Fairy Tales of Ireland. P.J. Lynch

of affection for his wife, poor woman, who was delicate in her health, and leading, besides, a very lonely, uncomfortable life of it (he assured them) in his absence. He accordingly pulled up the fir tree, as I said before, and having snedded it into a walking stick, set out on his affectionate travels to see his darling Oonagh on the top of Knockmany, by the way.

      In truth, to state the suspicions of the country at the time, the people wondered very much why it was that Fin selected such a windy spot for his dwelling-house, and they even went so far as to tell him as much.

      “What can you mane, Mr M’Coul,” said they, “by pitching your tent upon the top of Knockmany, where you never are without a breeze, day or night, winter or summer, and where you’re often forced to take your nightcap¹ without either going to bed or turning up your little finger; ay, an’ where, besides this, there’s the sorrow’s own want of water?”

      “Why,” said Fin, “ever since I was the height of a round tower, I was known to be fond of having a good prospect of my own; and where the dickens, neighbours, could I find a better spot for a good prospect than the top of Knockmany? As for water, I am sinking a pump,² and, plase goodness, as soon as the Causeway’s made, I intend to finish it.”

      Now, this was more of Fin’s philosophy; for the real state of the case was, that he pitched upon the top of Knockmany in order that he might be able to see Cucullin coming towards the house, and, of course, that he himself might go to look after his distant transactions in other parts of the country, rather than – but no matter – we do not wish to be too hard on Fin. All we have to say is, that if he wanted a spot from which to keep a sharp look-out – and, between ourselves, he did want it grievously – barring Slieve Croob, or Slieve Donard, or its own cousin, Cullamore, he could not find a neater or more convenient situation for it in the sweet and sagacious province of Ulster.

      “God save all here!” said Fin, good-humouredly, on putting his honest face into his own door.

      “Musha, Fin, avick, an’ you’re welcome home to your own Oonagh, you darlin’ bully.” Here followed a smack that is said to have made the waters of the lake at the bottom of the hill curl, as it were, with kindness and sympathy.

      “Faith,” said Fin, “beautiful; an’ how are you, Oonagh – and how did you sport your figure during my absence, my bilberry?”

      “Never a merrier – as bouncing a grass widow as ever there was in sweet ‘Tyrone among the bushes’.”

      Fin gave a short, good-humoured cough, and laughed most heartily, to show her how much he was delighted that she made herself happy in his absence.

      “An’ what brought you home so soon, Fin?” said she.

      “Why, avourneen,” said Fin, putting in his answer in the proper way, “never the thing but the purest of love and affection for yourself. Sure you know that truth, anyhow, Oonagh.”

      Fin spent two or three happy days with Oonagh, and felt himself very comfortable, considering the dread he had of Cucullin. This, however, grew upon him so much that his wife could not but perceive something lay on his mind which he kept altogether to himself. Let a woman alone, in the meantime, for ferreting, or wheedling a secret out of her good man, when she wishes. Fin was a proof of this.