The Storyteller.

Welcome to my blog.

If you have any comments or requests for stories please leave them on here and I'll see what I can do.
I really appreciate any feedback and will try to respond as quickly as possible.

On behalf of myself and WRFM 98-2 I would like to thank you for taking the time to listen to my show and hope you enjoy it.

Join me on Sunday at 3-00pm until 4-00pm, pull up a chair and sit awhile. 

You are never too old for a story.

The Storyteller's Poem.

The Storyteller.

There’s turf on the fire

There’s tea in the pot

Sunday’s here again

It’s been a good week

And now is the time

To hear the tale’s again

So pull up a chair and sit awhile

The clock is striking three

Tune in to WRFM

And join the Seanachái.

The Little Dandelion.

The little dandelion.

Once upon a time, long, long ago, the flowers had a huge argument about which of them were the most beautiful, the most special, and the most loved by the humans and by the fairies. The argument lasted for weeks, with each flower claiming to be the most beautiful and the most loved. Finally, all of the flowers agreed that the only way to settle the argument was to let the Flower Fairies decide.

The Flower Fairies sent the wisest, gentlest and kindest fairy to settle the problem and to give one plant her blessing and the title of the "most perfect" flower. The little Fairy decided to test each flower by asking them one question.

The first flower the Fairy talked to was the Rose.

"Where would you most like to live?" she asked it.

"I would like to climb the castle wall." said the Rose. "And then kings and queens and nobles would pass by everyday and exclaim over my beauty, my scent and my delicate nature."

The Flower Fairy walked sadly away from the Rose.

Next the Fairy came to a tulip, standing tall and proud.

"Where would you most like to live?" she asked the Tulip.

"Oh, I want to live in a public garden" said the Tulip. "Where everyday people would come and admire my wonderful colours and see how straight and tall I stand."

Once again, the Fairy walked away feeling sad.

She walked until she came to a forest. There she found some Violets. She asked them

"Where would you most like to live, little Violets?"

"Oh" said the violets quietly "We like it here hidden in the woods where no one can see us and where the trees keep the sun from dulling our beautiful colour."

The fairy thanked the Violets and walked on looking for more flowers to talk to.

She talked to the Tiger Lily who was much too wild and fierce.

She talked to the Sunflower who barely answered her because all she wanted to do was be warmed by the sun.

The little Flower Fairy talked to the Orchids who only wanted to be taken out to dances and she tried to talk to the Daffodil but it was too busy looking at its own reflection in the water to speak to her.

The little Fairy, with tears in her eyes, was ready to give up and go home when she came to a field with bright fluffy yellow flowers on long thin stalks. The leaves were long and jagged and very close to the ground. But the flowers....oh how happy and cheerful they looked in the field!

"Little one" said the Flower Fairy "What are you called and where would you like to live?"

"I am a dandelion" said the little flower."I'd like to live where ever there are children. I want to live beside the road, and in the meadows, and push up between the sidewalks in the cities, and make everyone feel happier when they see my bright colours."

The Dandelion chattered on happily saying

"I want to be the first flower that the children pick in the spring and take to their mothers.  I can even tell if a child likes butter by being rubbed under their chins, and if a child makes a wish and blows my seeds, I could carry that wish on the wind."

The Flower Fairy smiled brightly and said "Little Dandelion, you are the most perfect and special flower of all and you shall have your wish! You will blossom everywhere from spring till autumn, and be known as the children's flower."

And that is why the dandelion arrives so early and pushes her head up everywhere and why she is so loved by children all over Ireland.

Beauty can be found in the most unexpected places.

The Pig With A Wooden Leg.

The pig with a wooden leg.

Once upon a time, it wasn’t that long ago.

A journalist became lost on the back roads so he stopped at a farm to get directions. As he was talking to the farmer he noticed a pig with a wooden leg.

"How did the pig get a wooden leg?" he asked the farmer.

"Well", said the farmer, "that's a very special pig. One night, not too long ago we had a fire start in the barn, and that pig squealed that much he woke everyone up. By the time we got there hadn’t he herded all the other animals out of the burning barn? He saved them all."

“Is that was when he hurt his leg?" asked the journalist (smelling a story).

"Oh no, he came through that no bother. It was some time later when I was back in the big field when a mad dog attacked me. Well, the pig was close by and hearing the noise he came to help me. He chased the dog away. He saved my life that day”. Replied the farmer.

