The Crock of Gold (12 page)

"All men are brothers, and it may be that these people are as hungry as I am."

In a short time the strangers came near. The foremost of them was a huge man who was bearded to the eyelids and who moved like a strong wind. He opened the gate by removing a piece of wood
wherewith it was jammed, and he and his companions passed through, whereupon he closed the gate and secured it. To this man, as being the eldest, the Philosopher approached.

"I am about to breakfast," said he, "and if you are hungry perhaps you would like to eat with me."

"Why not?" said the man, "for the person who would refuse a kind invitation is a dog. These are my three sons and three of my daughters, and we are all thankful to you."

Saying this he sat down on the bank and his companions, placing their pails behind them, did likewise. The Philosopher divided his cake into eight pieces and gave one to each person.

"I am sorry it is so little," said he.

"A gift," said the bearded man, "is never little," and he courteously ate his piece in three bites although he could have easily eaten it in one, and his children also made much of their
pieces.

"That was a good, satisfying cake," said he when he had finished, "it was well baked and well shared, but," he continued, "I am in a difficulty and maybe you could advise me what to do,
Sir?"

"What might be your trouble?" said the Philosopher.

"It is this," said the man. "Every morning when we go out to milk the cows the mother of my clan gives to each of us a parcel of food so that we need not be any hungrier than we like; but now,
we have had a good breakfast with you, what shall we do with the food that we brought with us? The woman of the house would not be pleased if we carried it back to her, and if we threw food away it
would be a sin. If it was not disrespectful to your breakfast the boys and girls here might be able to get rid of it by eating it, for, as you know, young people can always eat a bit more no matter
how much they have already eaten."

"It would surely be better to eat it than to waste it," said the Philosopher wistfully.

The young people produced large parcels of food from their pockets and opened them, and the bearded man said, "I have a little one myself too, and it would not be wasted if you were kind enough
to help me to eat it," and he pulled out his parcel which was twice as big as any of the others.

He opened the parcel and handed the larger part of its contents to the Philosopher, he then plunged a tin vessel into one of the milk pails and set this also by the Philosopher, and, instantly,
they all began to eat with furious appetite.

When the meal was finished the Philosopher filled his tobacco pipe and the bearded man and his three sons did likewise.

"Sir," said the bearded man, "I would be glad to know why you are travelling abroad so early in the morning, for, at this hour, no one stirs but the sun and the birds and the folk who, like
ourselves, follow the cattle?"

"I will tell you that gladly," said the Philosopher, "if you will tell me your name."

"My name," said the bearded man, "is Mac Cúl."

"Last night," said the Philosopher, "when I came from the house of Angus Óg in the Cave of the Sleepers of Erinn I was bidden say to a man named Mac Cúl—that the horses had
trampled in their sleep and the sleepers had turned on their sides."

"Sir," said the bearded man, "your words thrill in my heart like music, but my head does not understand them."

"I have learned," said the Philosopher, "that the head does not hear anything until the heart has listened, and that what the heart knows today the head will understand tomorrow."

"All the birds of the world are singing in my soul," said the bearded man, "and I bless you because you have filled me with hope and pride."

So the Philosopher shook him by the hand, and he shook the hands of his sons and daughters who bowed before him at the mild command of their father, and when he had gone a little way he looked
around again and he saw that group of people standing where he had left them, and the bearded man was embracing his children on the highroad.

A bend in the path soon shut them from view, and then the Philosopher, fortified by food and the freshness of the morning, strode onwards singing for very joy. It was still early, but now the
birds had eaten their breakfasts and were devoting themselves to each other. They rested side by side on the branches of the trees and on the hedges, they danced in the air in happy brotherhoods
and they sang to one another amiable and pleasant ditties.

When the Philosopher had walked for a long time he fell a little weary and sat down to refresh himself in the shadow of a great tree. Hard by there was a house of rugged stone. Long years ago it
had been a castle, and, even now, though patched by time and misfortune its front was warlike and frowning. While he sat a young woman came along the road and stood gazing earnestly at this house.
Her hair was as black as night and as smooth as still water, but her face came so stormily forward that her quiet attitude had yet no quietness in it. To her, after a few moments, the Philosopher
spoke.

"Girl," said he, "why do you look so earnestly at the house?"

The girl turned her pale face and stared at him.

"I did not notice you sitting under the tree," said she, and she came slowly forward.

"Sit down by me," said the Philosopher, "and we will talk. If you are in any trouble tell it to me, and perhaps you will talk the heaviest part away."

"I will sit beside you willingly," said the girl, and she did so.

"It is good to talk trouble over," he continued. "Do you know that talk is a real thing? There is more power in speech than many people conceive. Thoughts come from God, they are born through
the marriage of the head and the lungs. The head moulds the thought into the form of words, then it is borne and sounded on the air which has been already in the secret kingdoms of the body, which
goes in bearing life and comes out freighted with wisdom. For this reason a lie is very terrible, because it is turning mighty and incomprehensible things to base uses, and is burdening the
life-giving element with a foul return for its goodness; but those who speak the truth and whose words are the symbols of wisdom and beauty, these purify the whole world and daunt contagion. The
only trouble the body can know is disease. All other miseries come from the brain, and, as these belong to thought, they can be driven out by their master as unruly and unpleasant vagabonds; for a
mental trouble should be spoken to, confronted, reprimanded and so dismissed. The brain cannot afford to harbour any but pleasant and eager citizens who will do their part in making laughter and
holiness for the world, for that is the duty of thought."

While the Philosopher spoke the girl had been regarding him steadfastly.

