'd think some one had freed poor ould Ireland!

“Me childher,” says Father O'Leary, turning about, an' the glow of a dozen wax candles seemed to be shining through his face, “the wish that I have carried in me heart for thirty-one years is rayalized to-day. Ballinderg has a bell! And I appint Jerry Murtaugh and Tim Maylowney to the honor of ringing the bell to call yez all to church to-morrow morning. For,” says he with a sly smile, “since they own the music of the bell, by rights they should have its first bestowin'. Don't mind yer clocks, my childher, but start when ye hear the chime.”

Everybody crowded round me gran'father an' Tim Maylowney, slapping them on the back and sthrivin' to shake their hands. The hayros tried to be cheerful, but in spite of all there was a heavy brooding fear in their hearts about the dark sthranger an' the music of the bell. That night me gran'mother noticed her husband Jerry's throubled face at supper an' waited for him to explain. As he gave no worrud she misdoubted he'd lost his money gambling, so she waited till the childher were in bed; thin she says to him quiet an' aisy: “Where's all yer money, Jerry, agra?” Me gran'mother was surprised an' a thrifle disappinted when the good man dhrew from his breeches pocket eleven shillin's tinpence—not a shilling missing. Afther takin every penny away from the parsecuted man, what did she do but whirl in to cross-question him like a Dublin lawyer. She accused him of every crime on the calendar, in the hope that she'd at last hit on the right one.

Little sleep did me unfortunate gran'father get that night. And whin his eyes did close he was back in Paddy Carroll's public house. 'There was the dark sthranger again, but now, d'ye mind, covered with hair like a black goat, and he had a spiked tail on him as long as a carter's whip. He was sitting at a table shuffling a pack of cyards an' daring me gran'father to play another game. For answer me gran'father was rushing over to give him a good belt, when some one grabbed hould of the poor man an' tould him to get up, it was time to be off to the chapel. “An' what's all this talk ye're havin' in yer sleep about Sattin, an' Paddy Carroll, an' the chapel bell?” axed me gran'mother.

Afther boultin' a spoonful of stirabout, me gran'father, with a face as long as your arrum, started off to the chapel, an' the wrinkled, worried visage Tim Maylowney brought along with him when they met at the crossroads didn't elevate his feelings in the laste.

“You haven't a minute to lose,” cried Father O'Leary as the two came up. His smile was like a May day. “Isn't it a beautiful morning?” he says, sthriving to be ca'm, “now to it, me lads, an' give us a ring that'll be heard over the mountain in Father Nale's parish.”

Trowing down their hats, the two carters took a good clutch on the rope an' pulled with all their might. And now came the first sign of the dark sthranger's worruk. For though the great bell swung gayly enough to and fro, the sorra sound came out of it any more than if it wasn't there

“Marcy on us, but that's quare,” says Father O' Leary coming forward. “Let me thry a hand with you.”

An thry he did. An' the three swayed an' swayed, and see-sawed up an' down till they were red in the face but the glowering bell only rolled and swung above their heads, sullen and silent as one of the tombstones near by.

“Go into me stable and bring the ladder,” panted Father O'Leary. “That rapscallion, Joey Hooligan, has done something amiss with the clapper. 'Tis his fault,” says his riverence, mopping his forehead.

Well the ladder was brought an' put ag'in the beam and, while me gran'father stidded it with both hands Tim Maylowney mounted it to find out what was wrong He'd climbed about half-way up whin, crack, goes the ladder in two in the middle, an' down comes Tim on top of me gran'father, an' the two went thumping to the ground

“The divil's in it!” yelled me gran'father from somewhere undherneath Tim and the ladder, and at thim worruds—'tis the truth I'm tellin' ye—the bell gave one loud jovial clang an' thin stopped short. As the two carters struggled to their feet you may well believe every hair on their heads stood up with fright like brustles on a brush

“One of yez go for that bliggard Joey Hooligan,” says his riverence,; “an' tell him to bring his tools an' a ladder. As it is we're tunty minutes late,” says he lookin' first rueful at his watch, thin at his broken ladder.