"Oh my god, you mean the dog bit his leg off?" asked the journalist.

"No no, he came away without a scratch. Though a few days later, I was working over in the far field on my tractor when it turned over in a ditch. I was thrown to the ground and caught under the tractor. Well luckily for me the pig was close by and heard me calling for help. He jumped into the ditch, grabbed my collar and pulled and pulled until he managed to get me free. He saved my life that day” said the farmer.

"Aah, so his leg got caught up in the tractor?" asked the newsman.

"No, no we both walked away from that one." said the farmer.

By this time the poor journalist was getting a wee bit hot under the collar.

"So how did he get the wooden leg?" asked the reporter?

"Well", the farmer replied, "If you had a pig that clever, you wouldn’t  eat him all at once?”

The Misers Coffin.

The Misers Coffin.

Once upon a time, just outside a small town in the west of Ireland:

There lived a family called Murphy.

Dermot Murphy was a big, strong man but he was known by the locals as ‘the poor mouth’ because of his miserly ways. However his wife Mary was a small, pretty woman who was always willing to help anyone, as was his daughter Brigit.

The land they lived on was poor, boggy and not much use for anything. The Murphy’s cottage was by the side of the road, at the bottom end of the garden there grew a small oak tree.  The cottage was small with a kitchen, living room and two small bedrooms. Their water was supplied by a well in the garden and they had no electricity as Dermot believed it to be the work of the devil.  The real reason was he didn’t want to pay the bill.

Dermot Murphy was a mean looking man; he was cruel and refused to part with a single penny for anything unless it benefited himself.  So mean in fact that when his poor wife Mary died he refused to buy her a decent coffin or even to pay for a burial plot in the local cemetery. He bought the cheapest wooden box he could find then buried her in a shallow grave at the bottom of the garden near the oak tree   His daughter Brigit was extremely upset at the way her poor mother was treated, and although she cried and begged her father to give her a decent burial it was to no avail.

Dermot wasn’t poor; in fact he had a great deal of gold coins that he kept in a leather purse that he hid behind a loose stone inside the fireplace.  Every night when his daughter went to bed he would take out the purse and count his money by candlelight.  If he heard his daughter stirring he would quickly hide the purse under his jacket and tell her to go to sleep and stop trying to spy on him.  When he was satisfied that his money was all there he would put it back behind the stone in the fireplace.

One night, about a year after her mother’s death, Dermot was sat counting his money as normal.  Brigit came into the room, she said that she wasn’t feeling very well and she asked her father to get the doctor.

Of course the first thing her father thought of was the cost,

“Arragh, don’t be worrying, it’s only a bit of a pain, go on back to bed, you’ll be fine in the morning”

Brigit was in no state to argue, she was pale and clammy.  She did as her father told her and went back to her bed.  A short while later her father heard her groaning and she came back into the room again.  This time she looked dreadful and once more begged him to get the doctor.

“Will ye go back to bed and don’t be spying on me” he said.

Once more she did as she was told, he heard her groaning for a while, and then there was silence.

Later that night Dermot was happy his money was all correct, he put it back into its hiding place and was just about to go to his bed when he thought he’d look in on his daughter.  He found her half in and half out of her little bed. She was very quiet; he felt her face...it felt cold, very cold.  It suddenly dawned on him, she was dead.

Dermot was very upset as this would be costly but then he had an idea, he would bury her next to her mother.  That way he’d save money and they could keep each other company. After the burial, Dermot was once again sat counting his money when a fierce storm began.  It was as bad as the Night of the big wind in 87.  The following morning the local townspeople were sorting out the damage to their properties.  They didn’t notice that Dermot didn’t visit the local pub to get his few ounces of tobacco and a pint.  However, when no one saw him for a few days, the locals began to wonder where he’d got to.  They decided to pay him a visit.

When they arrived at Murphy’s cottage they noticed that there was some damage caused by the storm.  At the bottom of the garden they saw that the little oak tree had been uprooted and that in the middle of the garden there was a coffin.  As they went through the gate and approached the cottage one of the locals shouted out and pointed.  Halfway in and halfway out of the front door was another coffin. They looked through the window and there they saw Dermot Murphy.  He was sat upright in his chair, he was as stiff as a board, his eyes frozen, staring horribly, and his mouth wide open as if screaming in terror.  One hand raised, as if trying to protect himself, the other seemed to be pointing at the coffin which was half open.

