Rensselaer Republican, Volume 21, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 December 1888 — A STORY OF A CHRISTMAS [ARTICLE]

A STORY OF A CHRISTMAS

It is Christmas eve—the night is cold and clear. The moonbeams dance fantastically upon the frozen snow-neir the foot of the bill adjaceut to the town of Macroom, in the county Cork, stood an old-fashioned cottage toward which an aged white-haired man, apparently a mendicant, is wending his way—at short intervals he stops suddenly, gazing for an instant over the hedge side, where the moon is shinning through the leafless snow-covered trees—advancing a few paces he stops once more before a ruined tower, fast crumbling to decay. “God bless the dear old landmarks,” he murmured, “many and many a time have I stoid beside you in my dreams when the great ocean rolled between us —at last, like the load stonerthat attracts the needle, you have brought the wanderer back. Oh, sweet Inisfail, the smallest blade of grass that grows in your green dells is a million times more precious to me than all the wealth and grandeur I have seen on foreign shores.” Having reached the cottage already al hided to, he was met at the door by a tall, well-built, venerable-looking man. “God save all here,’’’ said the traveler, as he crossed the threshold. “The same to you, good man,” was the reply; “but you look jaded and cowld. Sit down and warm yourself.” “Can you give me shelter for a short time?” asked the stranger. “I can, or for a long time, if you need it—though not very long, now I come to remember, for in a few weeks I won’t be able to call this house my own. Isn’t that the truth, Mary?” he added, looking at his wife, who sat busily plying her needle near a bright turf fire. “It is, indeed—the bitter truth—may God in his mercy protect us,” said his wife. “And how long have you lived in this cozy cottage?” asked the stranger. “Fifty years, sir. My father built it. I married the good wife you see beside me in if. I reared a big family in it, but they’re scattered far away from us now, in distant countries. Some of them, I’m afeerd, I’ll never see again. Our oldest boy I’ve not heard from in ten years. He was sent into penal servitude for the part he took in the ‘rising’ of ’67.” “What was his name?” “Redmond O’Harra,” answered the old man; “but in troth if I go ju this way I’ll be disgracing the proud owld name of our family. Forgive me, sir, but on this good Christmas eve my mind is wandering, or I would have given you the sead mille fail the before this here, sir,” he continued, as he produced a jug and glass. “A taste o’ this will add new life to you. It’s fine, strong punch. It’s not often we take it, except on festivals like this. Drink it off, sir; ’twill sarve to pass the time over, while the good woman prepares the supper.” 7 “Here's wishing you both a merry Christmas,” said the traveler. “I am sorry we can’t offer you the luxuries that we could once afford,” said the host, “out it is useless to fret over spilt milk. Here, take a whiff o’ this owld dhudeen, 'twill help to banish sad thoughts.” “Before I light my pipe,” said the stranger, “I wish you would tell me why it is that you will be compelled to leave this cottage in a few weeks.” . “The answer is simple,” replied the host. “I am only a small farmer, and cannot afford to pay Lord Leech the heavy taxes that are yearly imposed on my own time and money without a haporth of help from his lordship. That’s the whole of it in a nutshell. So, because I refused to be rack-rented by Owld Leech, he sent his bailiff over here yesterday to serve me with a writ.” “And you are to be evicted?” said the stranger, lighting his pipe. “That’s it exactly,” replied the host. “Not if I can save you,” said the stranger. “Saltpeter couldn’t save us.” “There is something more potent than saltpeter.” “Maybe ye mane dynamite,” said his host. J “What I have reference to is more powerful even than dynamite,” replied the stranger, “although it is not so noisy.” “Quicksilver is mighty powerful, I’m towld. Would it be that you mane?” “No, sir,” said the traveler. “What I allude to is the power of gold!” •» “In truth you’re right there. Goold often works wonders, but it is as difficult io get hold of goold in these timps as it is to catch a leprechaun.” During the foregoing the farmer’s wife had prepared supper which the traveler seemed to relish with a zest betoken a keen appetite. Having finished his meal he relit his pipe, drew his chair near the fire, and began more communicative. '7 . , .. “You spake with a foreign accent, sir,” said the farmer, “but for all that you appear to be a man with a power o’ knowledge in your head, and no wonder, for if I may judge by the whiteness of your hair and beard I would say that the snows of at least seventy winters had passed over your head. Ami far from the mark, Sir?” “You are, indeed, a long way off, sir,” said the traveler, “for, although my beard is white and my body seems bent with the weight of years, I would wager a thousand pounds to a brass farthing that you are a far older man than I am.”

