Adapted from the Irish of "An Seabhac" in "An Baile Seo 'Gainn-ne."

There had been a big week's work in the forge, and Ned M'Grane, the blacksmith, had got a present of a whole pound of tobacco from his nephew in Dublin, and on account of these two happenings he was in the very best of humour, so we decided that the time was ripe for a story. We hadn't had such a treat from Ned for weeks past, so there was an edge on our appetite for one of his unrivalled stories that pleasant evening as we sat and smoked in the smithy.

"The like of it was never known in history before," said Joe Clinton, suddenly, with a challenging glance towards Bartle Nolan, who started as if he didn't expect the statement, and as if it hadn't been carefully planned beforehand at the Milking Field gate!

"Ach, nonsense, man!" said Bartle, with a withering look at Joe. "D'ye mean to say that there ever was an age or a century or a period o' history that women weren't kickin' up their heels about somethin' or other an' wantin' to boss the whole show. Why, the thing is out of all reason!" finished Bartle, with a fine show of indignation.

"All the same I think Joe is right," said Tom M'Donnell. "I don't believe they ever carried things as far as to want to have votes an' seats on public boards, an' to be equal to the men in everythin'. I don't think anyone ever heard before of a woman goin' that far with the game."

"What's that, Tom?" said Ned, who had just thrust about two ounces of his store of tobacco into old Phil Callaghan's hand in a covert sort of way, and was now quietly teasing a pipeful for himself. "What is it you were talkin' about?"

"O, we were just discoursin', Ned, about them suffragettes an' the row they're makin' about gettin' votes an' the like o' that. Joe was sayin' that such a thing as a rumpus about equal rights between man an' woman was never known of in history before in any country in the world, an' some of us didn't agree with him. What do you say yourself, Ned?"

Ned teased the tobacco for a few moments in a dreamy manner that seemed hopeful, and then he looked thoughtfully at Joe Clinton.

"Would it surprise you to hear, Joe," he said at last, "that such a rumpus an' such a row as you speak about took place in this very townland o' Balnagore?"

We all laughed at Joe's confusion as he said sheepishly, "It would, indeed, Ned," and then Ned's eyes twinkled triumphantly.

Then we knew that we had carried our little scheme to success, and we waited as patiently and as quietly as we could while Ned filled and lighted his pipe. At last he spoke:

"It's forty year ago an' more since it happened, Joe, an' indeed it wasn't the woman was to blame at all, but the crankiest, contrariest, crossest old codger of a man that ever sat on a stool, and that was Dickey Moran that lived there below in the hollow, where Jimmy Kearney is livin' now. An' if every woman conducted her fight for a vote as cleverly as Peggy Moran conducted hers for peace an' quietness there 'd be a lot more respect an' support for them than there is. But what 'd be the use of advisin' a woman? You might as well be tryin' to catch eels with a mousetrap.

"Dickey an' Peggy were only a couple o' years married when she began to find out that he wasn't altogether as sweet as he used to be, an' from that time on until she played her trump card she never had an easy day with him. This wasn't done right, an' that was all wrong, an' who showed her how to boil a pig's pot, an' where did she learn to make stirabout, an' forty other growls that nearly put the poor woman out of her wits. An' what used to annoy her the most of all was that Dickey (he was fifteen years older than her) never stopped complainin' about all he had to do in the fields an' on the bog, an' about the little Peggy had to do in the house—a child buildin' a babby-house 'd have more to do, he used to say, an' then he'd put a whinin' rigmarole out of him about the way men had themselves wore to nothin' to keep a bit an' a sup with lazy women, an' so on, an' so on, until poor Peggy couldn't stand it any longer, an' she'd turn on him an' say things that 'd make Dickey twist like an eel an' feel when the shindy 'd be over that he was after gettin' more than he bargained for, an' a few rattlin' fine sharp wallops o' Peggy's tongue thrown in for luck.

"Well, it had to get worse or stop altogether, and the surprisin' part was that the two things happened at the same time.

