The Lambertville record. [volume] (Lambertville, N.J.) 1872-1968, 1890-12-24
A CHRISTMAS EVE IN IRELAND.

Christmas eve in the mountains Of
Ballycolman, in the County Cork, Ire.
land A blazing turf fire on the hearth
stone. In the chimney corner sat Daniel
Donovan, 70 years old, who could talk
nothing but Gaelic. He was twisting a
little wooden wheel which connected by
a passage under the hearthstone with
the middle of the fire, which fickered
and fiared as the current of air swept
through. Next to the old man sat
Biddy, aged 20, with her hair brushed
smoothly back from her forehead and
tied in Roman knot at the back of her
head. Close to Biddy sat Mary, who had
never seen a black man or Chinaman.
Sandwiched between Mrs. Donovan
and Mary sat the American visitor. The
old woman was smoking and grooming,
and little grandchild with cheeks like
ripe peaches stood with her golden head
resting ON her grandmother's knee.
The freight danced and CLEANED over
the little group as the December wind
came down the wide mouthed chimney
The scene was so suggestive of peace
and rest that for fifteen minutes no one
spoke. Then Mrs. Donovan said;
"And mebbe the Yankee gintleman II
sing us a song?"
He would indeed have been an I'M
grateful fellow who should refuse such
a request under circumstances at once
so homely and so hospitable. And in
that grateful atmosphere he felt some of
the old time sweetness come into his
voice as he sang of the harp that once
the soul of music shed in Tara's halls,
and told in song the story of how two
eyes Of Irish blue looked up at Pat NAL
10y And as he sang q look of rapt won
der and admiration came into the face of
his homely listeners. He forgot that his
audience was few Irish peasants, and
standing upright he clasped the back of
his chair and poured out into the lowly
matched cottage that wonderful aria by
Moligue, Pour Out Thy Heart Before
the Lord" He had sung it before in a
massive cathedral accompanied by a
great organ, and had heard the tones of
his voice go ringing down the echoing
nave, but never had he felt the sweet
ness and beauty of it as on that Christ
mas eve in the lowly little cabin in the
mountains. And when he had finished
the aria and resumed his seat, Mrs. Dono-
van suggested:
"Mebbe the gintleman will sing us a
song about homer
Almost before he knew it the visitor
had begun, do They Miss Me at Homer
He reached the third line, ITO know al
this moment some loved one were say.
ing, Il wish he were here" when he be.
gan to choke. The memory of his own
home in far off America came to him.
What was the baby doing? Did the
children have the usual Christmas
tree? Was everybody in good health
Was any one wishing for the absent
one? And before the lines were out of
his mouth he went all to pieces like a
ship on the rocks. He was a strong
man who prided himself on his cynicisrn
and materialism. He could not remem-
Der the time when his eyes had been wet
before. But sitting there upon a chair
with a seat made of straw rope, and sur
rounded by as simple and ingenious peo-
pie as the sun ever shone upon, he placed
his hands over his face, and the tears
ran through his fingers and fell upon the
hearthstone. An awestruck silence fell
upon the little group, broken by the
moaning of the wind in the chimney
Mrs. Donovan, her face shining with
sympathy, gently tapped the stranger
on the shoulder and whispered in his
ear:
"If We were to take cup o the Congo
ttea] ye'd feel betther, sirr
He took the Congo" and felt better.
Then he went outside, and looking up at
the stars wondered why it was necessary
for him to so 5000 miles away from
homo in order to make fool OF himself
ERNEST JARRoLD.