The forge in Balnagore was a sort of library of reference to all the young fellows of the district. No matter what information was sought for regarding events of importance that had occurred in Ireland during the past couple of hundred years (we had not much access to books down there) the one and only thought of the seeker after knowledge was to repair at once, or as soon as his work was finished, to the smithy in which Ned M'Grane reigned, and to ask the same Ned a few questions on the matter which puzzled himself; and Ned, to his credit let me say it, was never, in my recollection, found wanting on any such occasion. His mind was a well-stocked storehouse of local and national history, as well as of humour, which he was ever willing to impart to "the risin' generation," as he called us.

He could remember every droll occurrence that had taken place in the parish for at least forty years, and every stirring event of national importance that had taken place in the country during the same period, and along with all this he had, in his young days, set himself the task of acquiring knowledge of events of an earlier period from the people who were old when he was a boy, so that when I state that he could bring us back over the happenings of a couple of hundred years I do not by any means overstep the mark. He often told us that in his young days he had a veritable thirst for old stories and for knowledge of every kind, and he used to make a round of the neighbours' houses night after night to hear the tales the old people told about the "ould times" and the "good people," and of the far-off days in an Ireland that was free. And if the news was conveyed to him that a "poor scholar" was staying at any farmer's house within a radius of seven miles, he used tramp across the country to hear the learned man talk about his travels, and to hear him read out of the books which he carried with him on his journeys.

"From all the goin' about I used to have, an' the way I used to be askin' questions o' the old people, an' the way I used to have the wits worried out o' Master Sweeney o' Kilfane," said Ned to us more than once, "what do you think but some o' the playboys put the nick-name o' 'the poor scholar' on myself, an' every one o' the youngsters used to be jibin' at me about it. I didn't care tuppence as long as I was a gossoon, but it was stickin' so tight to me an' I growin' up a big lad that I gave over my stravagin' a good bit, an' they forgot it after a while. I didn't mind at that time, because the old people were gettin' feeble an' bothered, an' a lot of them dyin' away, too, an' them that came after them didn't care a wisp o' straw for the stories or anythin' only cattle, an' money, an' land. An' signs on it, they're all old men an' women at fifty, with their worryin' over grass land and con-acres, an' calves, an' things you'd think they could bring to the grave with them. God be with the old times! when the people knew somethin' about Ireland, an' had life an' spirit in them, an' weren't always breakin' their necks runnin' after the world, an' never catchin' up with it, like them we see round us every day. Aye! God be with the old times, when it's not backbitin' each other they'd be round the fire at night, or makin' up law cases against each other. I wish it was the old times again!"

I reproduce the above speech of Ned's, which was delivered partly to us and partly to himself many a time when the retrospective mood held possession of him—I reproduce it, I say, to show that Ned M'Grane's outlook on life was neither narrow nor sordid, but that there was in his mind and heart a great deal of the old-world philosophy of life, viz., that it was better to be rich intellectually than materially; that was Ned's firm opinion and belief, and he was never done impressing upon us the foolishness of seeking after wealth and worldly emoluments, and of neglecting at the same time to enrich and beautify the mind with the lore of the years gone by. Whether he was right or wrong I leave to my readers to decide.

There were in the forge, now and then, what I may call "impromptu" evenings—that is, there were times when Ned, reminded of past episodes through hearing some name casually mentioned in our conversation, drew at random from his well-filled storehouse of stories one of the delightfully droll occurrences which he himself remembered to have happened in the neighbourhood long years before, and told it to us while he worked, without calling upon any of the aids, such as a well-filled pipe and a comfortable seat, which he called into requisition when relating one of the longer tales to which he treated us now and then. On such occasions, too, he often gave out riddles to us that set our brains hard at work, and sang for us some of the fine songs he had learned from the old people and from the "poor scholars" in the happy evenings of the past, which he designated the "old times."

I remember one of those impromptu evenings in particular, because I thought, and think so still, that the story he told us about Johnnie Finnegan's "Degree" was as good as I had ever heard. He had just finished singing a favourite song of ours about a young Wexfordman who escaped from the Yeos in '98, and we were bestowing upon him our hearty praise and applause, when an old grumpy farmer from Knockbride, called Johnnie Finnegan, but who was best known by the nick-name of "Johnnie the Doctor," came to the forge door and asked Ned to tighten one of the hind shoes on his mare, as he was afraid 'twould fall off before he should reach home. Ned performed the task, and when he returned to the work which he had in hand before Johnnie appeared upon the scene, some of us asked him the reason why "Johnnie the Doctor" was the name everybody had for Johnnie Finnegan.

