Author: The Burren and Beyond

B.A., M.A.(Archaeology); Regional Tour Guide; Dip. Radio Media Tech; H.Dip. Computer Science.
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Francis Fahy – 1928

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The Catholic Press (Sydney NSW) Thu. 8th November, 1928 p. 14

Excerpt from – The Irish Literary Society of London: A Brilliant Circle – written by P. J. Dillon (abridged)

For the past 30 years two societies have flourished in London, with one or other of which, if not with both, the individual of Irish literary proclivities resident in the English capital was reasonably sure to come in contact. One of these was the Gaelic League, and the other the Irish Literary Society. Frank Fahy was largely responsible for the foundation of each of these organisations. As a matter of fact, he was, as already indicated, the inspiration of what may be taken as the precursor of both of them, the old Southwark Literary Club, on the Surrey side of the Thames.

A Popular Songwriter. Fahy is not an uncommon name in the County Galway, and, like unto the sept of the O’Mahony’s of Cork, and that of the MacGuires of Fermanagh, Francis is a family patronymic in connection with it. One of the members for Galway in Dáil Éireann is named Frank Fahy, and he also has Gaelic literary leanings, being General Official Secretary to the Gaelic League of Ireland. The Frank Fahy with whom we are at present concerned, however, is more widely, known outside Ireland than any of his namesakes, owing to a number of popular lyrics written by him, which include such favourites with Irish audiences as ‘The Donovans,’ ‘An Ould Irish Hill in the Mornin’,’ ‘Little Mary Cassidy,.’ and ‘The Ould Plaid Shawl.’ He has been fortunate in his composers, and a good singer can procure an ‘encore’ with almost any of these songs of his; it is safe to say, however, that more real enjoyment has been obtained by those who have been privileged to listen to the author merely reading his compositions, than would be derivable from the rendition of them by the most capable vocalist of the day. The speaking voice, and the speaking face, the pathos, and the humour, and the unerring modulation, projected a picture visible to the eye of the mind, and vivid and animated as if the scene portrayed was actually being enacted by the originals of the types represented in the metrical compositions.

Official Discouragement.
For many years the author of these songs was an official of the Imperial Local Government Board. Whether or not poetry in the abstract, appealed to his superiors certain it is that the particular type of it that he was engaged in manufacturing was not to their taste. It was quite an easy thing to offend departmental susceptibilities in the days that he actively indulged in versifying, and although the authorities could bring themselves to swallow with a grimace, perhaps — the radicalism of Robert Burns, and the republicanism of Swinburne, anything with an Irish flavour was too nauseating.


It was a time when Parnell’s obstruction policy had produced more bitterness in official circles in London than had existed since the time of Daniel O’Connoll, and the circumstance that nothing more pronounced than jocular comparisons between the English and the Irish scheme of life could be charged against the writer, did not save Fahy from censure. It was definitely intimated to him that he would be well-advised to leave verse-writing alone, and to give undivided attention to the soul-stirring episodes associated with the work of Local Government.

Ah, me, the ‘old Irish hills’ are still there, but those whom Frank Fahy knew in the environs of the hills in the long ago are dead or vanished. And so, now retired from official labours, he has settled down for good in London. For some time past, beyond giving an occasional lecture, his activities have been confined to assisting, in an executive capacity, in keeping the Irish Literary Society alive and flourishing.

The Celtic strain and the literary instinct were too strong to permit of these repressive measures being entirely effective. He continued to strain at the bonds that held him tethered in London, separated from the hills and glens and streamlets of his darling island, and to give expression, in moving measures, to his craving for reunion with the mystic presences that float in the ether of Eirinn:


I’m weary and sick of the sight of the town,
Though haughty its mansions, and high its renown;
Oh, if some good fairy would but set me down
On an old Irish hill in the morning,
My very soul sighs for a sight of the sea,
By dear old Kinvarra, or down by Kilkee,
Or where Mohor cliffs in their majesty free,
Fling back ocean’s billows in scorning.
An old Irish hill, where the crag is so steep,
The air is so sweet, and the heather so deep,
Oh, lightly I’d labour, and soundly I’d sleep
On an old Irish hill in the morning.

