Yeats' FAIRY AND FOLK
TALES OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY
PADDY CORCORAN'S WIFE
Paddy Corcoran's wife was for several
years afflicted with a kind of
complaint which nobody could properly understand. She was sick, and she was not
sick; she was well, and she was not well; she was as ladies wish to be who love
their lords, and she was not as such ladies wish to be. In fact nobody could
tell what the matter with her was. She had a gnawing at the heart which came
heavily upon her husband; for, with the help of God, a keener appetite than the
same gnawing amounted to could not be met with of a summer's day. The poor
woman was delicate beyond belief, and
had no appetite at all, so she hadn't barring a little relish for a mutton-chop,
or a "staik", or a bit o' mait, anyway; for sure, God help her! she hadn't the
laist inclination for the dhry pratie, or the dhrop o' sour buttermilk along wid
it, especially as she was so poorly; and, indeed, for a woman in her
condition--for, sick as she was, poor Paddy always was made to believe her in
that condition--but God's will be done! she didn't care. A pratie an' a
grain o' salt was a welcome to her--glory be to his name!--as the best roast an'
boiled that ever was dressed; and why not? There was one comfort: she wouldn't
be long wid him--long troublin' him; it matthered little what she got; but sure
she knew herself, that from the gnawin' at her heart, she could never do good
widout the little bit o' mait now and then; an', sure, if her own husband
begridged it to her, who else had she a better right to expect it from?
Well, as we have said, she lay a bedridden invalid for long enough, trying
doctors and quacks of all sorts, sexes, and sizes, and all without a farthing's
benefit, until, at the long run, poor Paddy was nearly brought to the last pass
in striving to keep her in "the bit o' mait". The seventh year was now on the
point of closing, when, one harvest day, as she lay bemoaning her hard
condition, on her bed beyond the kitchen fire, a little weeshy woman, dressed in
a neat red cloak, comes in, and sitting down by the hearth, says:
"Well, Kitty Corcoran, you've had a long lair of it there on the broad o' yer
back for seven years, an' you're jist as far from bein' cured as ever."
"Mavrone, ay" said the other; "in throth that's what I was this minnit
thinkin' ov, and a sorrowful thought it's to me."
"It's yer own fau't, thin," says the little woman; "an', indeed, for that
matter, it's yer fau't that ever you wor there at all."
"Arra, how is that?" asked Kitty; "sure I wouldn't be
here if I could help it? Do you think it's a comfort or a pleasure to me to
be sick and bedridden?"
"No," said the other, "I do not; but I'll tell you the truth: for the last
seven years you have been annoying us. I am one o' the good people; an' as I
have a regard for you, I'm come to let you know the raison why you've been sick
so long as you are. For all the time you've been ill, if you'll take the
thrubble to remimber, your childhre threwn out yer dirty wather afther dusk an'
before sunrise, at the very time we're passin' yer door, which we pass twice
a-day. Now, if you avoid this, if you throw it out in a different place, an' at
a different time, the complaint you have will lave you: so will the gnawin' at
the heart; an' you'll be as well as ever you wor. If you don't follow this
advice, why, remain as you are, an' all the art o' man can't cure you." She then
bade her good-bye, and disappeared.
Kitty, who was glad to be cured on such easy terms, immediately complied with
the injunction of the fairy; and the consequence was, that the next day she
found herself in as good health as ever she enjoyed during her life.