"Did I never tell you how Johnnie got his degree?" asked Ned, with a merry twinkle in his eye.

"No, you never told us that, Ned; but now's the time for it," a couple of us answered, and the eager faces of the others signified their whole-hearted approval of our suggestion.

"Troth, you'll hear it, boys, an' welcome," said Ned, as he went on with his work. "An' it doesn't take long in the tellin', though if I told it to you while Johnnie was here you'd see him in a flarin' fine temper an' the dickens a nail I'd ever get the chance o' drivin' in a shoe, or a sock I'd put on a plough for Johnnie again, because you might as well roll him in a heap o' nettles an' his clothes tore, as mention 'Johnnie the Doctor' an' he listenin'.

"The way it was is this. Old Jimmy Finnegan, his father, was as poor as a rat in an empty barn, an' so were all his people before him, but one day—Johnnie was the only child, an' he was no more than nine years old at the time—up comes a postman from Castletown to Jimmy Finnegan's and hands in a letter, an' when they got Master Sweeney up to read it, they found out that it was from a lawyer in America to say that a brother o' Jimmy's—Phil Finnegan—was after dyin'—a rich man—in Boston, an' that he left all his money to Jimmy, an' the letter went on to say that after the cost o' settlin' up the will 'd be took out of it, the legacy'd amount to somethin' like four thousand pounds.

"They could hardly believe the story was true, because they were nearly on the road for rent, but sure enough a cheque came to Jimmy for that whole four thousand pounds in a couple o' months after that. Well, you never saw anythin' in your life like the way Jimmy and the wife made fools o' themselves. They began to try to talk grand, an' dressed themselves up like gentry, an' bought a car like Father Fagan's, an' wouldn't talk to the people that knew them all their lives, an' that often gave them a helpin' hand when they wanted it an' they in debt.

"Everyone, of course, was laughin' at them, an' some o' the playboys used to salute Jimmy for fun when they'd meet him on the road, an' Jimmy used to think they were in earnest, an' he used to put up his hand to his hat, the same as Father Fagan 'd do, an' the lads puttin' out their tongues at him behind his back. He wouldn't let Johnnie go to school the same as other gossoons, but paid Master Sweeney ten pound a year to come up an' teach him at the house, an' sure if the Master—God rest him—was alive still an' goin' up to teach Johnnie every day since, he wouldn't be a bit better nor he was when the poor Master gave him up in despair; because Johnnie was as thick as the post of a gate, every day ever, an' he's that yet.

"Well what do you think but when Johnnie was a big, soft lump of a lad of seventeen or eighteen, didn't Jimmy bring him over to old Doctor Dempsey that lived beyond near the chapel o' Kilfane, an' asked him to make a doctor o' the bucko, an' offered the doctor a fee o' so much a year while Johnnie 'd be learnin' the trade. Doctor Dempsey knew be the look o' the lad that he'd never be a doctor as long as there was a bill on a crow, but he was hard up for money at the time, an' didn't he take Johnnie; an' old Jimmy went home as proud as a peacock an' he boastin' an' blowin' out of him to everybody that the next doctor for the district 'd be no other than 'Doctor John Finnegan.' He used to drive over on the car every mornin' to Doctor Dempsey's an' call for him again in the evenin', an' he havin' him dressed up like a young lord or somethin'. An' sure the whole country was laughin' at them more than ever.

"Johnnie was with Doctor Dempsey for a few years, anyway, an' sure he knew as much then as he did the first day; the doctor used to bring him about the country with him on some of his visits, to give him experience, he used to tell Jimmy, but I think 'twas mostly for holdin' the horse he had him.

"One day they went to see a rich old lady that lived beyond in Moylough, an' when Doctor Dempsey was after lookin' at her tongue for awhile, an' feelin' her pulse, says he:

"'You ate oranges, ma'am,' says he.

"'I did then, sure enough, doctor,' says she.

"'Well, don't eat them again,' says he, 'an' you'll be in the best o' health.'

"Johnnie was listenin', an' his mouth opened wide with wonder, an' when they were comin' home says he to Doctor Dempsey:

"'How did you know, sir,' says he, 'that Miss Hamilton was after eatin' oranges?'

"'Oh, 'twas easy enough to know that, John,' says the doctor to him, 'because,' says he, 'when I was feelin' her pulse I looked under the bed, an' I saw the heap o' skins.'