These Saxons are hard, and their senses are cold,
And all that they care for or think of is gold,
What will cover their backs, or their coffers will hold?
Or what their shrunk shanks is adorning.
I miss the glad look and the grip of the hand,
The heart on the lips, and the welcome so bland,
The cead mile failthe’ and best in the land,
On an old Irish hill in the morning.
On an old Irish hill, where the torrents that leap,
Are types of the hearts that a vigil there keep;
Oh, sweet be their labour, and sound be their sleep
On an old Irish hill in the morning.

Some day when the summer cloud swims in the sky,
I’ll bid the stiff Saxon a merry good-bye,
And blithe over ocean and land I shall fly
To the green, pleasant land I was born in;
I’ll give the good-bye to all sorrow and strife,
I’ll find in the valley a rosy-cheeked wife,
And whistle ‘Moll Roe’ for the rest of my life,
On an old Irish hill in the morning.
On an old Irish’ hill, where the dreamy mists sweep,
A cabin of love ‘midst the heather to peep,
Oh, lightly I’d labour, and soundly I’d sleep
On an old Irish hill in the morning.

Sprightly Measures.
There is one striking peculiarity that attaches to Fahy’s songs, and that is the lilt in the lines that goes with the merry ones and the cadence of pathos that accompanies the infrequent ones of a sombre character. He appears to possess an instinct for supplying the precise metre, as well as the combination of words, which most aptly serve as a medium of expression of the particular theme that he is dealing with. The quaint conception, ‘Little Mary Cassidy,’ affords a good exemplification of his command of sprightly humour:


Oh, ’tis little Mary Cassidy’s the cause of all my misery,
The reason’ that I am not now the boy I used to be;
Oh, she beats the beauties all that we read about in history,
Sure half the country side is as lost for her as me.
Travel Ireland up and down; hill, valley, vale and town,
Fairer than the colleen dhown you’ll be looking for in vain;
Oh, I’d rather live in poverty with little Mary Cassidy,
Than Emperor without her be o’er Germany or Spain.

‘Twas at the dance at Dramody’s that first I caught a sight of her,
And heard her sing the ‘Dhrynawn dhown, till the tears came in my eyes,
And ever since that blessed hour I’m dreaming day and night of her;
The devil a wink of sleep at all I get from bed to rise.
Cheeks like the rose in June, song like the lark in tune,
Working, resting, night or noon, she never leaves my mind;
Oh, till singing by my cabin fire sits little Mary Cassidy,
‘Tis little ease or happiness I’m sure I’ll ever find.

What is wealth, what is fame, what is all that people fight about,
To a kind word from her lips, or a love-glance from her eye!
Oh, though troubles throng my breast, sure they’d soon go to the right-about
If I thought the curly head of her would be restin’ there by-and-bye.
Take all I own to-day — kith, kin, and care away,
Ship them across the sea, or to the frozen zone;
Leave me an orphan bare — but leave me Mary Cassidy,
I never would feel lonely with the two of us alone.

Frank Fahy comes from Kinvarra, that little spot on the shores of Galway Bay, that he has made known to so many through the medium of his song, ‘The Ould Plaid Shawl’:


Not far from ould Kinvarra, in the merry month of May,
When birds were einging cheerily, there came across my way,
As if from out the clouds above an angel chanced to fall,
A little Irish colleen, in an ould plaid shawl.

I courteously saluted her, ‘God save you, Miss,’ says I;
‘God save you kindly, sir,’ says she, and quickly passed me by.
Off went my heart along with her, a captive in her thrall,
Imprisoned in the corner. of her ould plaid shawl.

Ould Kinvarra.
I have heard him describe, in felicitous and humorous language, both physical peculiarities of the country surrounding Kinvarra, and the personal ones of many of the people who dwelt there. He had a rich store of recollections to draw on, being endowed with both an observing eye and a retentive memory. Indeed, it would have been a difficult task for him to weary his audience on a topic of the kind referred to, his discourse being shot through, as it invariably was, with amusing little episodes which he had a special gift of recounting in the most happy manner. Seats in the lecture hall were always at a premium on a night that he was billed to appear.