"It happened one mornin' that Dickey was in an odious bad humour entirely, an' he goin' about the house with a face on him as long as a late breakfast an' as sharp as a razor, an' every growl out of him like a dog over a bone or a fox in a trap. He was tryin' to light the fire, but the turf was too wet, an' the draught was comin' the wrong way, an' accordin' as his temper got strong his tongue turned on poor Peggy, who was givin' a bottle to the child in the cradle—it was only seven months old at the time—an' she was sayin' nothin' at all, but there was a quare sort of a look in her eye that all as one as said that her mind was made up. Dickey was gettin' worse an' worse with his growlin' about all that men had to do an' the lazy ways of women an' what not, but all of a sudden, when he wasn't mindin', Peggy caught a grip of his arm in a way that made him jump, an' says she, in the voice of a County Court Judge givin' sentence, says she:

"'Let there be an end to this comparin' an' growlin' an' grumblin' once an' for all, Dickey Moran! You say men are run off their feet an' that women have nothin' to do. Well, here's the way to settle that. You stay here in the house an' do what's to be done in it, an' I'll look after the turf an' the praties an' oats an' things out in the fields, an' we'll soon see who has the most to do. That's the only way to put an end to your aggravatin' talk forever an' a day.'

"An' Dickey bein' in the temper he was in, agreed on the minute, an' they took their bit o' breakfast without another word, an' when it was down, Peggy tied her shawl round her shoulders an' gripped hold of an old reapin' hook that was hangin' on the wall an' started off to cut the bit of oats in the far field, an' Dickey sat down at the fire to have a pull o' the pipe before startin' the child's play, as he called the work that had to be done in the house.

"When Peggy was gone a couple o' minutes she came back an' put her head in at the door, an' says she in a quiet an' easy way, as if she was only biddin' her man good mornin':

"'Listen here,' says she, 'the cow is in the byre still, an' it's time she was milked. An' don't forget to take every drop from her or it's milk fever she'll be havin' one o' these days. An' put a few handfuls o' poreens on the fire for the pigs an' give them to them soon because they're screechin' with the hunger. An' keep an eye to that black hen for fear she'd lay out, because if she does the dickens an egg you'll get to-morrow mornin'. Scald that churn well an' do the churnin' as soon as you can, because there's not a bit o' butter in the house an' this is Friday. An' make a cake o' bread, too, for if you don't there won't be a pick to eat with the colcannon; an' mind that you don't burn it. An' spin that pound o' wool over there that I have to make your socks out of for the winter, an' mind that you don't have it too thick or lumpy. An' wash up the delph, an' put a drop o' milk on the fire in that black saucepan for the child, an' give it to him at eleven o'clock. An' don't make it too hot for him, or you'll hear about it. An' sweep the floor, an' make the bed, an' get a couple o' cans o' water from the well, an' peel the praties for the dinner,' says Peggy, and she out o' breath, an' off she went to the far field.

"'Troth, then, I'll do that an' more, an' it won't trouble me much,' says Dickey, with a grunt, an' he fillin' the pipe for a good smoke, 'it's easier than breakin' one's back bendin' over a reapin' hook.' An' he reddened the pipe an' pulled away at his ease.

"The first thing he started into was the washin' o' the delph, an' he got along middlin' well till he caught hold o' Peggy's darlin' cup that belonged to her mother's aunt's great-grandmother, an' was as precious to her as gold. There was a crack in it down one side, an' half-way round the bottom, an' whatever the dickens happened Dickey, his fingers were too clumsy or somethin', he never felt till he had a piece o' the cup in each hand, an' there was another bit on the floor. He just looked at it an' said nothin', but he thought a lot.

"It couldn't be helped anyway, so he took the gallon can an' out with him to the byre to milk the cow. You'd think Peggy an' the cow had it made up between them, with the look that was in her eye when she saw Dickey comin' with the can, but she stood as quiet as you please an' chewed the cud, an' seemed to be terrible pleased with the song Dickey sang while he milked. An' the work was goin' on so grand that he forgot all about the cup he broke an' was wonderin' to himself was Peggy repentin' yet, an' was givin' a chuckle or two an' he drawin' the last drop o' milk into the can, when all of a sudden, without 'by your leave' or 'here's at you,' the rogue of a cow lifted her right hind leg an' gave one kick that sent Dickey an' the can o' milk sprawlin' all over the place. The milk was spilled over him, of course, an' the can was made a pancake of, an' he had a pain in his chest like lumbago, but what could he do only curse the cow an' go into the house without can or milk, an' I may tell you he wasn't chucklin'.

