The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1899-01-22

an twenty tailors in their Sunday clothes
well, sir Jop, for by all else he had in
that big head O. his, was a great man at
the writin' Divil a word We could think Of
but he'd string rhyme to it; it came as
easy to him TO make a song, chune an
ALL as to drink buttermilk; an sure, to
me own knowledge, he had half the females
in the country at his heels wi the butifu]
letters he'd be writin' to them. Och, man, to
see the handwrite of him, twas wonder
full. Where in the Kings name he got the
big words from, or how ia glory he made
them come one after another, like hailstcnes
rattlin' on the road, I can't fathom. IT was
just like India meal pourin' from a Seek
as thick an as constant; an if We wanted
letter sent to the papers, or if We had
a word to send to a lawyer or an auctioneer,
or If you'd be after sayin' a word OH paper
to the childer in the States, Jop was the
man for We. Aw, yis. Just step in to see him.
plant a glass of whisky at his elbow, put
pen in his fist, an tell him your wishes,
an off he'd go like house on fire wi his
curly cues an bendibases."
Good, James," said Hal; "gooG for you.
Was it Jop made We a present of the bendi-
bases? Where did he keep them, James?
What kind o. yokemajigs wer they? Had
they less, or wheels, or tails, or what?"
'"They flew, Master Hail." answered James;
''along wi the pigs; an fed penny loves,
an nothin in the world pleased them let
ter said James, with a sly look at the
master and then at Halls br!ar ripe, 'than
a quiet smoke when the moon wens Down.
There's one or two o them about these
parts
"Ah, quit your bleather," cried Mike the
choleric IAN g'wan wi your story. Sure it's
loike listenin' to corncrakes to near we. Fire
away James, tell We, an stop your focI-
cry"
"All right Mike said James, lin &gree-
able But it's meself, sure, thought We were
keepin an eye on the lIdies NJ matter,
anyway. I'm tired o. nonsense neself
Whisth, Mike, whisht, I'm off again, me
mon. Well, SIR James continued, There
comes an end to all things, even if it's
only foolery; an, in the course o. time, Jop
gets tired O. Clogheen an the ways of It,
He wanted to see the world, ne gave out.
Clogheen was only hole Of place: there
was no room for a man with brains in a
bit of town like that Nav, Jop'd see the
world, so he would; he'd cut shine in it;
he'd show us all what he had in that five
gallon brain box of his.
'Yis; that's what Jop allowed An one fine
mornin' he takes himself at his word, puts
his traps on a car, buys a ticket from the
station master, shakes hands Wi one an
other from the windy O. the II o'clock train
SHOUTS Goodbye, me sons an away goes
Jop. An next thing we all hears is that
Mr.. Job is scribblin' for some paper or an
other; takin' down cases in the law courts
an dom the divil an all in the streets O.
Dusblin.
SO far so good; but, 10 and behold We,
sirs, here one fine day is ould Hanly, the
father Vaughn his coat tails through the
street, an him burstin' his waistcoat WI
pride, an a kind of a book-one of these
affairs wi picturs an print in EN-, that the
youngsters sell at the stations-in his fist.
an him goin' from shop to shop, an man
to man, shown to one an another bit O.
print that Jop was after writin'.
Look at that he'd say an bang the
book on the counter Look at what my son
Joseph Patrick Chat bein' the sons full
Christian name) is after dom. There's
something to be proud Of he'd say, an
march out an take the first he'd meet by
the collar. Look at that, he'd say again:
look at what my son Joseph Patrick's after
writin'. Come away an have drink he'd
say, till read it to We. Come away An
off he'd go; an he'd read an read, an
NAAAAtA GA AAA1lh, oil AZURE TWO hours twas
home he was carried, speechless shoutin'
like blazes, an wavin' the book about his
head.
'"Twasn't long afore all Clogheen, was
we'll acquaint wi Jops bit o. writin': an
faith, 'twasn't long either afore people were
squintin across their noses about It, Sure
twas scandalous piece of impotence. 1
mind me hearin it read one evenin on the
canal bridge as well as if Mike had read
1t only an hour ago. Och, twas fair impi-
dence. 1t was a kind of a story about
courtin' an boys an girls, an a fallin' out
between a pair o. fools in the middle Of it.
an big fight at the end, an a man nearly
kilt, an all the rest-just the kind O. thing
we all know too much about an wanted to
hear no more of.
But here's where the impotence comes
in. livery DANCED thing happened in place
that was only Clogheen under another
name; an livery DANCED mortal in it was
some one, with another name to him, that
we all knew as we'll as we knew the polls.
Here was Father Mat as big as life an
twice as natural; here was Miss Kelly, o.
the postoffice, wiout a wart missing from
her face; here was ould Burke Of the hotel
wi a nose on him like a red hot black
thorn; here waS-ah, sure, Everyone was
tnere as PLAIN, an TWICE as PLAIN, as the
clock on the town hall. An Everyone had
their worst foot foremost; ay, 'twasnt all
the nice things Jop said O. this one an
that. Aw no; twas just the things that
gave people their nicknames, and what we
all used to laugh about.
'Twasn't the laughin' angered us an
made us promise to keep a stone up our
sleeve for Mr.. Jop. Nav, sir; twas t'other
things. Divil the like of it we liver heard.
You'd think Clogheen had kicked him out
into the world; instead O. it bein' his own
town, an the place he was born in, an it
full of his own friends. Twas a scandalous
piece of impotence. 1t made the hood boil
in us. Clogheen was a little dirty town
built on the side of a hill, says Mr.. Jop.
Clogheen hadn't a stone in the sidewalks
of it, says Mr. Jop, that wasn't cracked, or
a house that wasn't ready to fall, or shop
fit to sell rags. You'd find whisky runnin'
down the cutters on fair days, says Mr.. Jop.
an livery man an child in it drunk as a
fiddler, an livery second man whackin' his
neighbor wi a blackthorn, an the women
screechin' and fghtin; an all day long,
says Jop, you'll find the citizens Chat was
the world, keepn' the walls from fallin' by
standin against them, an their wives clack-
in in fafterS an the chider Oullin'