"Johnnie kep' wonderin' all the way home at the cleverness o' the doctor, an' wonderin', too, if he'd ever get a case all to himself, so that he could show his father an' mother an' the whole country how clever he was.

"Well, anyway, in a couple o' weeks after that a gossoon came up to Doctor Dempsey's one mornin' to tell him that old Peadar Mullen o' the Bog was bad with the pains, an' wanted him to call over an' see him. Peadar used to get pains about every fortnight, an' he was on the point o' dyin' with them—accordin' to his own opinion—about twenty times, an' he had the poor old doctor plagued sendin' for him every other week. Doctor Dempsey was a big-hearted sort of a man that was never hard on the poor, an' Peadar was that cranky an' conceited that he thought the doctor ought to be always runnin' over to see him, no matter about anyone else in the district. That was the sort o' Peadar.

"The doctor wasn't on for goin' near him this day, anyway, an' what do you think but he sends Johnnie, an' never said a word to him about what complaint Peadar had or anythin' only left him to find out for himself. Johnnie starts off an' the doctor's boy along with him on the car, an' it's him that was proud to think that he had a case all to himself at last, an' that he could be boastin' about it to his father an' mother that evenin' when he'd go home.

"They went down the old boreen to Peadar's house—'twas a long way in in the bog by itself, an' not a soul he had livin' with him—an' when they got over to it, Johnnie left the servant boy mindin' the horse, an' in he goes, an' sure dickens a much he could see with all the smoke that was in the house. Old Peadar was lyin' in bed in the room, an' he groanin' an' moanin' as hard as he could when he heard the doctor's car comin', because Doctor Dempsey used to give him a couple o' shillin's now an' again.

"'Doctor Dempsey can't come to-day, my good man,' says Johnnie, when he went into the room, an' he lookin' very grand an' severe an' solemn. 'He's not extra well, an' he sent me in his place to see what's the matter with you.'

"'Musha, may God bless your honour for comin', Doctor Finnegan,' says Peadar, thinkin' he'd knock a few shillin's out o' Johnnie, 'an' sure maybe he sent a gentleman every bit as good as himself.'

"Johnnie didn't know what to do, but he asked Peadar to put out his tongue, an' then he felt his pulse, an' all the time he was tryin' to get a peep under the bed, the same as he saw the doctor doin' with the lady that was after eatin' the oranges. At long last he spied the straddle an' winkers belongin' to old Peadar's ass, an' says he, shakin' his head an' lookin' at Peadar as much as to say, 'You're done for':

"'My good man,' says he, 'my good man, you ate an ass!'

"'What's that you're after sayin'?' says Peadar, lettin' a shout out o' him, an' he jumpin' up out o' the bed. 'What's that you're after sayin'?'

"'You—ate—an—ass,' says Johnnie, again, an' he shakin', when he saw the way Peadar made a grab at the big crookey stick that was lyin' across the bed.

"'G'long! you upstartin' imp o' the divil,' says Peadar, with a roar, an' he jumpin' out o' the bed. 'Is it a son o' Shameen Finnegan's to come into my own house an' tell me I'm a cannaball? I'll soon give you a chance o' curin' yourself instead o' comin' in to make a fool o' me an' I lyin' helpless on my bed with the pains! There's a doctor's degree for you!' an' old Peadar drew a whack o' the stick at Johnnie that made him roar an' run for the door as fast as his legs 'd carry him.

"Out went Peadar after him an' not a fligget on him only his shirt an' breeches, an' across the bog with them as hard as they could run until Johnnie tripped an' fell, an' old Peadar on top of him, into a dry drain. Peadar began flailin' him, an' with every thump o' the stick he'd give to poor Johnnie he'd shout, 'There's a doctor's degree for you! There's a doctor's degree for you!' an' only for Doctor Dempsey's boy tied the horse to a bush an' came runnin' over, it's Johnnie that 'd be bad with the pains, an' not Peadar.

"He was bad enough, in troth, when they brought him home, an' he didn't stir out o' the house for three months, but everyone said 'twas shame was on him more than the pains after Peadar's stick. That was the end of his doctorin' anyway; he never went back to Doctor Dempsey, an' the flailin' he got in the bog knocked a lot o' the nonsense out o' him an' put sense in its place, because he gave up the foolish ways, an' settled down to workin' and lookin' after the bit o' land old Jimmy was after buyin'. But from that day to this if you wanted to set him tearin' mad all you'd have to say is 'doctor,' and he'd roar like a ragin' bull.

"An' that's the way Johnnie Finnegan got his 'doctor's degree' from Peadar Mullen o' the Bog."