Bailey and Co. in Main Street
Hatching (an essay by John B. Keane0
I remember once there was a somewhat
contrary hatching hen appointed to sit on a clutch of eggs which weren’t her
own. She was a Sussex Blue and the eggs were laid by a Rhode Island Red. Maybe
this is why she was so reluctant to remain sitting on the eggs. Did hens have a
way of knowing one egg from another? I suspect they did.
Certain hens will hatch anything from
pheasant to duck eggs but there are no two birds alike as the cock said to the
drake. Let us return, however, to our own bird and her reluctance to hatch the
eggs of a stranger. There she would settle, trancelike, as only hens can, when
suddenly for no apparent reason she would make for the door. She would be
recaptured instantly and reminded firmly of her obligations. No sooner would
she be reseated than she would desert once more. She exasperated the entire
household whose every member took a turn keeping an eye on her.
“There’s only one cure for the hoor,” announced an old woman who happened to call one evening for the loan of a cup
“What’s that?” we all asked.
“The bottle,” said she. We waited for an
elaboration. None came. We asked again.
“What bottle?” said she,”but the hot
Of course we all knew what the hot stuff
was. Wasn’t the man of the house and his cronies greatly addicted to it without
any great harm!
“It will rest the creature,” said the old
woman, “ and it will keep her off her feet.”
Up in “The Room” was a bottle of the very
hot stuff in question, as hot, according to himself, as ever was brewed.
“Mix it,” said the old woman, “with a
saucer of Indian meal and you’ll end up with a nice paste that she will find
(Tune in tomorrow to find out how the hen took to the gargle)
Irish Wake Linen
This picture is from 1962 and is in included in The National Treasures collection. The person who contributed it was the daughter of the woman whose job it was to lay people out for the wake when wakes were held in people’s homes. The linen was hand made especially for the purpose.
I learned this poem in school. I came upon it recently in an old school book. Aughrim was the bloodiest battle ever on Irish soil. It was fought in 1691. 7,000 lives were lost .
Behind the Garda Barracks
At a guess I’d say it’s old stables from the days when when the guards rode horses . If anyone knows what it really is I’d welcome the information.