He left Kinvarra before the seed sown in Ireland by the Gaelic League came to be harvested, with the result that his ability to speak Irish was circumscribed. It was currently spoken by his elders in his native district, and his father and mother were both Irish speakers, but it had not yet been relieved from the contempt which ignorance of its value had caused to be associated with it. It was at the time looked upon as vulgar, and barbarous, and low, and in every way to be condemned, and strangled, and buried forever and ever, even though the apology for broken English which superseded it was a thing for any educated self respecting Irishman to shudder at. For of a surety there is no more atrocious English spoken than in the west of Connaught. Anyhow, Frank Fahy had read a good deal of Irish history, and cherished the little Gaelic that he brought to London with him, and he could follow an Irish speaker intelligently, as long as the person did not articulate
too quickly.

London Popularity.
In London in those days he was nearer to Dublin, in more senses than one, than he was to Kinvarra, and, lighting a taper from the lamp which had been enkindled by Dr. Douglas Hyde and his confreres in the Irish capital, he busied himself in the establishment of a branch of the Gaelic League in London, of which he was the first president. It was through the medium of the concerts of this organisation that his songs first got a vogue, and even up to the present time the programme of the St. Patrick’s Night concert in London is rare without one or more of them appearing on it. His ballad of ‘Galway Bay’ used to be a great favourite in Irish circles, its sentiments finding an echo in many an exile’s heart yearning for the land of his love. He told me that it was originally written to gratify his father, who followed
his gifted son to London:


Oh, grey and bloak by shore and creek, the rugged rocks abound,
But sweeter green the grass between that grows on Irish ground;
So friendship fond, all wealth beyond, and love that lives alway,
Bless each poor home beside your foam, my dear old Galway Bay.

Had I youth’s blood and hopeful mood, and heart of fire once more,
For all the gold the earth might hold, I’d never quit your shore;
I’d live content, whate’er God sent, with neighbours old and grey,
And lay my bones ‘neath churchyard stones besides you, Galway Bay.

The blessings of a poor old man be with you night and day,
The blessings of a lonely man whose heart will soon be clay;
‘Tis all the Heaven I’d ask of God upon my dying day —
My soul to soar for evermore above you, Galway Bay.

I never knew anyone who had an unkind word to say of Frank Fahy. There is not, the slightest suspicion of pedantry or bumptiousness about him; he is always cheery and pleasant, jovial and humorous. At a complimentary dinner given to him a few years ago by the Irish Literary Society, eloquent tribute was rendered to him by quite a number of distinguished people, for the splendid work that he performed during his long association with Irish literary activities in the English metropolis. He is deservedly regarded by all those Irishmen who have the privilege of his acquaintance as a kindly, talented, essentially Celtic personality.

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The Convent Industries of Gort – 1894

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Southern Cross (Adelaide) 16th February, 1894 p.8
By a Gort Man.(abridged)

There was a time when, for quality and output, the linen and other industries of Ireland pressed those of England pretty close in the race, for supremacy. Whether the Union be admitted the cause of their decadence or not, the fact is beyond question that, in the days when Dublin was the city of the Irish nobility and gentry, when rents were spent freely in the land which yielded them, the Irish capital was a great manufacturing centre, and the home industries of the smaller towns were beginning to acquire a reputation outside Ireland. Those days are past, but not necessarily, if I may use the language of the song, beyond recall. The industries of Ireland may be revived again, and revived even without the help of a paternal legislature, upon which, however effective for good it may become with its site in College Green, too much reliance for all purposes must not be placed.

