He paused for an instant. St. Stephen's Day, tho' sometimes 'tis St. Stephen's Eve that they manage a bit of a feast and merrymaking. Aye, many's the strange tale ye will hear over in Ireland on one of them nights. It was the Eve of St. Stephen, and Teig sat alone by his fire with naught in his cupboard but a pinch of tea and a bare mixing of meal, and a heart inside of him as soft and warm as the ice on the water-bucket outside the door. Faith, there be more bits o' real gold hid undther the loose clay in the corner.
Gold is better nor eatin' an' dthrinkin'.
An' if ye have naught to give, there'll be naught asked of ye. And he laughed again. He was thinking of the neighbors, and the doles of food and piggins of milk that would pass over their thresholds that night to the vagabonds and paupers who were sure to come begging. And Shawn had reached for his crutches, there being but one leg to him, and had come. And he fell to thinking of the gold again.