IN a certain part of Ireland, a long time ago, lived a wealthy old farmer, whose name was Brian Taafe. His three sons, Guillaum, Shamus, and Garrett, worked on the farm. The old man had a great affection for them all; and finding himself grow unfit for work, he resolved to hand his farm over to them and sit quiet by the fireside. But as that was not a thing to be done lightly, he thought he would just put them to a trial. He would first take the measure of their intelligence, and then of their affection.

       Proceeding in this order, he gave them each a hundred pounds, and quietly watched to see what they did with it.

       Well, Guillaum, and Shamus put their hundred pounds out to interest, every pennie; but when the old man questioned Garret where his hundred pounds was, the young man said, "I spent it, father."

       "Spent it?" said the old man, aghast. "Is it the whole hundred pounds?"

       "Sure I thought you told us we might lay it out as we plaised."

       "Is that a raison ye'd waste the whole of it in a year, ye prodigal?" cried the old man, and he trembled at the idea of his substance falling into such hands.

       Some months after this he applied the second test.

       He convened his sons, and addressed them solemnly: "I'm an ould man, my children: my hair is white on my head, and it's time I was giving over trade and making my sowl." The two elder overflowed sympathy. He then gave the dairy farm and the Hill to Shamus, and the meadows to Guillaum. Thereupon these two vied with each expressions of love and gratitude. But Garret said never a word; and this, coupled with his behavior about the hundred pounds, so maddened the old man that he gave Garret's portion, namely, the home and home farm, to his elder brothers to hold in common. Garret he disinherited on the spot, and in due form. That is to sat, he did not overlook him nor pass him by; but even as spiteful testators used to leave the disinherited one a shilling, that he might not be able to say he had been inadvertently omitted, and it was all a mistake, old Brian Taafe solemnly presented young Garret Taafe with a hazel staff and a small bag. Poor Garret knew very well what that meant. He shouldered the bag, and went forth into the wide world with a sad heart, but a silent tongue. His dog, Lurcher, was for following him, but he drove him back with a stone.

       On the strength of the new arrangement, Guillaum and Shamus married directly, and brought their wives home, for it was a large house, and there was room for all.

       But the old farmer was not contented to be quite a cipher, and he kept finding fault with this and that. The young men became more and more impatient of his interference, and their wives fanned the flame with female pertinacity. So that the house was divided, and a very home of discord.

       This went on getting worse and worse, till at last, one winter afternoon, Shamus defied his father openly before all the rest, and said,"I'd like to know what would plase ye. May be ye'd like to turn us all out as ye did Garret."

       The old farmer replied, with sudden dignity, "If I did, I'd take no more than I gave."

       "What good was your giving it?" said Guillaum; "we get no comfort of it while you are in the house."

       "Do you talk that way to me too?" said the father, deeply grieved. "If it was poor Garret I had, he wouldn't use me so."

       "Much thanks the poor boy ever got from you," said one of the women, with venomous tongue; then the other woman. finding she could count on male support, suggested to her father-in-law to take his stick and pack and follow his beloved Garret. Sure he'd find him begging about the counthry.

       At the women's tongues the wounded parent turned to bay.

       These shafts of eloquence struck home; the women set up a screaming, and pulled their caps off their heads, which in that part was equivalent to gentlefolks drawing their swords.

       "Oh, murther! murther! was it for this I married you, Guillaum Taafe?"

       "Och, Shamus, will ye sit an' hear me compared to the likes? Would I rebel against Brian Boru, Shamus, a'ragal?"

       "Don't heed him, avourneen," said Shamus; "he is an ould man." But she would not be pacified. "Oh, vo! vo! if ever I thought the likes 'ud be said of me, that I'd rebel against Brian Boru!"

       As for the other, she prepared to leave the house. "Guillaum," said she, "I'll never stay a day undher your roof with them as would say I'd burn Throy. Does he forget he ever had a mother himself? Ah! 'tis a bad apple, that is what it is, that despises the tree it sprung from."

       All this heated Shamus, so that he told the women sternly to sit down, for the offender should go; and upon that, to show they were of one mind. Guillaum deliberately opened the door. Lurcher ran out, and the wind and the rain rushed in. It was a stormy night.

       Then the old man took fright, and humbled himself:

       "Ah! Shamus, Guillaum, achree, let ye have it as ye will; I'm sorry for what I said, a'ragal. Don't turn me out on the high road in my ould days, Guillaum; and I'll engage I'll niver open my mouth against one o' ye the longest day I live. Ah! Shamus, it isn't long I have to stay wid ye, anyway. Yer own hair will be as white as mine yet, plaise God! and ye'll be thanking Him ye showed respect to mine this night."

       But they were all young and of one mind, and they turned him out and barred the door.