In the coffin lay Brigit, peaceful in death, her hands joined together as if in prayer.  It was the normal custom to bury the corpse with the hands holding a set of rosary beads.  However, the locals saw that instead of holding a rosary, Brigit was clutching a leather purse.  When they prised the purse out of her hands they found it to be full of gold coins.  They counted it out and found that there was just enough money to buy new oak coffins, one for Brigit and one for her mother Mary and to pay for a decent pair of plots in the local cemetery. 

Unfortunately, there was not enough money left to bury Dermot.  However, the locals managed to use the wood salvaged from the cheap coffins Murphy had buried his wife and daughter in.  They buried him at the end of the garden, where the oak tree used to be.

The Fír gorta-The Man of Hunger.

                       Here is a story that we were told as children.

                                                The Fír Gorta.

The Fir gorta, The Man of Hunger, was a tall thin gaunt looking man who travelled from place to place, village to village, town to country, during the years of famine and in Ireland you never had to wait long for a famine to fall upon the land.

He would knock on your door and as was the custom, the stranger would always be welcomed and invited in for a bite to eat. As you know, during the years of famine if food existed at all it was as scarce as hens teeth so some people would run and hide if they heard a knock on the door.  Some, if they opened the door, would deny that they had anything in the house at all and some people would even run the Fir Gorta from the door.

For those who refused help to the Fir Gorta, there would be no hope for they would perish in the famine. However, there were those who would have a small piece of potato or a drop of milk, and even though it might have to do the whole family, the custom was one of hospitality to the stranger and so it would be offered to him.  He would thank them for their generosity, politely refuse their meagre offerings and take his leave of them.

Before he left them he would say,

“Because of your generosity and your honest welcome you are truly blessed this day and neither you nor your family will ever die of the hunger.  Tell no one of this, but from this day forth your pot will never be empty and your jug will never run dry”.

In the morning the woman of the house went to the pot and within it she found a great big potato that would feed the whole of the household and the jug brimming over with fresh milk and every morning from then on it was the same thing.  They survived the hunger.

We were also told to always carry a piece of bread in our pocket because sometimes when out walking the boreen’s if you felt hungry it meant that you were passing a place of famine death and if you did not eat something straight away then you might waste away and die.

The Hungry Grass was an area of grassland where someone had died through hunger during the famine. They lay where they fell as there was no one to give them a decent burial. It is said that if you were to walk over this area then you too would be stricken with the hunger.  Some may even suggest that it is a fairy curse so if you’re having a picnic or eating outside for any reason then sprinkle a few crumbs onto the ground. It will show the fairies that you are not a mean person, you see when a sign says “Keep off the grass” there may be a very good reason.

 

The dead have always played a central role in rural Irish folklore.

Whether as an insubstantial ghost wandering through the countryside or a walking corpse returning to torment the living.

Our former ancestors have always exercised an intense and continuing fascination for those who survive them and have formed the basis for many hair-raising tales.

The dead, it appears, will not go away.  The belief in returning ghosts, spirits or corpses may have its origin in primitive ancestor worship.  It was well known throughout the country that the dead had to be looked after at all times.  Not to do so was to invite misfortune upon yourself, your family or your community.  Nor has this belief wholly died out.

In 1993, there was a man in north Cavan who claimed that as a child he remembered the corpse of his grandfather coming back from the grave on some nights during the winter months to sit at the fire and smoke a pipe of tobacco.  He said that he also remembered actually touching the skin of the corpse and finding it very cold.

His grandfather never spoke but sat warming himself by the fire.  The rest of the family ignored this and went off to bed, leaving the corpse sitting in front of the fire.  When they got up in the morning, the corpse was gone-presumably back to its grave.  This story was borne out, without prompting, by one of the old gentleman’s sisters.

 

 

The Black Pebble.

                                           The Black Pebble.

 Many years ago in a small Irish village, a farmer had the misfortune of owing a large sum of money to a landlord. The landlord, who was old and ugly, fancied the farmer’s daughter. So he proposed a bargain. He said he would forgive the farmer’s debt if he could marry his daughter.

