Our Little Irish Cousin Part 6

The next morning she was out-of-doors at sunrise, to see what signs there were of good weather. Dame Nature was very kind to the little girl, and made the sun spread his loveliest colours over the eastern sky.

There was a great scrubbing and cleaning before Norah was ready to start. Her mother combed and brushed her thick, long hair, and made it into two glossy braids. What did it matter if there was no hat to wear!

She was so pretty, she did not need straw or ribbon to make people stop to look at the bright, happy face, with eyes ever ready to laugh or cry.

When she was dressed in her pink cotton gown (it was the only one she had, and her mother had washed and ironed and mended it the night before, after Norah had gone to bed), she ate her breakfast, and slipped over the fields to Mollie's, as happy as a lark.

The horse and car already stood waiting at the door. Mollie and Norah, and Mollie's sister Bridget, sat together on one side of the car, while the jolly farmer, with his wife and baby, filled the other seat.

Mollie's big brother Tim was the driver.

As they jogged along through the beautiful country, the party sang "Killarney" and other favourite songs. After awhile, Mollie's mother started "The harp that once thro' Tara's halls," and every one joined in with a will.

When the song came to an end, the farmer told the children about an old harper who used to go wandering through the country. He stopped at every place to play the tunes the people loved so well.

But that was before Mollie and Norah were born. Yes, before even the farmer himself was born. He had heard his mother tell about the old man, and how bright his eyes grew as his fingers drew out the tunes from the harp.

Once upon a time there were many such harpers in the country. Those were the days of the Irish kings and lords. There were feasts and dancing and music in many a stone castle in those times.

But now, alas, most of the castles are only ruins, where the kindly ivy covers the piles of stones, and the wind howls through the empty door and window places.

One castle was the grandest of all. It was called the Hall of Tara, and was built on the top of a high hill. Mollie and Norah had often heard of the doings in that grand building.

It was the place where the Irish princes met together to choose their king. It was there that he was crowned, upon an upright stone that actually roared during the ceremony. At least, so the story runs.

The laws of the country were made in the Hall of Tara, and a great feast was served there before commencing business each day. Three loud blasts were sounded by the trumpeter to call the people together in the great dining-room.

Not only princes and n.o.bles met in Tara's Hall. There were also poets and wise men. For those were the days when Ireland had places of learning where many scholars gathered, to study history and poetry, the movements of the sun and stars, and many other things. Those were great days for Old Ireland.

"Oh, see! See!" cried Norah.

Mollie's brother stopped the horse to let every one see the beautiful sight before them. The lovely lakes, shut in by high mountains, were ahead of them.

"They are the jewels of Erin," cried Mollie's mother. "They are diamonds sparkling on the breast of our country."

It was no wonder she spoke as she did. It would be hard to find any spot in the world more beautiful than the Lakes of Killarney.

As the horse started up once more, they pa.s.sed high stone walls covered with moss and ferns and ivy. The branches of tall trees met together over their heads, with vines wound lovingly about their trunks. The whole view was so beautiful that even the children became quiet. No one felt like talking.

"We will not spend any time in Killarney town," said Mollie's father.

"This is going to be a day outdoors, childer. We'll have a rale picnic."

Mollie and Norah clapped their hands.

"We must go to Ross Castle, that's sure. And of course you want to visit Muckross Abbey and hear the echo below the Eagle's Nest," the farmer went on.

"Castle Lough and Glenna bay, Mountains Tore and Eagle's Nest; Still at Muckross you must pray, Though the monks are now at rest."

So sang the girls in answer.

You must know that Killarney is the most beautiful part of the beautiful country of Ireland. One day is not enough to see all that is worth seeing.

No one could blame the children for not wanting to spend any of their time in the little dirty town at the end of the lakes.

The horse was driven close to the sh.o.r.e of Lough Lean, or the Lake of Learning. This is the name given it by the people of the country because two universities once stood near its sh.o.r.es.

The party got out of the jaunting-car and sat down at the water's edge to eat their lunch. There were no cakes or pies, but nothing could have tasted better to the hungry children than the thick slices of bread and b.u.t.ter, the home-made cheese, and the rich goat's milk.

And then, every time they lifted their eyes they could see the green meadows on one side, and on the other the mountains covered with purple heather and thick forests.

Out on the clear waters of Lough Lean were many little islands, looking like so many emeralds set in the silvery bosom of the lake.

"What lovely homes they would make for the fairies," whispered Norah to Mollie. She always spoke of the fairies in a whisper. Perhaps she felt they might be provoked if she mentioned them in her usual voice.

[Ill.u.s.tration: NORAH AND MOLLIE AT LOUGH LEAN.]

"I believe they choose just such places to live in," answered Mollie. "I think there must be hawthorn-trees growing there."

Both Norah and Mollie believed in fairies. They had as much faith in them as many little boys and girls in America have in Santa Claus. They thought hawthorn-trees the favourite places for the midnight parties of the fairies. It was in the shade of the hawthorn-trees that these beautiful sprites feasted on dew, and danced to the music of fairy harps.

As the children sat whispering together, Molly's father began to tell the story of Lough Lean. The little girls were only too glad to listen.

He told the old legend of the time when there was no lake at all. A fine city stood here in its place, and in the city there lived a brave warrior, whose name was O'Donaghue.

Everything one could wish for was in the city except plenty of water.

There was one small spring, to be sure. A great magician had given it to the people. But he had made one condition, which was this: whoever drew water from the spring must cover it with a certain silver vessel.

It happened one day that the brave O'Donaghue drank more wine than he should. It made him very bold. He ordered his servants to go to the spring and bring him the silver bowl that covered it.

"It will make a good bathtub for me," he said, and he laughed merrily.

"Pray don't make us do this," cried his frightened servants.

He laughed all the louder, and answered: "Don't be afraid. The water will be all the better for the fresh night air."

The silver bowl was brought to the daring warrior. But as the servants entered the house, they imagined they heard terrible sounds about them.

They shook with fear as they thought, "We are going to be punished for breaking the magician's command."

One of the servants was so frightened that he left the city and fled to the mountains. It was well for him that he did so, for when the morning came, he looked down into the valley and saw no city at all.

Not a sign of a house or living being was in sight. A sheet of water was stretched out before his astonished eyes. It was the beautiful Lough Lean.

As Mollie's father repeated the legend, the children bent over the lake.

Perhaps they could see the roofs of palaces, or the tops of towers, still standing on the bottom of the water. They had heard of people who said they had seen them. But the children were disappointed.

Perhaps when they went rowing in the afternoon, they might yet catch a glimpse of the hidden city. Who could tell?

Mollie's father had more to tell of another man, whose name was also O'Donaghue. He pointed to a little island not far from the sh.o.r.e. It was Ross Island, and an old, old castle, called Ross Castle, was still standing there.