adapted from the irish of "an seabhac" in "an baile seo 'gainn-ne."

one st. patrick's night the gaels were gathered together in their own special corner of heaven (ned mcgrane told us on a certain evening in the forge), and were having a glorious time of it. they were there in tens of thousands—fionn and the fianna, brian boru, the o'neills and o'donnells and o'sullivans and maccarthys, and every other o and mac who ever looked upon ireland as the one and only small nationality that claimed his heart and hand.

they were all clustered round a fine-looking, white-haired old man, who was nearly worn out acknowledging their congratulations and felicitations and hearty words of cheer and greeting. it was because of him the diversion had been set on foot, for he was none other than padraig, the patron saint and apostle of ireland, but the poor man looked as if he hoped it would soon be at an end. for no sooner had he recovered from the shock given to his nerves by the handshake of some big, tall chieftain of the north than his limp arm was wrung almost to wrenching point by a towering gael from some of the other provinces, until in the end he didn't know whether he was in heaven or on the summit of cruach padraig.

[pg 105]

at last, to his great relief, a bout of dancing was arranged for between goll macmorna, one of the famous fianna of fionn, and a celebrated feis prize-winner, who had only arrived from ireland a few days previously. fifty fiddlers and fifty pipers played for them and it was a surprise to the new arrival to see that all the musicians were in perfect agreement, and that all had the same version of the tune. there was terrific excitement as the dance progressed, and goll macmorna, carried away by the enthusiasm, finished up with such a jump and a clatter that he broke a piece out of the floor, and sent it hurtling down among the stars. he nearly went after it himself, and was only just saved by being gripped in time by the blacksmith of limerick, who was nearest to him at the moment.

the skelp out of the floor kept falling and falling until it vanished from sight altogether. and you'll be surprised to hear where it landed.

just at that very moment a young son of belzebub—i forget what the little devil's name was, but it doesn't matter—was playing with a heap of recruiting posters down on the floor of—of—the other place, you know. the nurse was talking to a peeler at the gate and was just telling him about the latest novelette when the yelling and roaring and the noise were heard inside. in she dashed and found the young master flattened out like a pancake on the floor, and a big lump of a rock resting itself on top of him. then the row started, and the talk that went about and the curses that careered around in column formation would make this book smell of brimstone if i were to set them down.

[pg 106]

"who threw the stone?" asked belzebub for the twentieth time, "that's the question."

"it was down it came," says a man standing near him. he had no horns and no hoof, but he was well scorched.

"how do you know?" says belzebub.

"i have a way of knowing all such things," says the man. "as you may remember, i used to be a crown witness in ireland before i came here."

"this stone," says another man exactly like the last speaker, "this stone came a long way. it came as far as it could come. it didn't grow in this country or near it—the heat is too great. i know the sort of stone it is, because i used to be a department expert in ireland long ago. it grew in no other place than in heav—i mean where the goo—i beg your pardon, i mean the—the—the place where people go who don't come here."

"it was peter killed my child!" shouted belzebub, as he switched his tail and blew clouds of brimstone smoke from his nostrils.

"wait a moment," says another well-scorched man—a sleek-looking fellow with a rogue's eye and a hangdog appearance, "i know who the culprits are. i used to be a felon-setter in ireland before my services were transferred here, and i ought to know. this is st. patrick's night. the irish crowd up in the other place are always allowed to hold demonstrations on this night—a most illegal and seditious gathering it usually is, too—and it's their unruly conduct that has sent this missile flying down here. if you get into communication with the freeman over the private[pg 107] wire, you'll find——"

"but it's in peter's place they are," shouted belzebub, "and peter is responsible for their actions. will you bear witness to it?"

"we will, certainly," they all shouted, "but to what?"

"to the fact that peter is responsible for my son's death."

"we're ready to take twenty oaths on it."

"is there any lawyer here who is willing to take up the case?" asked belzebub.

"there is!" came the shout from thousands of throats, and every corner in the place echoed back the roar of it.

"count them," said belzebub to his confidential clerk, who had once been chief secretary in ireland, and was well up in figures. the clerk began, but when he had used up all the paper in the place and all the figures he knew, he came to belzebub and said there were still ten divisions and a battalion of lawyers to be counted.

"shut your eyes and pick out any one at all," says belzebub, "they're all the same. is there a bailiff here?"

there came an immense crowd of them.

"go," says belzebub to one fellow, "and serve a writ on peter."

the bailiff did as he was ordered, and when the writ reached poor st. peter he was perturbed. he brought it to st. patrick.

"see the mess you people have landed me in," he said, "the night you had the ceilidh—your feast night[pg 108]—the piece that your champion dancer knocked out of the floor fell on belzebub's son and killed him." the gaels weren't the least bit sorry. the only comment was made by conan maol.

"pity it wasn't on the father it fell," says he.

"o dear, o dear," says st. peter, with a sigh, and off he went to look for legal advice.

everybody noticed that for the next few days he was terribly troubled, that he was searching for something or somebody, high up and low down, going here, there and everywhere.

the court day came. belzebub and his big staff of lawyers and witnesses were in attendance, but st. peter wasn't up to time.

they waited for him a long time. they were impatient. then came a messenger.

"he'll be here shortly," says the messenger. "he seems to be looking for something. he has the whole place above nearly turned upside down."

they waited on and waited on, but there was no sign of st. peter. the judge was getting vexed. at last they saw somebody coming, running, perspiration dropping from him, his face and figure showing signs of haste and worry. it was st. peter. he only put his head in at the door.

"wait a few minutes longer, if you please," says he to the judge, "i may be able to do it yet." and away he raced again.

a half hour passed, then an hour, then two hours, but there was no sign of st. peter. a messenger was sent out to watch for him. at long last the messenger shouted in through the open window:

[pg 109]

"here he comes!"

they all looked out and saw him coming. but it was a slow-moving, dispirited, disappointed-looking st. peter they saw. you'd think that everyone belonging to him had just died or that he had heard some sorrowful tidings. he stopped at the door and looked sadly at the judge. everyone was silent. st. peter spoke.

"i give it up," says he, shaking his head, "there's no use in going on with it. i've searched heaven seven times over, from top to bottom, from end to end and from side to side, here, there and everywhere, but in any part or portion of it i couldn't find lawyer of any description that i might ask to plead my case for me."

then he turned on his heel and walked back as he had come.