"Well, the pigs were yellin' like mad lions, an' nearly breakin' down the sty with the hunger, an' Dickey put the pot on the fire an' boiled a feed for them as fast as he could. An' when it was ready he went to the sty with it, but whatever misfortune was on him that mornin', an' the place bein' purty dark where the pigs were, he bumped his nose against the sharp corner of a board an' the blood began to come like as if there was somebody after it, an' Dickey flung the feed, bucket an' all to the pigs, an' ran into the house an' lay on the broad of his back tryin' to stop the blood an' it runnin' down his neck an' everywhere.

"He got it stopped at last, but he was as weak as a cat, an' then he thought o' the churnin', an' he started to do it as best he could, which wasn't much of a best. It's no joke to do a churnin' without help an' keep a child from cryin' at the same time, an' when Dickey was finished, I tell you, he didn't feel like runnin' a race or jumpin' over a stone wall. He was sweatin' like a fat pig at a fair on a summer's day.

"Then when the churnin' was finished, he went to the well for a can o' water, an' he brought the child with him as it was cryin' fit to lift the roof off the house, an' what do you think but when he was stoopin' to lift the water didn't he lose his footin' an' fall into the well, child an' all, an' only it wasn't too deep, Dickey's housekeepin' days were over. He was all wet anyway, an' the child was wet an' bawlin', which was no wonder, an' the water was runnin' out o' the two o' them an' they goin' back to the house.

"When he got to the door there was a stream o' fresh buttermilk runnin' out to meet him, an' nice little lumps o' butter floatin' on it, an' there was the churn upset in the middle o' the floor, an' the black pig drinkin' away at her ease, an' givin' a grunt o' contentment every now an' then, as much as to say, 'that's the stuff for puttin' a red neck on a pig.'

"For one full minute Dickey didn't know what to do he was that mad an' wet an' disappointed an' tired all at the one time, but when the minute was up he threw the wet child—an' it roarin' all the time, the poor thing—into the cradle, an' grabbed a new spade that was standin' at the cross-wall, an' made one lunge at the black pig as she darted out on the door, knowin' well there was trouble comin'. It caught her just at the back o' the ear, an' with one yell she staggered an' stretched out on the yard as dead as a door-nail.

"An' that's the way things were when Peggy came up from the far field a few minutes later—Dickey nearly dead with fright, an' the child on the borders of a fit, the churnin' all through the house, the gallon can all battered up an' not a drop o' new milk to be seen, the fire out an' no sign of a dinner, the cow in the byre an' she ragin' with the hunger, one pig dead an' the other rootin' up the winter cabbage in the garden, an' the whole place like a slaughterhouse or a battlefield, with milk an' pig's blood an' well-water flowin' in all directions; an' to crown it all, Dickey sat down in the corner an' began to cry.

"Well, it was a nice how-d'ye-do sure enough, but Peggy was a sensible woman, an' she just figured it all out there in a second or two, an' she said to herself that peace was cheap at the price, an' she knew by the look o' Dickey that there was goin' to be peace, an' she just held her tongue, an' set about fixin' up the child an' Dickey an' the place as best she could. An' then she went for Andy Mahon, the herd over in Moyvore, an' got him to scrape the pig, an' salt the bacon an' pack it, an' before night you'd never know that anythin' strange was after takin' place about the house at all, at all. An' Dickey was as mute as a mouse.

"From that day out there was peace an' quietness an' comfort in that house, an' Dickey Moran was as kind an' cheerful a man as you'd meet in a day's walk. An' the only thing Peggy regretted was her darlin' cup that belonged at one time to her mother's aunt's great-grandmother.

"Boys, O boys, it's eleven o'clock!"