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Authors: John B. Keane
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adamant. Then with a chuckle he added, âweâll hide this fellow in the bushes and go looking for his missus.â
He had but barely spoken when a whistle blew close at hand. The sound was loud and shrill and shattered not only the silence of the night but the shocked poachers as well. They stood paralysed, rooted to the ground, unable to move. The next sound to intrude upon the quiet of the night was a shot. It exploded deafeningly from a bush nearby. It was followed by a second shot. It electrified the lifeless cage-maker and his acolyte. The latter was the first to take off. Like any hunted creature he ran up the riverside. Ned Muddle who was the very personification of cowardice ran down towards the town.
âHalt in the name of the law!â The stentorian tones came from the same bush as the shots. The command only served to spur the fleeing pair to greater efforts. They ran for their lives. Finding himself unwounded after a hundred paces Ned now directed himself to where the sound of human voices in melodic union emanated sweetly from the parish church. His eyes bulging with terror he puffed his way to the only sanctuary available to him. He knew not the moment when his life might be ended with a bullet in the back. It did not occur to him at the time that the water-keepers of the Bradawn River were not licensed to bear arms nor would the local civic guards resort to such murderous tactics. It would dawn on him at a later stage that the underworld of Ballybradawn, as he was to dub the local poachers, was responsible.
As he drew nearer the church the sound of five hundred voices raised in the Adeste urged him to greater effort. Breathlessly he entered the blessed refuge of light and sound. In the pulpit the parish priest, venerable and portly, conducted the singing with fervour and total commitment. He suddenly lowered his hands when he beheld the stricken, dishevelled figure of Ned Muddle, poacher, wife-beater, lout and drunkard. He knew Ned well, had known him for years as a godless wretch and sacrilegious scoundrel. The parish priestâs mouth opened but no sound came forth. His vast choir, without direction, was silenced as every member of the surprised congregation followed his amazed stare. They beheld Ned, his perspiring face as contrite as ever had been the face of any sinner, great or small. There were members of the gathering who could not make up their minds whether to laugh or cry. They looked to their parish priest for delivery from their indecision.
âMirabile dictu!â the parish priest intoned the words while his eyes filled with tears. Great was the rejoicing as the congregation echoed the Latin phrase. Most were not sure of its meaning but Latin it was and as such was sacred.
After the mass, Ned Muddle went forth into the world in peace. Need it be added that he mended his ways and came to possess the grace of God, that he became a model parent and husband and that his neighbours flocked to him when they found themselves in need of counsel or solace. He ended his days a parochial sacristan which, after the position of junior curate, is the highest ecclesiastical office in the village of Ballybradawn.
The Scubblething
Martin Scubble and his wife Mary lived on the verge of the boglands. Their cottage was the last thatched habitation of its kind in that part of the world known as Tubberscubble. For generations the Scubbles had farmed the twenty acres of deep cutaway which was the total extent of their soggy holding.
Martin was the last of the Scubbles. He would say that he never missed not having children and Mary would say that she had a child.
âWhat is Martin,â she would ask, âbut an overgrown child that wouldnât be here nor there without me?â
Childless they might be but theirs was a house that was never without children because of the constant activity in the boglands throughout most of the year. There was never a day in the summer when tea-making
He had but barely spoken when a whistle blew close at hand. The sound was loud and shrill and shattered not only the silence of the night but the shocked poachers as well. They stood paralysed, rooted to the ground, unable to move. The next sound to intrude upon the quiet of the night was a shot. It exploded deafeningly from a bush nearby. It was followed by a second shot. It electrified the lifeless cage-maker and his acolyte. The latter was the first to take off. Like any hunted creature he ran up the riverside. Ned Muddle who was the very personification of cowardice ran down towards the town.
âHalt in the name of the law!â The stentorian tones came from the same bush as the shots. The command only served to spur the fleeing pair to greater efforts. They ran for their lives. Finding himself unwounded after a hundred paces Ned now directed himself to where the sound of human voices in melodic union emanated sweetly from the parish church. His eyes bulging with terror he puffed his way to the only sanctuary available to him. He knew not the moment when his life might be ended with a bullet in the back. It did not occur to him at the time that the water-keepers of the Bradawn River were not licensed to bear arms nor would the local civic guards resort to such murderous tactics. It would dawn on him at a later stage that the underworld of Ballybradawn, as he was to dub the local poachers, was responsible.
As he drew nearer the church the sound of five hundred voices raised in the Adeste urged him to greater effort. Breathlessly he entered the blessed refuge of light and sound. In the pulpit the parish priest, venerable and portly, conducted the singing with fervour and total commitment. He suddenly lowered his hands when he beheld the stricken, dishevelled figure of Ned Muddle, poacher, wife-beater, lout and drunkard. He knew Ned well, had known him for years as a godless wretch and sacrilegious scoundrel. The parish priestâs mouth opened but no sound came forth. His vast choir, without direction, was silenced as every member of the surprised congregation followed his amazed stare. They beheld Ned, his perspiring face as contrite as ever had been the face of any sinner, great or small. There were members of the gathering who could not make up their minds whether to laugh or cry. They looked to their parish priest for delivery from their indecision.
âMirabile dictu!â the parish priest intoned the words while his eyes filled with tears. Great was the rejoicing as the congregation echoed the Latin phrase. Most were not sure of its meaning but Latin it was and as such was sacred.
After the mass, Ned Muddle went forth into the world in peace. Need it be added that he mended his ways and came to possess the grace of God, that he became a model parent and husband and that his neighbours flocked to him when they found themselves in need of counsel or solace. He ended his days a parochial sacristan which, after the position of junior curate, is the highest ecclesiastical office in the village of Ballybradawn.
The Scubblething
Martin Scubble and his wife Mary lived on the verge of the boglands. Their cottage was the last thatched habitation of its kind in that part of the world known as Tubberscubble. For generations the Scubbles had farmed the twenty acres of deep cutaway which was the total extent of their soggy holding.
Martin was the last of the Scubbles. He would say that he never missed not having children and Mary would say that she had a child.
âWhat is Martin,â she would ask, âbut an overgrown child that wouldnât be here nor there without me?â
Childless they might be but theirs was a house that was never without children because of the constant activity in the boglands throughout most of the year. There was never a day in the summer when tea-making
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