For a few years there has been a marked revival of several of the home industries of Ireland in some of the provincial towns. I dare say many of your readers will recognise a familiar ring about the names, Skibbereen, Cork, Queenstown, Kinsale, Ballayhadereen (sic.), and Gort. Well, through the industry, intelligence, and affectionate devotion to the interests of those under the charge of the Sisters of Mercy, these towns are acquiring a reputation for linen weaving and other industries suitable to girls. These industries are carried on in the convents under the management of the Nuns. They have been started “without capital, without previous experience, almost without sympathy,” by the Sisters of Mercy in a few local centres. The Sisters, with that splendid confidence bred of a perfect reliance upon Providence, believing, in the words of one of their reports, “that all help required would be forthcoming, if God willed their efforts to prosper, provided they worked with zeal, generosity, sincerity, and earnestness.” We must admire the pluck and sympathise with the spirit of those who with little capital beyond self-reliance, and that animating patriotism which expresses itself less in words than in effective service of the people within the circle of their daily duties, could attempt to make a reputation in England for the convent industries of Ireland.
On the whole, the efforts of the Sisters have been successful. In a little pamphlet, written by Mr. Joseph A. Glynn, Hon. Sec. to the Convent Industries of Gort, we are told that on the counters of Ryland & Co., Manchester, may be found hosiery from the Ballaghadereen Convent Industries. The Gort industries, on whose behalf, for they are hampered in their hitherto successful career by lack of capital, Mr. Glynn’s pamphlet is written, were started in 1891. Two Nuns went from Gort to Skibbereen to learn the business, and returned with a determination to do for their beautiful and beloved convent on the Sinking River what their Sisters had done elsewhere. The services of a competent teacher were procured from Belfast, and the work was started. The industries comprise weaving and
several others suitable for girls, such as advanced needlework, knitting, hosiery, scientific dressmaking, embroidery and vestment making. Let me quote from the pamphlet:—
“The looms turn out towelling, linen and lawn, and since the beginning the work finished comprises 70 dozen towels, 70 dozen cambric handkerchiefs, 800 yards of linen, and 1,300 yards of lawn, all of which have been
pronounced of first-class quality.”
The success in hosiery has also been remarkable. Of the handkerchiefs I can speak from experience. The arrival of half a dozen of them as a Christmas box has made my annual cold quite a luxury. I can now enjoy a good blow without going to Port Elliot, The Bluff, or a meeting of
candidates for the Legislative Council.
It is impossible to overrate the good, to be accomplished by these industries. In the first place, we know what the supervision of the Sisters means. Love, purity, and duty. In the next, there is no whining for State subventions, no clamour for that premium upon carelessness and shoddy which goes by the name of a protective tariff no array of State inspectors and supervisors, no company floating with its list of directors who are ready to lend the prestige of their names to anything, from an association to breed kangaroos at Hindmarsh to a society to propagate beer in the interior. In fact, the convent method is the antithesis of that followed in not far distant countries, where the State endeavours to bottle-feed the rising generation into imbecility, and patriotic speculators float themselves
into fortunes and credulous shareholders into the insolvency court.
However, the extension of the Gort industries is hampered by lack of cash. The bill for yarn is heavy; if there is a delay in payments the discount is lost and interest accumulates and thus a big percentage of the profit disappears. The stock is running out and the Sisters have not the wherewithall to replenish it. “Here we have,” says the pamphlet, “five or six distinct branches of industry established, giving employment to some score or so of girls, and teaching hundreds and yet for want of a few hundred, pounds there is every likelihood of work having to be stopped. I feel it due to the Irish in England to say that ninety per cent, of the orders came from them, and a bare ten per cent, represents home consumption.” It is a national question; and if some sons of the old sod who are now being baked by the sun of South Australia, but who remember a country where the fields are green, the clouds beautiful, the streams as merry as a second season hunter, the wind not always dancing a hornpipe round the compass, and the girls—well, perhaps I had better leave them alone—care to send their mites to help the good Sisters of Gort, they will find their donations gratefully acknowledged by Sister M. Philomena, Workroom, Convent of Mercy, Gort, County
Galway, Ireland.

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Piseoga – 1958

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The Schools’ Collection, Volume 0026, Page 0190

Collector: Patrick Healy 3rd May, 1958. Barnaderg, N.S. Co. Galway
You all know May is the month of the fairies. Great people or men that lived long ago rises from their graves on every night in the month of May to fight the old battles that they fought long ago these men are called fairies. The bad fairies do great harm and trouble in the month of May they kill cattle take away milk and butter from the cows and a lot of other mischief. The first three days of May is very dangerous for cattle. The fairies takes away the butter and milk from them and cause them to do mischief such as to kick the milk-pail to follow the milkmaid and so on. Every night or evening the milkmaid should make the sign of the cross on the cow’s back with the froth of the milk; this will prevent the fairies from causing mischief to the cows – or to tie a bunch of primroses to the cow’s tail after sun-set or to drive your cattle through hot embers of a fire.
The fairies come around our house’s too to do mischief as well as they come to the cattle; you should sweep the hearth very clean and leave food aside for them. If you don’t: the fairies will come when you are asleep and will torment you by tricking you or pinching you: And if you want to keep out the fairies: scatter the threshold of the door when you are to bed with primroses or hang a horse-shoe over the door:

You should not go alone through hills or forth’s (sic) or lonely places for fear of the fairies might take you away or listen to any sweet singing in lonely places for these are fairies Don’t leave any food over from May Eve it should be thrown away or given to the dog’s because the fairies takes away the good food and leave bad food instead.