So off me gran'father hurries to the smith's house half a mile down the Kilcuney road, and as luck would have it—or maybe as Belzebub had managed—Joey was away; he had gone over to docthor, for a cracked heel, Cornaylia, Mrs. Regan's cow; an' she lived a half a mile across the fields.

In the meantime the whole parish of Ballinderg was sitting impatient within their doors wondhering what was keeping the bell.

A dozen of the neighbors had gathered around Mrs. Morrissey's clock to time the bell, bekase it was the most raynowned and rayputable clock in the whole parish.

Mrs. Morrissey was lookin' rayproachful at the clock, blaming it for being fast, and the aystounded clock was ticking as plain as plain could be. “Oh, murdher! oh, murdher! what's the matther with the infudels, why don't they go to church?” when Tim Maylowney came galloping breathless and frightened to the door.

“Out, all of yez!” he cried. “The bell's broke. Scatther among the neighbors an' warn them off to church. Ye're half an hour late.”

'Twas in this way the bell scored its first great victory; it made everybody in Ballinderg late for church that Sunday morning

OU may be sure the neighbors needed no second warning. Scatther they did, an' pretty soon the whole parish came sthrealing along one afther the other like Darcy's cows Winding up the hill, they came to where poor Father O'Leary stood despairing undher the belfry.

“It's a punishment, me childher” he says piteous fumbling his withered hands. “Take warning! It's a punishment for me sin of pride and glorification over the grandeur of the things of this worruld. Oh, what'll we do at all at all!—Is that you Joey Hooligan you bliggard? What have ye done to the clapper of the bell? Ye've spiled it, that's what ye've done,” he cried out to the smith who was hurrying up the road with me gran'father, an' they carryin' a ladder betwixt thim.

“I haven't spiled it,” says Joey s3toutly; “when I fastened the bell up yesterday the tongue wagged back and forth as free an' ready as the tongue of”—he looked about for a comparison—“as the tongue of Mrs. Morrissey there. Stand aside an' let me put up the ladder till I have a look!” says he.

You may believe me or believe me not an' I wouldn't blame yez a thimbleful if you didn't—bekase foive hundhred men, women, and childher that day rayfused at first to believe their own ears—but it's truth I'm telling ye. Joey Hooligan had no sooner put his foot on the first round of the ladder than the bell without a hand to the rope began—not ringing, mind you but chiming. An' not exactly chimin' ayther, but playing a chune to the open eyes an' gapin' mouths of Ballinderg.

It was the purtiest chune ever heard. Stirring and sweet an' urgent. Some way it med one think of the beating of drums an' the clashing of swords an' of sojers marching out to die.

“Oh,” gasped Father O'Leary, “the Marshal Aise.” He covered his eyes with his hands to shut out some vision, and his face wint gray as the stones.

“The Marshal Aise! The Marshal Aise!” The word was picked up and tossed from one person to another to the furthest varge of the crowd. Sure, wasn't that the identical song Father O'Leary heard in the streets of Paris when he was a student there? They played it while they were massacreeing the 'ristocrats and the clargy.

“Oh, God, have marcy on their sowls!” half whuspered the good man. “I can see now the gentlest and the bravest being dragged up to the headsman; an' two of the best an' the thruest friends I ever had smiled good-by to me from the crowded tumbril!”

Overcome with the raycollection, the priest stopped a moment, and thin lifting to the sky his two hands, cried. “Oh, may the deep curse of Heaven“—he caught himself quick. “What am I sayin'? A minister of God! May God forgive them and me too.”

Lookin' wistful around, he saw me gran'father's white scared face with the big dhrops of purspuration standing on it.

“Don't be frightened, Jerry. agra,” he says, thremblin'. “There's nothing at all shupernatural about the bell. We live so far out of the worruld here that we know nothing of the wondherful inventions that are springing up among men like new grass in the meadow. I make no doubt this is one of them; an' that there's some hidden conthrivance up above in the clapper we haven't noticed, an' don't undherstand, that makes the bell ring so. I'll ask Father Murphy about it to-morrow. Oh, musha, musha, you rose-grown hedges an' vine-dhressed hills of France, how far away you've flown' God help us! Come in to yer prayers, good people,” he says broken, “come in to yer prayers!”