 Both the farmer and his daughter were horrified by the proposal. So the cunning landlord suggested that they let providence decide the matter. He told them that he would put a black pebble and a white pebble into an empty moneybag. Then the girl would have to pick one pebble from the bag.

 1)   If she picked the black pebble, she would become his wife and her father’s debt would be forgiven.

 

2)   If she picked the white pebble she need not marry him and her father’s debt would still be forgiven.

3)   If she refused to pick a pebble, her father would be thrown into jail.


They were walking on a pebble-strewn path in the farmer’s field. As they talked, the landlord bent over to pick up two pebbles. As he picked them up, the sharp- eyed girl noticed that he had picked up two black pebbles and put them into the bag. He then asked the girl to pick a pebble from the bag.

Now, imagine that you were standing in the field. What would you have done if you were the girl? If you had to advice her, what would you have told her? When you first think about it she could do one of three things

 

1)   The girl should refuse to take a pebble

 

2)   The girl should show that there were two black pebbles in the bag and expose the landlord as a cheat.

 

3)   The girl should pick a black pebble and sacrifice herself in order to save her father from his debt and jail.

 

Take a minute to think about the story. What would you recommend to the girl to do?

Well here is what she did, the girl put her hand into the moneybag and drew out a pebble. Without looking at it, she fumbled a let it fall onto the pebble-strewn path where it immediately became lost among all the other pebbles.

 “Oh, how clumsy of me,” she said. “But never mind, if you look into the bag for the one that is left, you will be able to tell which pebble I picked.”

Since the remaining pebble is black, it must be assumed that she had picked the white one. However, since the landlord dared not admit his dishonesty, the girl changed what seemed an impossible situation into an extremely happy one.

So stand back, look at the bigger picture and think about things. Remember most problems have a solution, it may not be the solution you wish for or would like, but it is a solution.

The Storytellers New Coat.

The Storyteller's New Coat.

The storyteller dreamt of a new coat.  He dreamt of that coat so many times he convinced himself that he could not tell stories without it.  In fact he simply could not live without one.

So he began to search for it. Day and night, far and wide. He searched so hard that he forgot to tell the wonderful stories that he knew, in time he lost the skill, He had  forgotten how to sit by a roaring fire and how to say those magic words:

"Once upon a time"

Then one day, while he was wandering the road’s of Ireland, he found it, the perfect coat. And my, was it perfect?

The collar was perfect. The buttons were perfect. The pockets couldn’t be more perfect! It was a perfect coat. It would be perfect for telling his stories in!

The storyteller bought it there and then, he placed it on is back and admired himself in the mirror. He put the collar up, he put the collar down. He put his hands in the pockets; he took his hands out of the pockets. It was perfect!

It was then the storyteller realised that to be a perfect storyteller, he would have to have new boots. How could he perform the perfect story in the perfect new coat and still wear his worn out old shoes.

So again he searched, and again he forgot to tell his wonderful stories.

Well he searched in Belfast, Ballina and Bantry. He searched in Castlebar, Cork and Charlestown, Tipperary and Tralee. He searched in Limerick, Galway and Mayo! But it was on the Clare Island that he found the perfect boots.

And my, were they perfect? He bought them there and then. He stamped up and down in them he marched like a soldier and danced like a cowboy......Yee Haa.....They were perfect, the most perfect pair of boots the storyteller had ever worn.

And the storyteller stood in front of the mirror, he admired his perfect new boots, he admired his perfect new coat and he was just about to go and tell his stories when he realised that to be a PERFECT storyteller, he would have to have a new hat.

How could he perform in the perfect new coat and the perfect new boots without a perfect new hat? So again he searched for the hat. Forgetting to tell his stories. All the hats he tried were no good. They were all too ordinary, too fancy, too dull or too plain, but then on a market stall in Westport he found it. The perfect hat. Tall and thin, black silk that gently caught the breeze, with a Peacocks feather in the side.

Well he bought it there and then and placed it on his head and looked as fine as any Storyteller who could possibly tell a tale.

And the storyteller looked at himself in the mirror, admired his perfect new hat, his perfect new boots, his perfect new coat and he readied himself to go!

It was then that the storyteller realised he had forgotten all of his stories. So obsessed had he become with finding the perfect new coat, the perfect new boots, the perfect new hat, that he had forgotten all his stories, every single one, every single line, every word. He was a storyteller without a tale!