"Sir," said she, "we tell our hearts to a young man and our heads to an old man, and when the heart is a fool the head is bound to be a liar. I can tell you the things I know, but how will I
tell you the things I feel when I myself do not understand them? If I say these words to you 'I love a man' I do not say anything at all, and you do not hear one of the words which my heart is
repeating over and over to itself in the silence of my body. Young people are fools in their heads and old people are fools in their hearts, and they can only look at each other and pass by in
wonder."

"You are wrong," said the Philosopher. "An old person can take your hand like this and say, 'May every good thing come to you, my daughter.' For all trouble there is sympathy, and for love there
is memory, and these are the head and the heart talking to each other in quiet friendship. What the heart knows today the head will understand tomorrow, and as the head must be the scholar of the
heart it is necessary that our hearts be purified and free from every false thing, else we are tainted beyond personal redemption."

"Sir," said the girl, "I know of two great follies—they are love and speech, for when these are given they can never be taken back again, and the person to whom these are given is not any
richer, but the giver is made poor and abashed. I gave my love to a man who did not want it. I told him of my love, and he lifted his eyelids at me; that is my trouble."

For a moment the Philosopher sat in stricken silence looking on the ground. He had a strange disinclination to look at the girl although he felt her eyes fixed steadily on him. But in a little
while he did look at her and spoke again.

"To carry gifts to an ungrateful person, cannot he justified and need not be mourned for. If your love is noble why do you treat it meanly? If it is lewd the man was right to reject it."

"We love as the wind blows," she replied.

"There is a thing," said the Philosopher, "and it is both the biggest and the littlest thing in the world."

"What is that?" said the girl.

"It is pride," he answered. "It lives in an empty house. The head which has never been visited by the heart is the house pride lives in. You are in error, my dear, and not in love. Drive out the
knave pride, put a flower in your hair and walk freely again."

The girl laughed, and suddenly her pale face became rosy as the dawn and as radiant and lovely as a cloud. She shed warmth and beauty about her as she leaned forward.

"You are wrong," she whispered, "because he does love me; but he does not know it yet. He is young and full of fury, and has no time to look at women, but he looked at me. My heart knows it and
my head knows it, but I am impatient and yearn for him to look at me again. His heart will remember me tomorrow, and he will come searching for me with prayers and tears, with shouts and threats. I
will be very hard to find tomorrow when he holds out his arms to the air and the sky, and is astonished and frightened to find me nowhere. I will hide from him tomorrow, and frown at him when he
speaks, and turn aside when he follows me: until the day after tomorrow when he will frighten me with his anger, and hold me with his furious hands, and make me look at him."

Saying this the girl arose and prepared to go away.

"He is in that house," said she, "and I would not let him see me here for anything in the world."

"You have wasted all my time," said the Philosopher smiling.

"What else is time for?" said the girl, and she kissed the Philosopher and ran swiftly down the road.

She had been gone but a few moments when a man came out of the grey house and walked quickly across the grass. When he reached the hedge separating the field from the road he tossed his two arms
in the air, swung them down, and jumped over the hedge into the roadway. He was a short, dark youth, and so swift and sudden were his movements that he seemed to look on every side at the one
moment although he bore furiously to his own direction.

The Philosopher addressed him mildly.

"That was a good jump," said he.

The young man spun around from where he stood, and was by the Philosopher's side in an instant.

"It would be a good jump for other men," said he, "but it is only a little jump for me. You are very dusty, sir; you must have travelled a long distance today."

"A long distance," replied the Philosopher. "Sit down here, my friend, and keep me company for a little time."

"I do not like sitting down," said the young man, "but I always consent to a request, and I always accept friendship." And, so saying, he threw himself down on the grass.

"Do you work in that big house?" said the Philosopher.

"I do," he replied. "I train the hounds for a fat, jovial man, full of laughter and insolence."

"I think you do not like your master."

"Believe, sir, that I do not like any master; but this man I hate. I have been a week in his service, and he has not once looked on me as on a friend. This very day, in the kennel, he passed me
as though I were a tree or a stone. I almost leaped to catch him by the throat and say: 'Dog, do you not salute your fellow-man?' But I looked after him and let him go, for it would be an
unpleasant thing to strangle a fat person."

"If you are displeased with your master should you not look for another occupation?" said the Philosopher.

"I was thinking of that, and I was thinking whether I ought to kill him or marry his daughter. She would have passed me by as her father did, but I would not let a woman do that to me: no man
would."

"What did you do to her?" said the Philosopher.

The young man chuckled—

"I did not look at her the first time, and when she came near me the second time I looked another way, and on the third day she spoke to me, and while she stood I looked over her shoulder
distantly. She said she hoped I would be happy in my new home, and she made her voice sound pleasant while she said it; but I thanked her and turned away carelessly."

"Is the girl beautiful?" said the Philosopher.

"I do not know," he replied; "I have not looked at her yet, although now I see her everywhere. I think she is a woman who would annoy me if I married her."

"If you haven't seen her, how can you think that?"

"She has tame feet," said the youth. "I looked at them and they got frightened. Where have you travelled from, sir?"

"I will tell you that," said the Philosopher, "if you will tell me your name."

"It is easily told," he answered; "my name is MacCulain."

"When I came last night," said the Philosopher, "from the place of Angus Óg in the Cave of the Sleepers of Erinn I was bidden say to a man named MacCulain that The Grey of Macha had
neighed in his sleep and the sword of Laeg clashed on the floor as he turned in his slumber."

The young man leaped from the grass.

"Sir," said he in a strained voice, "I do not understand your words, but they make my heart to dance and sing within me like a bird."

"If you listen to your heart," said the Philosopher, "you will learn every good thing, for the heart is the fountain of wisdom tossing its thoughts up to the brain which gives them
form,"—and, so saying, he saluted the youth and went again on his way by the curving road.