'Twas a sober an' a solemn crowd that afther church wandhered home in groups together debayting and disputin' as they went, for the mystificaytion of the congregaytion led to thraymendous disputaytion.

But nayther me gran'father nor Tim Maylowney joined in the argyfying crowds, for well they knew that Sattin, by means of the bell, had timpted even Father O'Leary himselt to the sin of hathred an' rayvenge. Off to thimselves together the two slunk like men who had committed a saycret crime. When the pair were well out of hearin' of any one else, me gran'father says bitther: “Well, Maylowney, ye done it this time. What with yer love of the cyards an' yer fondness for pickin' up with sthrangers ye've been the complate ruinnaytion of Ballinderg!”

The tongue of Maylowney was so hot with indignaytion at the whole blame bein' trun on him this a-way that all he could do was to sputther: “Why, thin, bad manners to ye for a slandherous bosthoon! Weren't you with yer winks an' yer nods as deep in the mud as I was in the mire?”

“That's nayther here nor there,” says me gran'father, coolly waving him away. “Wasn't it you that first time planked yourself down at the table before I had a chance to daycline the Jook's invitation? And isn't it you that is always a timptation to play with sthrangers, for if ye weren't along how could I chate thim?

“But heigh-ho, crying over spilt milk 'll do no good. We've only now to save ourselves an' our repitaytions. Do you, Tim, me dacent lad, dhrive down at break of day to Paddy Carroll's an' warn him not to breathe a blessed worrud of what's happened. He's as bad off as we are. Wasn't it himself as had Belzebub for a customer, an' wasn't it him as let the pair of us be timpted?”

“I would go willingly,” answered Tim, “for I make no doubt the bell will begin its depredaytions foine and airly Monday mornin', an' what we've just heard will be only a flay-bite to what'll happen thin. But,” he sez, rubbin' his chin rueful, “you remember me cousin, Nellie Grogan, is to be married the morn, and it's needful that all her relaytions should be there to give her rayspect—she's had sich har-rd luck with her young men, poor girl. I needn't tell ye that when three years ago Ned Kerrigan disappinted her and slipped off to be a sojer two days before the weddin', 'twas a cruel blow enough, but whin young McCarthy the year afther took the Quane's shillin' within a week of their marriage, the poor lass almost lost courage. Now, whin, thanks be, she's within a day of her weddin' to Shamus McCormick, it will never be said that I, the most rayspected of her relaytions, will rayfuse to ornament the occasion. No, I couldn't think of it; besides, Mrs. Maylowney 'ud be sure to prevent me from goin' away,” he sighed.

So the long an' the short of it was me gran'father consinted to go to Paddy Carroll's, with the understhandin' that Tim should be waiting for him in Anthony and Clayopathra's stable in the evenin' to make known all that had happened during the course of the day.

At that the two conspyrators separated aich to put in the longest Sunday afthernoon of his life.

Every minute of the day his conscience was a burnin' coal in me gran'father's chest, and to add aggrawaytion an' turpitation to his misery, the poor man couldn't cross a foot or crook an elbow but he'd feel me gran'mother's two suspicious eyes boring a hole in the middle of his back. Worse than all, he dhreaded the night bekase of an unforchunit habit he had of talkin' in his sleep, and well he knew—for she'd often done it before—that me gran'mother would lay wide awake as an owl to catch every whusper. Women haven't the laste taste of honor about such things. But go to bed he did and at last into onaisy slumber he fell, but not for long. Before the sun had a chanst to shake his flamin' jacket above the hill, me gran'father with Anthony an' Clayopathra wor well on their way toward Paddy Carroll's public house.

IM MAYLOWNEY was right in his prophesying. Bright and early Monday morning the bell began its divilment, and, of course, who should it commence on but Pether McCarthy, the most sensitive man in the County Tipperary? So suspicious of intintions to insult him was Pether that one couldn't safely raymark the toime of day in his presence without danger of having the sayin' caught up as an undherhand rayflection on Pether himself. .

But sure, nobody ever thought of insultin' the poor man, for the only thing that could be whispered ag'inst his char-ak-ther was a rumor that an uncle of his father's down in the County Cork—the McCarthys were all ab-originally Corkonians—was thransported to Van Di'man's Land for stayling sheep.