In the autumn the storyteller sold his new coat to pay for food for his belly.

In the winter the storyteller sold his new boots to pay for wood for his fire.

In the spring the storyteller sold his new hat to buy a new book of tales.

And in the summer the storyteller began to tell again!

 

So remember, Work with what you have or you may not work at all!

The Storyteller.

The Storyteller.

There’s turf on the fire

There’s tea in the pot

Sunday’s here again

It’s been a good week

And now is the time

To hear the tale’s again

So pull up a chair and sit awhile

The clock is striking three

Tune in to WRFM

And join the Seanachái.

 

Lord Franklin.

This is another story with a song . It is taken from Arcanadh's album Soundings. It tells the story of the ill-fated Lord Franklin.

Lord Franklin.

Lord Franklin was a famous nineteenth century British sea captain and explorer.  His final expedition, undertaken in his sixties, aimed to find the (at the time) mythical Northwest sea Passage.  The expedition set off for the artic in 1846 .  At the time, it was quite usual for such expeditions to be out of contact for more than a year, so at first nobody worried too much about Franklin.  Then, as the months wore on, it became clear that the expedition had met with some mishap. 

The fate of Franklin was a public mystery ("The fate of Franklin, no man may know"). The icebound ships were abandoned and the entire crew perished from starvation, hypothermia, tuberculosis, lead poisoning and scurvy. Franklin's wife ultimately commissioned a second expedition to search for her husband, even though by the time it left, it was all but certain that Franklin himself had perished. 

It is this story that the song tells, apparently from the point of view of Lady Franklin.  Indeed, according to some sources, she was the song's author. 

The Priest's Soul.

The priest’s soul, (a story about the first butterfly).

Once upon a time far back in the mist of time Ireland was known as the land of saints and scholars. Kings and Queens would send their sons here to be educated.

At this time there was a poor young boy who was known to everyone for his intelligence and although his parents were but lowly labourers he came to the attention of one of the priests who taught those of wealth that were sent to him. This is his story.

This priest was the cleverest priest in Ireland, however, he had grown very vain and proud, he had forgotten his own lowly beginnings and even forgotten his god whom his faith had taught him was the one who had made him what he was. His pride of winning every argument led him to believe that he could prove there was no purgatory, no hell, indeed no heaven, and so logically there was no god and no soul. In fact we were no better than the beast of the field and when we died there was no rebirth or resurrection.

“Who ever saw a soul?" he would say. "If you can show me one, I will believe." No one could make any answer to this; and at last they all came to believe that as there was no other world, you might as well do as you liked in this one; the priest set the example, for he took a beautiful young girl as his wife. However, as no priest or bishop in the whole land could be got to marry them, he was obliged to read the service himself. It was a great scandal, yet no one dared to say a word, for all the kings' sons were on his side, and would have slaughtered anyone who tried to prevent his wicked goings-on.

One night an angel appeared to him just as he was going to bed. He told the priest that he had twenty four hours to live.

“Give me more time” said the priest, but the angel refused.

“Have pity on my poor soul” said the priest.

“Why? You have no soul, isn’t that what you have taught others?” replied the angel.

“I do have a soul, I can feel it fluttering in my chest ever since you appeared, I was just being a fool before” answered the priest.

“Yes, a fool you are” said the angel “What good was all your learning when you forgot your soul?”

“If I am to die will I go to heaven?” asked the priest,

“No, for you denied heaven” replied the angel.

“Well, how about purgatory then?”

“No, you denied that as well, so it’s straight to hell for you me boy” said the angel,

“Ah now hang on a minute, didn’t I also deny there was a hell? So you can’t send me there either”, said the priest.

The angel was a little puzzled.

"Well," said he, "I'll tell you what I can do for you. You may either live now on earth for a hundred years enjoying every pleasure, and then be cast into Hell for ever; or you may die in twenty-four hours in the most horrible torments, and pass through Purgatory, there to remain till the Day of Judgment, but only you can find one person that believes, and through their belief mercy will be given to you and your soul will be saved."

The priest just took a few seconds to make up his mind. "I will have death in the twenty-four hours," he said, "so that my soul may be saved at last." So the angel gave him directions as to what he was to do, and left him.

Then, immediately, the priest went downstairs and entered the large room where all his scholars and the kings' sons were seated. The priest asked them

“Have men souls?”