On May morning early it is a great custom which is still practised by a lot of people to go out early in the first morning in the month of May to a clover field and roll yourself in the dew. This roll in the dew will prevent you from get colds during the year around. There was a great custom practiced long ago which very seldom you hear about it now – no one in any parish is allowed to light a fire in the house in the morning until they would see the smoke rising from the chimney of the priest’s house first. This old custom resembles some old sacrifice or worship offered long ago by druids or some greats saints as St Patrick.

A host of other’s;
(1) On May morning before sun-rise go out in the garden and the first snail you see pick it up and put it in a plate; then sprinkle the plate lightly with flour and place a cabbage leaf over it and when the sun is setting in the evening you will find the name of the girl whom you are going to marry in the flour?
(2) Then if the snail is quite within his house or shell, when you take the plate up the girl will be rich?
(3) And if the snail is out of his shell when you take it up; the wife will be poor and probably you may be out of your house too or have no house to take you in when you get married.

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Hurling in Cahermore

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Killomoran, co Galway
Old Irish Tales
The Schools’ Collection, Volume 0047, Page 0296
When Cumhal and the Fianna were hurling in Cahermore turlough in the Parish of Kinvara Co Galway, his wife had the little boy on the side lines watching the game. During the game the little fellow getting interested in the game rushed in and hit the ball, the shot was so accurate that Cumhal said “Cé hé an páisdín Fionn”? His mother rushed in for him and said “You have now got your name so he was called Finn.”
Diarmuid and Grainne’s Bed is in Crannagh, Gort, Galway. Whey they were fleeing from Finn they are said to have put up these huge stones.

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St Patrick – 1917

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The Catholic Press, 7th June, 1917 p46

The Feast of St. Patrick, the Apostle Saint of Ireland, is kept on March 17. Some people contend he was born in Scotland, others in France; but most historians favour the former country. When he was 16 years old he was carried into Ireland as a captive, where he was sold as a slave to a chieftain named Michu; this was about the year 400. For six years he was a shepherd on the Slemish mountain in Antrim. All those years he had a zeal for God’s glory, and God must have been inspiring his soul for his future and apostolic work.
Soon, however, he escaped, and went to Rome, and here he became a priest. After a few years he went back to Ireland, not as a slave this time, but as the conqueror of Ireland — not the conqueror by fire and sword, but by the word of God.
He landed in the south, but he was driven off. He sailed northward, and again landed at Magh Innis, in County Down. Michu, hearing that Patrick had landed with several men, thought that Patrick had come to capture him and take him back to Rome, as his slave. Michu therefore threw himself into a fire. St. Patrick knew that the Parliament of Ireland would be meeting at about this time in Tara, the residence of the ancient kings of Ireland. St. Patrick went, and that day he converted several hundred people. But the main one was the king, and he died as ignorant as ever of the religion of Our Divine Lord.
St. Patrick ordained over 300 Bishops, and it is said he visited them constantly until his death. He comforted the sorrowful, and he strengthened them in their faith. St. Patrick passed to his reward on March 17, 493, and the last Sacraments were administered by St. Tassach. A portion of his remains was taken to Rome and deposited in St. Mark’s Basilica.
Leo Poidevin. (Aged 12 years 1 month.) Victoria-street, Bowral.