So now in the early mornin', as the honest man started for his worruk in the fields, the black wuzzard up in the belfry tower spies him, an' what does the ould targer do but sthrike up playing an ancient well-known chune called “The Sheep-Stayler's Lament.”

Well, at the sound poor Pether stood pathrayfied in his thracks. He gave one wild, horrified look at the bell on the hill, hesitated an instant, thin turned agin and hurried back to his house. The unmannerly rapscallion of a bell kept time to his steps with the beat of the chune, and never let up till the door closed behind Pether—whin it stopped suddint! McCarthy waited a little, thin cautiously opened the door, but no sooner had he stuck out his head than the maylodious sthrains of “The Sheep-Stayler's Lament” was heard in every field and cottage for two miles around. That squelched him. The poor lad ventured out no more till he spied from his windy, some two hours afther, the wedding purcession of Nellie Grogan windin' up the hill to the chapel. Bad as was the thratement Pether McCarthy rayceived, it was bread and treacle to that which awaited the poor bride.

At the head of the purcession be course walked Nellie and the groom, while close behind marched Tim Maylowney and his wife, Honoria. Tim, the poor man, was thryin' to look happy an' unconsarned, though 'twas himself had the feeling that there was throuble enough an' to spare waiting for thim all in the belfry on the top of the hill,

But if Tim was unsartin an' worried, not so with his cousin Nellie, the bride. She laned on the arm of Shamus an' smiled up at him proud an' happy as a June rose.

The neighbors stood in the doorways along the road waving good wishes at the happy pair, never so much as mentioning to each other the two miscrayants who had run away and left the disappinted bride behind them, all for no betther rayson than for the bit of temper that was born in her.

Joking an' cavortin' an' with ribbons flying, the happy party arrived at the foot of the hill lading up to tee churchyard, and as they did the runnygate in the tower broke loose.

And what chune of all paralyzin' chunes did the desparaydo sthrike up loud an' rollickin' but “The Girl I Left Behind Me”!

At first ye'd think a piece of the sky had fallen, so great was the sudden wondher. Howandever, no one sthopped, but they marched timidly on while the bell kept playing the insult gay and cheerful, almost spakin' the worruds:

Maylowyney stood it as long as he could, but at the churchyard gate he halted an' shook his fist at the bell. Whether 'twas bekase the party were entering the churchyard or bekase of Tim's dayfiance will never be known, but, as Tim did so, the bell changed its chune into the mournfullest toll that ever was heard. Every toll'd raise the hair from yer head—'twas that fearsome.

Flesh and blood could stand no more. With wild shrieks an' yells the purcession broke and run for their lives. Shamus didn't run, though hard he thried. Mrs. Maylowney, cool-headed woman that she was, had stepped up an' caught him by the arrum; and, with she grippin' him on one side an' Nellie on the other, what betther could he do but race up to the chapel with thim? An' so the day was saved for Nellie.

Outrageous as was all this, sure it was only the beginning of the throubles for Ballinderg. The wuzzard insulted half the parish. He played “The Rogue's Mar-rch” for Wullum Duff, the schoolmasther, keepin' time to his steps whether fast or slow: “Rum-ti-tum rum-TE-tum rum-te-rumpty rum-TE-tum,” an' when at last Wullum, beside himself with mortificaytion, broke into a mad run, it med no difference, the music kep' time with him just the same. The schaymer played “The Divil's Hornpipe,” even for pious ould Mrs. Donovan as she limped slowly by on her cane, an' sthrive as she would an' thry as she could, she had to keep step to it.

The consthernaytion an' fear an' excitement that day were so great in Ballinderg that be foive o'clock in the afthernoon there wasn't a sowl to be seen abroad. Everybody was indoors listening to find out who'd be scandalized next, when sudden the bell sthruck up glorious an' beautiful: “Lo! the Conquering Hayro Comes.”

On the minute every door and windy flashed open, so great was the curiosity to know who it was that the ould targer of a barbariyan would be showin' such honor and rayspect to. Me gran'mother stuck her head out with the rest, an' what should she see coming bobbing along over the brow of the hill but Anthony an' Clayopathra, an' sitting calm an' paceful behind thim—me gran'father!

