The Crock of Gold | Page 7

I have no knowledge, I have no husband, I have no more to say."
"If I had anything better you should have it," said she politely to the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath.
"Thank you," said the Thin Woman, "it was very nice. Shall I begin now? My husband is meditating and we may be able to annoy him."
"Don't trouble yourself," replied the other, "I am past enjoyment and am, moreover, a respectable woman."
"That is no more than the truth, indeed."
"I have always done the right thing at the right time."
"I'd be the last body in the world to deny that," was the warm response.
"Very well, then," said the Grey Woman, and she commenced to take off her boots. She stood in the cen- tre of the room and balanced herself on her toe.
"You are a decent, respectable lady," said the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath, and then the Grey Woman be- gan to gyrate rapidly and more rapidly until she was a very fervour of motion, and in three-quarters of an hour (for she was very tough) she began to slacken, grew visible, wobbled, and fell beside her dead husband, and on her face was a beatitude almost surpassing his.
The Thin Woman of Inis Magrath smacked the chil- dren and put them to bed, next she buried the two bodies under the hearthstone, and then, with some trouble, de- tached her husband from his meditations. When he became capable of ordinary occurrences she detailed all that had happened, and said that he alone was to blame for the sad bereavement. He replied:
"The toxin generates the anti-toxin. The end lies concealed in the beginning. All bodies grow around a skeleton. Life is a petticoat about death. I will not go to bed."
CHAPTER III
ON the day following this melancholy occurrence Mee- hawl MacMurrachu, a small farmer in the neighbour- hood, came through the pine trees with tangled brows. At the door of the little house he said, "God be with all here," and marched in.
The Philosopher removed his pipe from his lips-- "God be with yourself," said he, and he replaced his pipe.
Meehawl MacMurrachu crooked his thumb at space- "Where is the other one?" said he.
"Ah!" said the Philosopher.
"He might be outside, maybe?"
"He might, indeed," said the Philosopher gravely.
"Well, it doesn't matter," said the visitor, "for you have enough knowledge by yourself to stock a shop. The reason I came here to-day was to ask your honoured ad- vice about my wife's washing-board. She only has it a couple of years, and the last time she used it was when she washed out my Sunday shirt and her black skirt with the red things on it--you know the one?"
"I do not," said the Philosopher.
"Well, anyhow, the washboard is gone, and my wife says it was either taken by the fairies or by Bessie Han- nigan--you know Bessie Hannigan? She has whiskers like a goat and a lame leg!"-
"I do not," said the Philosopher.
"No matter," said Meehawl MacMurrachu. "She didn't take it, because my wife got her out yesterday and kept her talking for two hours while I went through everything in her bit of a house--the washboard wasn't there."
"It wouldn't be," said the Philosopher.
"Maybe your honour could tell a body where it is then?"
"Maybe I could," said the Philosopher; "are you listening?" "I am," said Meehawl MacMurrachu.
The Philosopher drew his chair closer to the visitor until their knees were jammed together. He laid both his hands on Meehawl MacMurrachu's knees-
"Washing is an extraordinary custom," said he. "We are washed both on coming into the world and on going out of it, and we take no pleasure from the first wash- ing nor any profit from the last."
"True for you, sir," said Meehawl MacMurrachu.
"Many people consider that scourings supplementary to these are only due to habit. Now, habit is continuity of action, it is a most detestable thing and is very diffi- cult to get away from. A proverb will run where a writ will not, and the follies of our forefathers are of greater importance to us than is the well-being of our posterity."
"I wouldn't say a word against that, sir," said Mee- hawl MacMurrachu.
"Cats are a philosophic and thoughtful race, but they do not admit the efficacy of either water or soap, and yet it is usually conceded that they are cleanly folk. There are exceptions to every rule, and I once knew a cat who lusted after water and bathed daily: he was an unnatural brute and died ultimately of the head staggers. Chil- dren are nearly as wise as cats. It is true that they will utilize water in a variety of ways, for instance, the de- struction of a tablecloth or a pinafore, and I have ob- served them greasing a ladder with soap, showing in the process a