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The Gaeltacht Problem – 1928

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Advocate (Melbourne: Vic) 22nd March 1928 p.13

When the Dail assembles it is recognised that the Gaeltacht report will come before it in the form of a bill. How much of the report will be visible in the bill is, of course, not possible to say. No doubt most of us will be disappointed. It is known, however, that the future of Galway University College will depend on the view the Dail takes of the possibility of a scheme of higher education the Irish language. The college authorities, it is understood, have received a hint that they might interest themselves in the better adaptation of the institution to the needs of students who in the next twenty or thirty years will be desirous of making their knowledge of Irish as complete as facilities permit,
The Majority of the Commission made important recommendations in connection with the college, pointing out that it could be made a centre for Gaelicisation of the country. The Department of Education is in agreement with this view and the Treasury is not unwilling to pay up if a feasible scheme is set before it. Already it is known that Galway has been appointing lecturers in history and economics, who are fluent speakers of the language and who are willing and able to lecture their students in it.
The hinterland of the Galway College is, of course Gaelic in a way that the hinterland of no other college is; for all that, the college in Cork has shown more initiative in Gaelic studies. It has now turned its attention to the formation of a collection of Gaelic manuscripts, and is, we understand, succeeding as well as could be expected in the case of a college whose funds are not at all adequate to its ordinary needs.

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Galway

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The Macleay Chronicle 25th July, 1917 p.6 (Kempsey NSW)
Galway.
Talk of making Galway, with its magnificent harbour in which the whole British navy could ride at anchor, a port for direct trade with America is again to the fore; but probably nothing will come of it.
Little over four hundred years ago, the seaport of Galway, on the west
coast of Ireland, was one of the great trade centres of Western Europe. It did special business with Spain. Galway merchants went to Spain, and Spanish merchants came to Galway, to talk trade, exchange views, and plan new enterprises. Galway men of affairs were wealthy and prosperous, and it came to be a saying, in those days “as proud as a Galway merchant.” So well off, indeed, was the city, and so many its extravagances, that, towards the end of the Sixteenth Century, an inquiry was held by direction of the Lord Deputy, Sir John Perrot, with the result that rigid sumptuary laws were passed. No young man, “prentice or other wise, ” was to wear ‘ gorgeous apparell ne silks, either within or without their garments, non yet fyne knitt stockings either of silk or other costlie wise. ‘ And there was much else to the same purpose.
Galway, in fact, had always been a specially favored town. There is little known as to its history, it is true, before the coming of the English, but, once William Fitzandelm de Burgo, the Norman, under a grant from Henry II, had finally dispossessed Rory O’Connor, and converted the town into his own principal stronghold, it grew rapidly in importance. After the building of the walls and fortifications, about the year 1270, its trade, indeed, increased by leaps and bounds.
It was at about this time too, that there came to the city those famous settlers from England, known, in subsequent history, as the ‘tribes of Galway,’ the Blakes, the Bodkins;, the Joyces, the Lynches, the Martins, and so on. There were fourteen of them altogether. This strong growth of an urban community, as one writer justly points out, self-controlled and distinct was typical of the time. While the country was torn with perpetual strife between English, Irish, and Anglo Irish rulers, the towns of Waterford, Limerick, and Galway virtually developed into self-governing republics. “They elected their own magistrates, excluded the King’s judges, contributed nothing to the King’s revenue, declared war and concluded peace, without the smallest regard for the Deputy and the Dublin Parliament. ” Thus, in 1524, Limerick and Galway went to war with each other, and the hostilities were ultimately concluded in the most formal manner by a formal treaty. It was the civil war in England which finally put an end to this prosperity and independence. It dealt hardly with Galway. The city stood for the King, but ultimately was obliged to surrender to the
Parliamentary forces under Sir Charles Coote. The surrender, it is true, was made on honorable terms, but the treaty was shamelessly broken. The town was plundered, and the ancient inhabitants were, for the most part, driven out, many hundreds of them being sold as slaves to the West Indies.

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New uses for Peat – 1935

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Advocate (Melbourne) Thursday 9th May, 1935 p.11
Determined to make its peat scheme a success, the present Government is sending a mission to the Continent to study the work done there through the medium of peat. Already much has been accomplished in substituting this native fuel for imported coal. In thousands of city homes peat is now burned almost exclusively. Travellers from the country claim that as they come near Dublin the fragrance of turf meets them as it rises up from the capital. The scheme now in operation provides a guaranteed price for the turf cutter and a fixed price for the consumer, the Government taking responsibility for the quality.
The projected tour abroad is for other employments for peat. The delegation, headed by Dr. Henry Kennedy, secretary of the Irish Agricultural Organisation Society (the co-operative society founded by Sir Horace Plunkett), includes also a representative of the Electricity Supply Board, which controls and directs the Shannon Scheme. In Russia, which the delegation are to visit, some of the greatest power stations burn only peat.