They answered “Once we believed they did but you convinced us otherwise”.

The priest replied “I taught you a lie, now I believe there is a god and we do have an immortal soul” they all laughed at him for they thought this was just a trick to start another argument.

“Prove it” they said.

 

Next he went to his wife but she also laughed at him. He ran from the house and asked every person he met if they believed but they also laughed at him. Just as despair seemed to rise up all around him a little boy came by.

“God save you” said the child,

The priest jumped up “Do you believe in God child?”

“Of course, I’ve travelled far to learn about him, will you direct me to the best place to learn about him?” answered the child.

“The best place and the best teacher is here” said the priest and pointed to himself.

When the priest told the boy his name he said “Aren't you the priest who does not believe in a soul because it cannot be seen?

“I was” replied the priest.

“Well that’s stupid for I can tell you that the soul does exist” said the boy,

“How can you be so sure?” the priest inquired,

“I would say to you show me life if you believe you have life” replied the boy.

 

“But that is not possible; life cannot be seen for it is invisible” said the priest,

 The boy replied “So is the soul”.

When the priest heard him speak these words he fell down on his knees before him, now he knew his soul would go to heaven for he had found one who believed and he told the child his whole story.

As the priest finished he began to feel a great pain in his chest and the words of the angel sounded in his ears,

“You have only 24hrs to live”

The priest knew that his time on earth was drawing to an end and that the pain he was feeling was that of all the souls who had denied their god.

As he lay dying the priest asked the young boy to stay with him and to be there for his final breath saying to him,

“When you see death upon my face watch for my soul as it leaves my body.  When you see this happen run and tell everyone that you see that man has an immortal soul and that heaven does exist.

At last the time came and death settled upon him. The child saw a beautiful living creature with four snow white wings rise up from the middle of the priest’s chest and flutter around his head. He ran and brought back some of those that he met and when they saw it they all knew it was the soul of the priest and they watched in wonder as it passed from sight and disappeared into the clouds.

It is said that this was the first butterfly to be seen in Ireland and now it has entered Irish folklore as the belief that the butterfly is the soul of one who has passed off this mortal coil and is just waiting for the moment the doors of heaven open so they may pass through into eternal peace.

You see sometimes it’s enough to have the simple belief of a child.

The Birth of the Harp.

Once upon a time long, long ago there lived a man and a woman in little cottage by the sea.  The man’s name was John and he was a farmer. His wife Mary was an angry woman who spent her life chastising him.

One day John returned from his work and sat down at the table. Mary came in from outside and seeing John she began to scold him.

"Why are you still at the table?" asked Mary impatiently.

"Wife, I just sat down to my lunch five minutes ago. I've been in the fields all day!" replied John.

"Well, get you back out to the fields. You still have work to do. Take your bread and cheese with you," grumbled Mary.

"Let me get a drink of buttermilk first. It's hot outside," John said.

"Don't drink it all. It needs to last for a while."

John said, "Woman, will you never be satisfied?"

"How can I be satisfied when you sit in the house all day and do nothing?" grumbled Mary.

John grabbed his lunch and raced out to the fields.

"She never stops complaining," muttered John. "I wish I could find just one thing that would make her happy."

A few days later, Mary and John were on the beach gathering seaweed for the salt in it. As usual, Mary was grumbling.

Suddenly she stopped.

"What is that sound?" she whispered.

They listened. There it was the most haunting sound they had ever heard. But they couldn’t see where was it coming from?

They kept on walking, searching for the wonderful sound.

All they could see were the bones of a whale that had died on the beach. However, as they stood and looked at the skeleton, John noticed that the sound seemed to be coming from the bones. As the wind blew, the sound got louder. When the wind stopped blowing, the music stopped, too.

John said, "The wind is causing the music as it blows through the bones."

"That is the most soothing tune I have ever heard," said Mary in a quiet, calm voice.

And Mary was calm and uncomplaining for the rest of the week!

John was surprised but pleased with Mary's new behaviour. He began to think about it. He finally decided that it was the music that had changed Mary.

"I must find a way to keep the music close to Mary.  That way she’ll stay happy," John said to himself.

"I know what I will do," he said three days later. He went and cut down a large tree. He bought some catgut. He shaped the wood into the shape of the whale's rib bones. He made strings of the catgut and attached them to the wood. Then he painted and polished the wood. It was beautiful!