       He crept away, shivering in the wind and rain, till he got on the lee side of a stone wall, and there he stopped and asked himself whether he could live through the night.

       Presently something cold and smooth poked against his hand; it was a large dog that had followed him unobserved till he stopped. By a white mark on his breast he saw it was Lurcher, Garret's dog.

       "Ah!" said the poor old wanderer, "you are not so wise a dog as I thought, to follow me." When he spoke to the dog, the dog fondled him. Then he burst out sobbing and crying: "Ah, Lurcher! Garret was not wise either; but he would niver have turned me to the door this bitter night, nor even thee." And so he moaned and lamented. But Lurcher pulled his coat, and by his movements conveyed to him that he should not stay there all night; so then he crept on and knocked at more than one door, but did not obtain admittance, it was so tempestuous. At last he lay down exhausted on some straw in the corner of an outhouse, but Lurcher lay close to him, and it is probable the warmth of the dog saved his life that night.

       Next day the wind and rain abated, but this aged man had other ills to fight against beside winter and rough weather. The sense of his sons' ingratitude and his own folly drove him almost mad. Sometimes he would curse and thirst for vengeance, sometimes he would shed tears that seemed to scald his withered cheeks. He got into another county and begged from door to door. As for Lurcher, he did not beg; he used to disappear, often for an hour at a time, but always returned, and often with a rabbit or even a hare in his mouth. Sometimes the friends exchanged them for a gallon of meal, sometimes they roasted them in the woods; Lurcher was a civilized dog, and did not like them raw.

       Wandering hither and thither, Brian Taafe came at last within a few miles of his own house; but he soon had cause to wish him himself further off it; for here he met his first downright rebuff, and, cruel to say, he owed it to his hard-hearted sons. One recognized him as the father of that rogue Guillaum Taafe, who had cheated him in the sale of a horse, and another as the father of that thief Shamus, who had sold him a diseased cow that died the week after. So, for the first time since he was driven out of his home, he passed the night supperless. for houses did not lie close together in that part.

       Cold, hungry, houseless, and distracted with grief at what he had been and now was, nature gave way at last; and unable to outlast the weary, bitter night, he lost his senses just before dawn, and lay motionless on the hard road.

       The chances were he must die; but just at Death's door his luck turned.

       Lurcher put his feet over him and his chin upon his breast to guard him as he often guarded Garret's coat, and that kept a little warmth in his heart; and at the very dawn of day the door of a farmhouse opened, and the master came out upon his business, and saw something unusual lying in the road a good way off. So he went toward it, and found Brian Taafe in that condition. This farmer was very well to do, but he had known trouble, and it had made him charitable. He hallooed to his men, and had the old man taken in; he called his wife, too, and bade her observe that it was a reverend face though he was all in tatters. They laid him between hot blankets, and, when he came-to a bit, gave him warm drink, and at last a good meal. He recovered his spirits, and thanked them with a certain dignity.

       When he was quite comfortable, and not before, they asked him his name.

       "Ah! don't ask me that," said he. piteously. "It's a bad name I have, and it used to be a good one, too. Don't ask me, or maybe you'll put me out, as the others did, for the fault of my two sons. It is hard to be turned from my own door, let alone from other honest men's doors, through the vilyins." said he.

       So the farmer was kindly, and said: "Never mind your name, fill your belly."

       But by and by the man went out into the yard, and then the wife could not restrain her curiosity. "Why, good man," said she, "sure you are too decent a man to be ashamed of your name."

       "I'm too decent not to be ashamed of it," said Brian. "But you are right; an honest man should tell his name though they draw him out of heaven for it. I am Brian Taafe — that was."

       "Not Brian Taafe the strong farmer at Corrans?"

       "Ay, madam; I'm all that's left of him."

       "Have you a son called Garret?"

       "I had then."

       The woman spoke no more to him, but ran screaming to the door: "Here, Tom! Tom! come here!" cried she: "Tom! Tom!" As Lurcher, a very sympathetic dog, flew to the door and yelled and barked fiercely in support of this invocation, the hulabaloo soon brought the farmer running in.

       "Oh, Tom, asthore," cried she, "it's Mister Taafe, the father of Garret Taafe himself."

       "Oh, Lord!" cried the farmer, in equal agitation, and stared at him. "My blessing on the day you ever set foot within these doors!" Then he ran to the door and hallooed: "Hy, Murphy! Ellen! come here, ye divils!"

       Lurcher supported the call with great energy. In ran a fine little boy and girl. "Look at this man with all the eyes in your body!" said he. "This is Misther Taafe, father of Garret Taafe, that saved us all from ruin and destruction entirely." He then turned to Mr. Taafe. and told him a little more calmly, "that years every haporth they had was going to be carted for the rent; but Garret Taafe came by, put his hand in his pocket, took out £30 and cleared them in a moment. It was a way he had; we were not the only ones he saved that way, so long as he had it to give."

