Michael McGrath, Postmaster | Page 4

valleys in these deep forests stood back from
them, and there opened up a vision of homes far away, filled with faces
and echoing with voices that some of them knew they would never see
nor hear again.
But no man ever saw Ould Michael read his letter. That half-hour he
spent in his inner room and, when he came out, there was lingering
about his face a glory as of a departing vision. The dark-blue eyes were
darker than before and in them that soft, abstracted look that one sees in
the eye of a child just awakened from sleep. His tongue, so ready at
other times, would be silent; and he would move softly over to his
friend McFarquhar, and stand there as in a dream. As he came toward
us on this occasion, McFarquhar said, in an undertone: "It is good news
to-day with Ould Michael," adding in answer to my look of inquiry,
"His sister has charge of his little girl at home."
Ould Michael steed in silence beside his friend for some moments.
"All well, Michael?" asked McFarquhar.
"They are, that," answered the old soldier, with a happy sigh. "Och, 'tis
the lovely land it is, and it's ha-ard to kape away from it."
"I am thinking you are better away from it than in it," said McFarquhar,
dryly.
"Indade, an' it's thrue for you," answered Ould Michael, "but the longer
y're from it the more ye love it, an' it's God bless Ould Oireland siz I,"
and he bore us off to celebrate.
It was useless for me to protest. His duty for the month was over; he
was a free man. He had had his good news; and why should he not
celebrate? Besides, he had money in his pocket, and "what would the
byes think av me if I neglected to set 'em up?" And set 'em up he did
for "the byes" and for himself, till I heard McFarquhar taking him to his
cabin to put him to bed long after I had turned in. All through the
following Sunday Ould Michael continued his celebration, with the

hearty and uproarious assistance of the rest of the men and most of
them remained over night for Ould Michael's Sunday spree, which they
were sure would follow.
How completely Paddy Dougan's whisky, most of which he made on
his back premises, changed Ould Michael and the whole company!
From being solemn, silent, alert and generally good-natured, they
became wildly vociferous, reckless, boastful and quarrelsome. That
Sunday, as always happens in the Mountains, where there are plenty of
whisky and a crowd of men, was utterly horrible. The men went wild in
all sorts of hideous horseplay, brawls and general debauchery, and
among them Ould Michael reigned a king.
"It is bad whisky," McFarquhar exclaimed. McFarquhar himself was
never known to get drunk, for he knew his limit on good whisky, and
he avoided bad. Paddy Dougan knew better than to give him any of his
own home-made brew, for if, after his fourth, McFarquhar found
himself growing incapable, knowing that he could enjoy his sixth and
even carry with comfort his ninth, then his rage blazed forth, and the
only safety for Paddy lay in escape to the woods. It was not so much
that he despised the weakness of getting drunk, but he resented the
fraud that deprived him of the pleasure of leisurely pursuing his way to
his proper limit.
"It is the bad whisky," repeated McFarquhar "and Ould Michael ought
to know better than fill himself up with such deplorable stuff."
"Too bad!" I said.
"Ay, but I'll jist take him away with me to-morrow and he'll come to in
a few days."
I knew enough of the life in these valleys not to be hard with Ould
Michael and his friends. The slow monotony of the long, lonely weeks
made any break welcome, and the only break open to them was that
afforded by Paddy Dougan's best home-made, a single glass of which
would drive a man far on to madness. A new book, a fresh face, a
social gathering, a Sabbath service--how much one or all of these might

do for them!
With difficulty I escaped from Ould Michael's hospitality and, leaving
the scenes of beastly debauchery behind, betook myself to the woods
and river. Here, on the lower bench, the woods became an open glade
with only the big trees remaining.
I threw myself down on the river-bank and gave myself up to the
gracious influences that stole in upon, me from trees and air and grass
and the flowing river. The Sabbath feeling began to grow upon me, as
the pines behind and the river in front sang to each other soft, crooning
songs. As I lay and