John brought the instrument into the house. He strummed the strings and waited. Mary came out from the back room. She had a lovely smile on her face.

"Oh, John," she whispered, "you have brought the music to me! It is so beautiful! I am so happy!"

She sat down and began to strum the instrument, too. It was as if she was born knowing how to play. She played and played.

And Mary was happy from that day forward. John was even happier because Mary was no longer complaining!

Some say that is how the first harp came to be.  Of course there are other theories.

The Miserly Landlord.

The Miserly Landlord.

Once upon a time there was a very wealthy landlord that lived in the west of Ireland. He was extremely miserable because he was always watching his money fearing that everyone was plotting ways to take it from him.  He had hundreds of thousands of pounds although today he would count his money in euros, ask him to spend a pound and he would go into a rage.

He had no friends because he thought that having friends cost money but those who knew him suggested that if he took himself a bride he would at least have some company.  He thought about it for at least ten seconds and quickly decided that a wife would expect some housekeeping money and this caused him to begin to shake all over.  He just as quickly decided that it would be a lot cheaper to remain a bachelor for the rest of his life as he did not want to share any of his money with anyone else.

He had no family, at least none that would admit to knowing such a miserly old skinflint.  However, the landlord did have at least one luxury that he believed was necessary, a servant.  He paid him very little and expected him to do all the cleaning, cooking, laundry and every other job he could think of. This left the landlord free to squeeze every last penny out of his tenants and to go about his business of evicting those who couldn’t pay their rent on time. It was obvious to all concerned that although he did not like spending money he could not manage without his servant.

Years passed and the landlord grew older, eventually he became ill as he would not spend money on fuel and the cold damp winters that we know so well in the west of Ireland began to affect him.  He said to his servant “I’ve looked after you all your life now you have to look after me; I need you to answer a question, how sick do you think I am”? The servant told the landlord that he thought he was very sick and should call for the doctor.  The landlord thought about this for about ten seconds then said “If I call for the doctor he will charge me a fee, but if I don’t call for him people will say I am a stupid man worried about money when I could be dying”.  The servant told the landlord that he believed he was so sick that he could indeed be dying and that he should call the doctor straight away.  The landlord replied “If I’m that bad then I have a suggestion to make.  Go to the undertaker and ask him what his fee will be when I die, then go to the doctor and ask him what his fee will be to treat me”. 

The servant did as he was told, the undertaker told him that his lowest fee was €110; he then went to the doctor who said his lowest fee would be €150.  The servant returned to the landlord and told him what he had learned, the miserly landlord quickly made a decision saying to the servant “Well the best thing to do is you must take me to the undertaker for the doctor’s cure is far too expensive”.  The skinflint of a landlord wouldn’t spend the extra forty euro’s to cure his illness and he died shortly afterwards.  The servant paid the undertaker his €110 fee and as the landlord had no relatives, or none that came forward to claim his riches, all the rest of his money went to his long suffering servant.

The landlord’s attachment to his money was the thing that killed him in the end because he chose the undertaker over the doctor.  By choosing the cheaper option he hoped to save a few euros’ little realising that once he died he would lose all his money anyway. He would now be remembered as a tight fisted skinflint, a miser who thought of no one but himself.  Had he given just a little of his wealth to a charity or some good cause, had he thought of others instead of grasping at pennies he would have been remembered fondly by all those he could have helped. 

In the end he couldn’t take it with him, the servant became a millionaire overnight. Will he believe that others will exploit him for his money or will he choose to use his new found wealth for good? Some people say that money is like manure; it can only do well if it’s spread around helping things to grow. 

In many ways this could have been the landlord’s legacy, his path to immortality.  Instead he will simply be remembered as a selfish little man. I wonder which path the servant will choose. I wonder which path you would choose.

A wife's true love.

                                                         A wife’s true love.


 

An elderly man lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favourite scones wafting up the stairs.

He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed. Leaning on the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs.

With laboured breath, he leaned against the door-frame, gazing into the kitchen. Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon the kitchen table were literally hundreds of his favourite scones.

Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his devoted wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?

Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in rumpled posture. His aged and withered hand trembled towards a scone at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked by his wife with a wooden spoon.

 "Get off and leave them alone" she said, "They’re for the funeral."