Handy Andy, Volume One | Page 2

those easy trifles
which afford a laugh, and require to be read in the same careless spirit
of good humour in which they are written.
In such a spirit, I am happy to say, "Handy Andy" was read fourteen
years ago, and has continued to be read ever since; and as this reprint,
in a cheaper form, will open it to thousands of fresh readers, I give
these few introductory words to propitiate in the future the kindly spirit
which I gratefully remember in the past.
SAMUEL LOVER.
London, 26th July, 1854.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
VOLUME ONE
Andy Icing the Champagne Frontispiece
Andy's First Attempt at Music Vignette on Title

Andy's Introduction to the Squire Page 6
An Irish Inquest " 80
Andy's Welcome Home " 102
The Reward of Humanity " 129
The Widow Flanagan's Party " 295
Etched by W. H. W. Bicknell from drawings by Samuel Lover

HANDY ANDY
CHAPTER I
Andy Rooney was a fellow who had the most singularly ingenious
knack of doing everything the wrong way; disappointment waited on
all affairs in which he bore a part, and destruction was at his fingers'
ends; so the nickname the neighbours stuck upon him was Handy Andy,
and the jeering jingle pleased them.
Andy's entrance into this world was quite in character with his after
achievements, for he was nearly the death of his mother. She survived,
however, to have herself clawed almost to death while her darling
"babby" was in arms, for he would not take his nourishment from the
parent fount unless he had one of his little red fists twisted into his
mother's hair, which he dragged till he made her roar; while he diverted
the pain by scratching her, till the blood came, with the other.
Nevertheless, she swore he was "the loveliest and sweetest craythur the
sun ever shined upon;" and when he was able to run about and wield a
little stick, and smash everything breakable belonging to her, she only
praised his precocious powers, and she used to ask, "Did ever any one
see a darlin' of his age handle a stick so bowld as he did?"
Andy grew up in mischief and the admiration of his mammy; but, to do
him justice, he never meant harm in the course of his life, and he was

most anxious to offer his services on all occasions to those who would
accept them; but they were only the persons who had not already
proved Andy's peculiar powers.
There was a farmer hard by in this happy state of ignorance, named
Owen Doyle, or, as he was familiarly called, Owny na Coppal, or,
"Owen of the Horses," because he bred many of these animals, and sold
them at the neighbouring fairs; and Andy one day offered his services
to Owny when he was in want of some one to drive up a horse to his
house from a distant "bottom," as low grounds by a river-side are called
in Ireland.
"Oh, he's wild, Andy, and you'd never be able to ketch him," said
Owny.
"Troth, an' I'll engage I'll ketch him if you'll let me go. I never seen the
horse I couldn't ketch, sir," said Andy.
"Why, you little spridhogue, if he took to runnin' over the long bottom,
it 'ud be more than a day's work for you to folly him."
"Oh, but he won't run."
"Why won't he run?"
"Bekaze I won't make him run."
"How can you help it?"
"I'll soother him."
"Well, you're a willin' brat, anyhow; and so go on, and God speed you!"
said Owny.
"Just gi' me a wisp o' hay an' a han'ful iv oats," said Andy, "if I should
have to coax him."
"Sartinly," said Owny, who entered the stable and came forth with the
articles required by Andy, and a halter for the horse also.

"Now, take care," said Owny, "that you are able to ride that horse if
you get on him."
"Oh, never fear, sir. I can ride owld Lanty Gubbins' mule betther nor
any o' the boys on the common, and he couldn't throw me th' other day,
though he kicked the shoes av him."
"After that you may ride anything," said Owny; and indeed it was true;
for Lanty's mule, which fed on the common, being ridden slily by all
the young vagabonds in the neighbourhood, had become such an adept
in the art of getting rid of his troublesome customers that it might well
be considered a feat to stick on him.
"Now take great care of him, Andy, my boy," said the farmer.
"Don't be afeared, sir," said Andy, who started on his errand in that
peculiar pace which is elegantly called a "sweep's trot;" and as the river
lay between Owny Doyle's and the bottom,