The Irish standard., 1911-02-18

on q frosty day. in December when
the brief sunlight is reflected in the
scintiAating and gem-like handiwork
of the frost, which has thrown a
mantle of white on the woods? For
mellowness and variety and pathos
the lark isn't in it with the robin.
Gardeners tell you that robin is a
destructive villain, but then garden
ers are no poets, so away with them.
We can never be too grateful to the
robin for singing for us in the dark
and dreary winter time when other
birds are laid up with sore threats.
It's all very we'll to be talking poet
ically about meadow; and it's wrong
to say that an auctioneer is the only
man influenced by it's inspiring glor-
les. The man that owns it, especially
if he's small farmer, only takes one
view of his property, and that is how
much it is worth. And small blame
to him. Before the grass in the mea-
dow is high enough to cover lepre-
caun, and he's only as tall as your
finger, the farmer has calculated how
much winter feed this will make, and
how many pigs he can buy out of the
price of what's over. There'll be plen-
ty of calls on the product of the mea-
dow, and so We'll forgive him it he
doesn't break into verse when he gets
up in the morning and gazes on It;
but we'll be surprised at him If he
doesn't break into strong language
when he sees Cunieffs spancelled
mule browsing for himself in the far
corner of it. What? 1t took that
poor farmer and his family a week to
pick all the stones out of the field
before he sowed the grass-seeds in it,
and here a blackguard of providing
mule is as full as balloon with a
decent mans grass. That mule that
spent half it's life in the pounds Of
the country and never got an honest
Now the Bishop Is Neutral.
All, but the farmers troubles don't
begin or end with Cunieff's mule. It's
the weather that's troubling him. Will
there be enough sunshine to ripen the
meadow? And so he watches every
change in the sky and Is miserable of
q night when he lies awake and hears
the piping wall of the seagull, that
inevitable sign Of rain; or when he
sees the crows flying low as they
come home of an evening like trails
of black smoke from so factory chin
neys. Talking of weather, We have
been praying for fine weather for two
months, and tits badly wanted, as you
hear talk of ruin on every side; but,
thanks to God, September came in
gentle and beaming and dispelled the
gloomy forebodings of the GROWERS.
OF course, it's hard to please the farm
ers in the matter of weather; they
all want their own kind OF weather.
j, know one diocese, and great num-
bers of the farmers grow turnips, and
the rest grow hay. The former want
plenty of rain, and the latter plenty
of sunshine. Anyhow, last year the
Bishop ordered prayers for fine wealth
o.. The turnip contingent and their
families were indignant. "Does he
want to beggar us, and have US
thrown out on the road?" And they
wouldn't Join in the prayer for fine
weather. So what did the Bishop do
this year? He ordered the prayer,
"Pro quacunque necessitate" ("for
whatsoever necessity"), and now
there's no grumbling and the Bishop
hasn't taken sides in the matter at
all.
!. Have you ever heard the answer
that Bartly Minogue made to the par
ish priest about praying for fine wea-
ther? The priest was coming out OF
the sacristy, and whom did he meet
but Bartly, who was going over to
get his mare that was tied up to the
railing OF the graveyard. II suppose
you said the prayers for fine weather
from your heart today, Bartly?"
"Musha then, deed an didn't" said
Bartly, "for there's no use in praying
for fine weather SO long as the wind
is from the south, your reverence"