       The old man did not hear these last words: his eyes were opened, the iron entered his soul, and he overflowed with grief and penitence.

       "Och, murther! murther!" he cried. "My poor boy! what had I to do at all to go and turn you adrift, as I done, for no raison in life!" Then, with a piteous, apologetic wail, "I tuck the wrong for the right; that's the way the world is blinded. Och! Garret, Garret, what will I do with the thoughts of it? An' those two vilyins that I gave it all to, and they turned me out in my ould days, as I done you; no matter!" and he fell into a sobbing and a trembling that nearly killed him for the second time.

       But the true friends of his son Garret nursed him through that, and comforted him; so he recovered. But, as he did live, he outlived those tender feelings whose mortal wounds had so nearly killed him. When he recovered this last blow, he brooded and brooded, but never shed another tear.

       One day, seeing him pretty well restored, as he thought, the good farmer came to him with a fat hag of gold. "Sir," said he, "soon after your son helped us, luck set in our way. Mary. she had a legacy; we had a wonderful crop of flax, and with that plant 'tis kill or cure; and then I found lead in the hill, and they pay a dale o' money for leave to mine there. I'm almost ashamed to take it. I tell you all this to show you I can afford to pay you back that thirty pounds, and if you please I'll count it out."

       "No!" said Mr. Taafe, "I'll not take Garret's money; but if you will do me a favor, lend me the whole bag for a week, for at the sight of it I see a way to —– Whisper."

       Then, with bated breath and in strict confidence, he hinted to the farmer a scheme of vengeance. The farmer was not even to tell it to his wife; "for," said old Brian, "the very birds carry these things about; and sure it is knowing divils I have to do with, especially the women."

       Next day the farmer lent him a good suit and drove him to a quiet corner scarce a hundred yards from his old abode. The old farmer got down and left him. Lurcher walked at his master's heels. It was noon and the sun shining bright.

       The wife of Shamus Taafe came out to hang up her man's shirt to dry. when, lo! scarce thirty yards from her, she saw an old man seated counting out gold on a broad stone at his feet. At first she thought it must be one of the good people — or fairies — or else she must be dreaming; but no! cocking her head on one side, she saw for certain the profile of Brian Taafe, and he was counting a mass of gold. She ran in and screamed her news rather than spoke it.

       "Nonsense, woman!" said Shamus, roughly; "it is not in nature."

       "Then go and see for yourself, man!" said she.

THERE WERE PILES AND PILES OF GOLD GLOWING IN THE SUN. from The works of Charles Reade, vol 09, p177 [PETER FENELON COLLIER, NY]

       Shamus was not the only one to take this advice. They all stole out on tip-toe, and made a sort of semi-circle of curiosity. It was no dream; there were piles and piles of gold glowing in the sun, and old Brian with a horse-pistol across his knees; and even Lurcher seemed to have his eyes steadily fixed on the glittering booty.

       When they had thoroughly drunk in this most unexpected scene, they began to talk in agitated whispers; but even in talking they never looked at each other, their eyes were glued on the gold.

       Said Guillaum: "Ye did very wrong, Shamus, to turn out the old father as you done; see now what we all lost by it. That's a part of the money he laid by, and we'll never see a penny of it."

       The wives whispered that was a foolish thing to say: "Leave it to us," said they, "and we'll have it all one day."

       This being agreed to, the women stole toward the old man, one on each side. Lurcher rose and snarled, and old Brian hurried his gold into his ample pockets, and stood on the defensive.

       "Oh, father! and is it you come back? Oh, the Lord be praised! Oh, the weary day since you left us, and all our good luck wid ye!"

       Brian received this and similar speeches with fury and reproaches. Then they humbled themselves and wept; cursed their ill-governed tongues, and bewailed the men's folly in listening to them. They flattered him and cajoled him, and ordered their husbands to come forward and ask the old man's pardon, and not to let him ever leave them again. The supple sons were all penitence and affection directly. Brian at last consented to stay, but stipulated for a certain chamber with a key to it: "For," said he, "I have got my strong box to take care of, as well as myself."

       They pricked up their ears directly at mention of the strong box, and asked where it was.

       "Oh! it is not far, but I can't carry it; give me two boys to fetch it."

       "Oh! Guillaum and Shamus would carry it or anything to oblige a long lost father."

       So they went with him to the farmer's cart, and brought in the box, which was pretty large, and above all very full and heavy.

       He was once more king of his own house, and flattered and petted as he dad never been since he gave away his estate. To be sure he fed this by mysterious hints that he had other lands besides those in that part of the country, and that indeed the full extent of his possessions would never be known until his will was read; which will was safely locked away in his strong box — with other things.

