The Irish standard., 1906-01-13

/ range of hills that grid the West Linn
/ erick plain. They stretch along the
whole western horizon, dipping te
glens, rising to heights. in long sweep.
ing curves. A country in fact not I'M
like the lines of the English downs
but higher and wetter looking. Wher
the sun goes down behind them in its
glory every curve and undulation
Z stands forth defined by silvery or gold
en- mists, every tree quivers in haze
d of light, and emerald meadows, flecked
with the heavy Munster cattle in red
/ and black andSwhite. lie dreaming in
the passing of the sunshine. How
beautiful it was! There where this
evening picture was best to be seen
under the lichen-white aged walls OF
the Fort. was my fathers seat,-in-
deed We called it Dan Sheahans seat
for he was master, my father pupil
You might see the two elderly men,
Sheahan in the old frieze and knee
&
mirable dress of the poor, my father
tall and stately, with mass of grey
hair clad probably in Irish grey
frieze, for he liked to call himself the
grey man." Day after day this pair
were to be seen towards sunset study
ing perhaps old Mss. or Irish gram
mars. My father began his Irish late
in life, being over forty. and never
'Icaught on" to the pronunciation, but
otherwise became a good scholar be-
fore he died. He also collected many
Mss.
In 1861 all these pleasant hours We're
broken up by my mothers death, but
he continued working in Dublin. un.
fortunately was SO young and occu-
pied with the routine of Education"
fore his death that he began to think
of teaching me, and. then it was done
in a fashion of his own. We had a
sweet little cook from County Clare,
one Biddy Cuneen. She could neither
read nor write, but could speak Irish
with most delicious accent, and sing
1t too in sweet bird-like fashion, lisp
ing over the syllables with curious
sh-sounds that seemed to stand for all
the small words. My father, Biddy,
and l were alone at the time. He
used to lie down on the couch, read
sentence with me, then make Biddy
translate and pronounce, he himself
struggling with pronunciation valiant
W hut in vain. Then poor Biddy who
was already "shamed Of her life" by
coming up out Of her own haunts to
1.-The MASTER" would go off into a
shrek of laughter, wrap her head in
her apron, and subside. Some words
she could not stand. There was a
tale of a boy who got "phatee riusne"
(phonetic) "marshy potatoes" at the
farmers and complained to the court.
When we got to this very mild Joke
Biddy's pretty round face would be-
81 to bubble, her lovely Irish eyes
to dance, at last the explosion would
come and the three of US would go of
in q chorus all about nothing in the
world but these "marshy potatoes"
But Biddy was infectious. No one
could stand her mixture Of modest
shyness and mirth along with her great
sweetness and beauty and simplicity.
Thus picked up little, a very little
Irish.
Thirty years later DR.. Douglas Hyde.
then an unknown man. spent a week
with me and we talked and talked of
all that was to be done, and of all the
ancient tales, and of Biddy, and of my
father. It was indeed delight to me
then to meet one who SO believed.
had the honor too Of little Irish
ram, or poem, written by him In my
praise and glorification in the manner
of the ancient rhymers of the country.
did not realize then, some fifteen
years ago, that the delicate young man
who had so interested and touched my
sympathies was going to turn out one
of my GREATEST friends-most faithful,
steady. and kind. year after year. new
err forgetting in the midst of all his
work and popularity, simple. true and
kind to me as to every one. He was
here this last year at the Foynes Feis.
went down to see what was going
on. Where is DR.. HYDE" said I. after
looking in all conspicuous places. ooh,
he's over in the corner there" I was
i. told. went quietly and stood by him
i for quite q time before he saw me.
See him there squatted on the green
grass under the fence, three very small
girls laughing up at him, small ring
of children around! He was "peg-
ging away" as the boys used to say
at their little exercises, laughing, ex-
planning, scolding. At last he looked
up and caught my eye. threw him a
white abutillon as a prize and left
him in peace to his children.
And now, comes the next generation
one sows. seed and thinks it dead-be.
hold one turns round and finds flow
jers and fruit where nothing was ex-
I pected! My IleceNand foster-chi,t
who never learnt Irish. or. as