Me gran'mother waited for no more, but, trowing her shaw] over her head, hurried off on her way to Mrs. Maylowyney's for informaytion and advice—there was always great sociology betwixt the two families—and who should she meet up with in the lane hastening down to see her on the same errand but Mrs. Maylowney herself?

“It's comin' up to your own house I was, Honoria, to spake to ye about me husband Jerry,” sez me gran'mother afther the time o' day was passed betwixt thim, “an' to ink-wire whether yez have obsarved anything out of the common about yer own honest man Tim, | dunno.”

Mrs. Maylowney trew back her head, an', liftin' her two hands, guve the air a hard push.

“Arrah, thin, don't be talkin',” says she, “wasn't I on me way to ax the same question of yerself? Isn't me heart broke worrying over him, an' ain't me two eyes almost fallin' out of me head from watchin' him? And as for scoldin' and berating him, I get no comfort out of it at all, at all, for he won't answer back, an' I have a fear on me that I can't express that Sattin himself is in the bell above an' that our brace of foine husbands have more than a little to do with it.” Me gran'mother hilt her apron to her mouth and shook her head despairing: “Oh, oh, sorra's the day! what'll we do at all, at all?”

Now, that was a foolish question entirely, for what did any one do for miles around who had a fear or a heartache or any sort of throuble but bring that sorrow up to Father O'Leary; an' there be the same token did the two good women take thimselves, though sore ashamed they were to turn informers that a-way ag'in their own husbands.

Manewhile, Tim, as good as his worrud, was scrooged waiting in the stable ag'in me gran'father's return; an' whin at last the ponies had been fed an' dhressed down, with dhry lips Tim towld me quakin' ansisther, faithful an' complate, all the outrageous doin's of that raymarkable day, an' sittin' down on the tub beside me gran'father, his chin in his hands, he wound up his conversation be sayin': “Oh, begor, this'll be a lesson to me the remaynder of me days. I'll never touch another dhrop of dhrink ag'in so long as I live, an' I'll never look at another cyard till the day of me death, an' as for bad company”—he groaned, clinchin' his two fists.

“As for bad company,” me gran'father says, thinkin' gloomy an' raysentful of Sattin, “I'll never meet— Oh, be the powers!” he says, jumpin' up, “is it me ye're callin' the bad company, Tim Maylowney?”

What answer Tim would have med will never be known, for at the instant a shadow darkened the stable door, an', lookin' up, who should they spy standin' solemn an' savare before thim but Father O'Leary himself? The pair thried to splutther a civil greeting, but for rayply his riverence crooked a finger, first at me gran'father, thin at Tim Maylowney, beckonin' thim to folly. An' the two culprits, like retrievers at heel, follyed the clargyman up to his house; only once on that doleful journey did me gran'father spake, an' thin it was to whusper a warning to his comerade: “Whatever he does till us kape your tongue in yer head.”

“No fear,” whuspered Tim, an' his voice was as hoarse as the say.

Whin they arrived at the priest's house, the first thing Father O' Leary did was to put me gran'father into the study, turn the kay in the door, an' thin, takin' Tim be the chowldher, he led the unfortunate man into a room across the hall,

The clargyman pushed Tim into a chair, an' sitting himself in another close ferninst, with hands on knees, Father O'Leary fixed an eye on Tim that dug down to the werry bottom of the squirmin' wictim's sowl.

For foive long minutes not a sound was heard except the cracklin' of the twigs on the hearth.

Tim, perched on the edge of his chair, wondhered if this was going to last forever. He twisted his cap round and round in his fingers, coughed polite into it, and looked out the windy; he put the cap on his head, quick snatched it off ag'in an' dhropped it on the floor; stared dispairin' at the pictur of Dan'l O'Connell over the mantel, and wished that he had the courage of that great man, but all the time feelin' himself skewered be Father O'Leary's raylentless eye.

Whin there was no more strength or courage left in his body than there is in a suckin' pig, he says in a wake voice: “It's gettin' dark, and it's going to rain; I think I'll betther be goin' home.”