       And so he passed a pleasant time, embittered only by regrets, and very poignant they were, that he could hear nothing of his son Garret. Lurcher also was taken great care of, and became old and lazy.

       But shocks that do not kill, undermine; before he reached threescore and ten, Brian Taafe's night work and troubles told upon him, and he drew near his end. He was quite conscious of it, and announced his own departure, but not in a regretful way. He had become quite a philosopher; and indeed there was a sort of chuckle about the old fellow in speaking of his own death, which his daughters-in-law secretly denounced as unchristian, and, what was worse, unchancy.

       Whenever he did mention the expected event he was sure to say, "And mind, boys, my will is in that chest."

       "Don't speak of it, father," was the reply directly.

       When he was dying, he called for both his sons and said in a feeble voice. "I was a strong farmer, and come of honest folk. Ye'll give me a good wakin', boys, an' a gran' funeral."

       They promised this very heartily.

       "And after the funeral ye'll all come here together, and open the will, the children an' all. All but Garret. I've left him nothing, poor boy, for sure he's not in this world. I'll maybe see him where I'm goin'."

       So there was a grand wake, and the virtues of the deceased and his professional importance were duly howled by an old lady who excelled in this lugubrious art. Then the funeral was hurried on, because they were in a hurry to open the chest.

       The funeral was joined in the church-yard by a stranger, who muffled his face, and shed the only tears that fell upon that grave. After the funeral he stayed behind all the rest, and mourned, but he joined the family at the feast which followed, and behold it was Garret, come a day too late. He was welcomed with exuberant affection, not being down in the will; but they did not ask him to sleep there. They wanted to be alone, and read the will. He begged for some reminiscence of his father and they gave him Lurcher. So he put Lurcher into his gig, and drove away to that good farmer, sure of his welcome, and praying God he might find him alive. Perhaps his brothers would not have let him go so easily had they known he had made a large fortune m America, and was going to buy quite a slice of the county.

       On the way he kept talking to Lurcher, and reminding him of certain sports they had enjoyed together, and feats of poaching they had performed. Poor old Lurcher kept pricking his ears all the time, and cudgelled his memory as to the tones of the voice that was addressing him. Garret reached the farm, and was received first with stares, then with cries of joy, and was dragged into the house, so to speak. After the first ardor of welcome he told them he had arrived only just in time to bury his father; "and this old dog," said he, "is all that's left me of him. He was mine first, but when I left he took to father, he was always a wise dog."

       "We know him," said the wife; "he has been here before" — and she was going to blurt it all out, but her man said, "Another time," and gave her a look as black as thunder; which wasn't his way at all, but he explained to her afterward: "They are friends, those three, over the old man's grave. We should think twice before we stir ill blood betune 'em." So when he stopped her, she turned it off cleverly enough, and said the dear old dog must have his supper. Supper they gave him, and a new sheepskin to lie on by the great fire. So there he lay, and seemed to doze.

       The best bed in the house was laid for Garret, and when he got up to go to it, didn't that wise old dog get up too, with an effort, and move stiffly toward Garret, and lick his hand; then he lay down again all of a piece, as who should say, "I'm very tired of it all." "He knows me now at last," said Garret, joyfully. "That is his way of saying good-night, I suppose. He was always a wonderful wise dog."

       In the morning they found Lurcher dead and stiff on the sheepskin. It was a long good night he had bid so quietly to the friend of his youth.

       Garret shed tears over him, and said, "If I had only known what he meant, I'd have sat up with him. But I never could see far. He was a deal wiser for a dog than I shall ever be for a man."

       Meantime the family party assembled in the bedroom of the deceased. Every trace of feigned regret had left their faces, and all their eyes sparkled with joy and curiosity. They went to open the chest. It was locked. They hunted for the key; first quietly, then fussily. The women found it at last, sewed up in the bed; they cut it out and opened the chest.

       The first thing they found was a lot of stones. They glared at them, and the color left their faces. What deviltry was this?

       Presently they found writing on one stone, "Look below." Then there was a reaction and a loud laugh. "The old fox was afraid the money and parchments would fly away, so he kept them down."

       They plunged their hands in, and soon cleared out a barrowful of stones; till they came to a kind of paving stone. They lifted this carefully out, and discovered a good new rope with a running noose, and — the will.

       It was headed in large letters finely engrossed:

"THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF BRIAN TAAFE."

       But the body of the instrument was in the scrawl of the testator.

       "I bequeath all the stones in this box to the hearts that could turn their father and benefactor out on the highway that stormy night.

       "I bequeath this rope for any father to hang himself with who is fool enough to give his property to his children before he dies."

       This is a prosaic story compared with the "Lear" of Shakespeare, but it is well told by Gerald Griffin, who was a man of genius. Of course I claim little merit but that of setting the jewels. Were I to tell you that is an art, I suppose you would not believe it.

(THE END)