“Why, I am oniy'GQ/’ said the farmer. “However, I’ll not dispute the difference of our ages. You seem to be a conversable man and I’m proud ;o’ your company; if you like to sleep under this roof to-night you are heartily welkim, and we’ll spent)a pleasant Christmas day together, will that be agreeable to you, air?" ■ ■■ '■ . X • ••''* “You are too kind, sir,” said the stranger. “But I accept the invitation and hope you will never regret the confidence you have placed in me.” “Of course,” said the farmer, “you’ll have to tike pot luck with us; we have no dainties to offer you, but there was a time when a prince couldn’t find fault with our table on a Christmas day,when we could spread before you turkey, geese, ham, lamb, and almost every delicacy under the blessed sun, but them times has passed away like the snow that fell last year, but such as we have you are welcome to as if the house was your own.” “Gdd bless you and your good wife, sir, tor the cordial welcome you have given to the poor stranger. It reminds me of the gay old times when I was a happy boy under the roof-tree of my parents; when we loved to pass the Christmas eve by the cheerful fireside, singing the old songs of our persecuted land, and listening to the ghost stories and the fairy tales until the hour arrived to attend the midni <ht mass. Oh,those times! Those grand old times will never come again. I grew up to manhood and was the pride of the family. I .built castles in the air with my compatriots for the future happiness of our green, sea-girt island, but every one dissolved like bubbles into nothingness. In an evil hour I was caught with my pike while attending t moonlight drill in the mountain gap. A mock trial took place and a packed jurv found me guilty of high treason. 1 vis loaded with chains and hurried off in a convict ship to western Australia, the penal colony of Great Britain, to Freemantle prison, that .plague spot of the world, from which few that are sent in irons ever return to tell their sufferings to the civile ized world. From the day of my arrival in the convict ship until the day of my escape my life, whether I toiled in the quarries or with roaa parties, was one of continual torture. I had to share the same fate as the thief and murderer. But I must be brief, for it would fill a large volume were I to relate every detail up to the date of my escape from Freemantle prison. After many perils 1 was received with open arms in the land of Stars and Stripes by my expatriated count? ymen. From the moment I touched the hospitable shores of America good fortune seemed to follow me. I was successful in every undertaking. I soon amassed great wealth. You Would scarcely imagine me, as I appear at present in these tattered garments, to be a rich man, but to prove the truth of my Assertion Here isa chamois leather bag containing 1,000 sovereigns. Take it. Keep it. It is yours. I present it to you as a Christmas box.” “A bag full o’ sovereigns.” cried the farmer, as he scrutinized and jingled a few of the golden coins. “Oh, sir, you must be one of the good fairies in disguise.” ’ ' ' —~~ ~~ . “If this happened ip America,” said the stranger, “you would undoubtedly call me Santa Claus.” ** “Whoever you are,” cried the farmer’s wife, “you must be something not natural to be tantalizing poor people with the sight of a heap o! gold like that} you must be an apparition or a hobgoblin.” “I give you my word I am neither ghost nor hobgoblin, but real flesh and his blood,” said the stranger,throwing of white wig and beard and standing erect at his full height, which was fully six feet. “Now examine my features well and tell me if they bear any resemblance to Redmond O’Hara, your convict son!” “Oh! Redmond? our own gra bawn!” exclaimed his father and mother simultaneously. “Yes,'it is,” said the mother caressing him. “He has the same auburn hair.” And the same proud light in his manly blue eyes,cried his father, grasping his son’s hands. “Oh, Redmond, Redmond, this sudden joy is almost more than we can bear.” “Now, spare me this hugging and kissing and hand shaking,” cried their son. “If you don’t wish to kill me with too much hindness, listen to reason, common sense, and truth. You can both snap your fingers at LOl d Leech to-mor-row. We’ll have our own home, our own land, and our own castle as well as his lordship. And’ tomorrow we’ll fill the table with turkey, geese, lamb, ham, and every luxury in season and out of season that money can purchase. In short, my dear father and mother, .it won’t be your own Redmond’s fault if you don’t say it is the merriest Christmas day you evex enjoyed.”