Father O'Leary smiled cruel an' sarcastic, and, laning back in his chair, spoke slow and pinted: “I heard yer whuspered promise to that bliggard, Jerry Murtaugh, as we came along, an' I'll not ask ye to break it; but tell me one thing only,” says he, “was it your fault or was it his?”

“It was Jerry's fault, yer riverence,” says Tim, givin' a great gulp of raylief at gettin' out of it so aisy. “Sure, your riverence knows well that I—”

“That's enough,” says Father O'Leary, rising; “do you stay in that chair an' never lave this room till I call you.”

You may aymagine the condition of me gran'father sittin' alone in the study during all this while, sore disthracted to know what was goin' on in the room across the hall. He sthrained his ear to listen, but divil a sound could be heard, and he'd half med up his mind that his comerade Tim must be sthrangled, whin the door opens an' Father O'Leary pops in on him.

“Jerry Murtaugh,” says the priest, lookin' sore put out, “it's surprised and scandalized at ye I am! to think of me blamin' the poor lad across tie hall, whin all the while 'twas your fault.”

“My fault!” yelled me gran'father, jumpin' to his feet, “who said it was my fault?”

Father O'Leary nodded stern and a-cusing. “I've Tim Maylowney's word for it,” he said; “what have you to say ag'in it?”

Me gran'father let such a roar out of him that Tim Maylowney, concludin' thin an' there that his comerade was bein' kilt, lept out of the windy an' raced down the Kilcuney Road, and never stopped till he raiched home.

“Did the slandherin' willian say the loikes of that?” says me furious ansisther. “Now listen to my side of the story and I'll lave ye to judge.”

An' what does me gran'father do but up an' tell the whole thransaction from beginning to end just as it happened.

As Father O'Leary listened he passed from onbelief to inkerdulity, from inkerdulity to wondher, an' from wondher to conwiction, an' thin he put three pinances for their terrible sins on Tim Maylowney and me gran'father. An' these punishments wor to last them for the rest of their natural lives. The first pinance was to give up cyard playin' complate and intirely; the next was that they should taste no sthrong dhrink save and except one noggin of punch to be dhrunk on Saturday night, aich beside his own wife and ferninst his own fireside. These two were hard enough, you'll agree, but the third and last was the killin' pinance entirely, and it was no less than that they must save their money, and not to spend it foolish.

“Oh, thin, ye're the flinty-hearted man, Father O'Leary,” cried me gran'father whin he heard the pinance. “Why don't ye turn me into a chiney image at once and have done with it? To think that I must suffer this a-way, and the black schoundhrel that is to blame for it is swinging free up in the tower making game of us all.”

“Ha!” says Father O'Leary with a wise nod, “lave him to me! To-morrow morning I'll fix that lad. I'll fasten him a presner in the bell till the day of judgment, and every time the bell rings the clapper'll pelt him betwixt the two chowldhers. It's a sore back the schaymer'll have on the last day, I'll warrant ye,” chuckled his riverence.

Well, the worruds weren't well out of his mouth when there came a crash cf tunder and a flare of lightening. Me gran'father waited for no more. Wit a hurried “Good-night, yer riverence!” he took the road in his hands. There was barely time to raich his own good door whin the memor-ible Big Wind began to blow.

Sure, the worruld knows how it tore up threes be the roots, whirled houses through the air. an' druv saygoin' ships up on the Kerry shore, where it left them perched up on the rocks like so many say-gulls.

You undherstand, of course, that all this was bekase Belzebub, furious with disappintment at bein' dhriven from the bell, was sthrivin' to daystroy the Irish Nation. An' the fear of Father O'Leary's threat was on the bagobones, too, for next morning the bell was gone an' the neighbors say how in the night inwisible hands must have carried it through the air, an' thin dashed it down upon the great flat rock in Hagan's meadow; for there it lay broken into a thousand pieces, an' the stone itself was busted in two.

That was the last of Sattin and the bell.

But as for me gran'father an' Tim Maylowney, they kept their pinance well. Howandever, they had made special, d'ye mind, two pewther noggins which held a full quart aich, and these the two hayros'd sit and sip side be side on Saturday nights. Many's the winther evening I've seen them there, an' many's the time I've heard them tell this story beside that same fire.