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Dear Gumblossom – 1934

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Catholic Freeman’s Journal, Sydney, 24th May, 1934 p.38

Headford, Co. Galway

Dear Gumblossom,
Thanks very much for sending on my letter to Mary Downes. I did not know her whole address. She sent me a lovely long letter full of news. Thanks, dear Gumblossom, for your kind invitation. If any of the Pageites write to me I will answer them during the holidays, as I am only allowed to write one letter home every week during the school term. I am at school in the Dominican College, Galway and I like it well. We have a fairly good time. Our games are tennis, camogie and basketball, and there are swings for the small children. We are let out to matinees at the pictures and Irish plays. We have drill and dancing too. We get a month’s holiday at Christmas, a fortnight at Easter and from the middle of June to the beginning of September in summer.
Now I must tell you about Headford. Do you like the pictures enclosed? One is of the part of the street in which our house is, and the other of Ross Abbey. Ross is about a mile from Headford and is a noted ruin. It is used as a burial ground since the seventeenth century. Before that it was a Franciscan Monastery till Cromwell sacked it. Headford is a small town. It has a population of about 500. It is about seventeen miles from Galway city and Lough Corrib is three miles away. Last summer we did a lot of bathing and boating on the Lough. I even did a little fishing, but I have no patience. I enjoy reading the letters in your Page, the Arrows write such funny ones.
Here is a storyette before I finish. When the English King was sick and had to have a transfusion of blood an Irish man offered himself. After the operation the Royal Physician asked,
“How do you feel, your Majesty?”
“Majesty be hanged,” was the reply.
“Up with the Republic.”
Wishing yourself and all the Pageites every success.
Yours sincerely,
Ruby Canavan

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Casting the Reel – 1869

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The Newcastle Chronicle (NSW) Tue 21st December, 1869 p2.(abridged)
There was a party gathered one Hallowe’en. They sat round the fire burning nuts and telling stories just as we do tonight. One among them was a lady newly betrothed, the gayest, the proudest, the must beautiful of them all. Her lover sat by her side. Her wild and wilful ways had often given him a heartache, but he loved her dearly.
Someone among the party dared her to go and cast the reel – through a high staircase window that looked down on a dark plantation.
The one who tries this charm must stand at a window alone while the clocks toll for midnight, and, throwing the reel, must wind the thread upon her hand, and call three times; and at the third time, if her heart fail not, they say, her future bridegroom will answer from below.
The lady I tell you of, sprung up and said she would go, for she feared nothing in this world or the next, and though her lover prayed her to remain, she still persisted.
‘You shall see,’she said, ‘whether you have a rival!’
She took a light in her hand, and went alone up the staircase. When she reached the casement she stood still and waited, minute after minute, ’til the clock sounded the first stroke of twelve. Then she flung the reel far down into the darkness, and began to wind the thread.
‘Who is there?’ she cried.
All was still, for the very wind seemed to pause and listen to her call.
Again she called;
‘Who’s there?’
This time there came a soft and smothered sound from below, as though one fetched a heavy sigh. The lady’s hand grew cold, and her breath came short; but she had a dauntless spirit, and said to herself,
‘Tis but the night wind in the trees.’
She waited. Just as the last stroke of the hour sounded, she called aloud for the third time,
‘Who is there?’
And in the stillness an awful voice came up fiom the darkness, saying;
‘I am here.’
The lady shrieked and fled downstairs. When she entered the room again, where her companions were sitting in the pleasant fire-light, she was pale and cold as a corpse. When her lover ran to meet her, she held him off and stared at him as if she scarcely knew him.
After that night she was changed. A secret fire within her seemed burning her away. Her old wild temper was gone. Her proud spirit drooped day by day, and the next Hallowe’en she lay a dying.
All through the night she lay as if asleep, but when the clock began to toll for midnight she looked up. Like one startled and afraid, she panted, in a failing voice, ‘Who is there?

Only she heard the reply.

With a shriek she fell back dead.

Her future groom had indeed called.
His name was Death.