A great length is needed
to form the close network which is spread over the thatch, as each
piece measures about fifty yards. When this work is in progress in
half the cottages of the village, the road has a curious look, and
one has to pick one's steps through a maze of twisting ropes that
pass from the dark doorways on either side into the fields.
When four or five immense balls of rope have been completed, a
thatching party is arranged, and before dawn some morning they come
down to the house, and the work is taken in hand with such energy
that it is usually ended within the day.
Like all work that is done in common on the island, the thatching is
regarded as a sort of festival. From the moment a roof is taken in
hand there is a whirl of laughter and talk till it is ended, and, as
the man whose house is being covered is a host instead of an
employer, he lays himself out to please the men who work with him.
The day our own house was thatched the large table was taken into
the kitchen from my room, and high teas were given every few hours.
Most of the people who came along the road turned down into the
kitchen for a few minutes, and the talking was incessant. Once when
I went into the window I heard Michael retailing my astronomical
lectures from the apex of the gable, but usually their topics have
to do with the affairs of the island.
It is likely that much of the intelligence and charm of these people
is due to the absence of any division of labour, and to the
correspondingly wide development of each individual, whose varied
knowledge and skill necessitates a considerable activity of mind.
Each man can speak two languages. He is a skilled fisherman, and can
manage a curagh with extraordinary nerve and dexterity He can farm
simply, burn kelp, cut out pampooties, mend nets, build and thatch a
house, and make a cradle or a coffin. His work changes with the
seasons in a way that keeps him free from the dullness that comes to
people who have always the same occupation. The danger of his life
on the sea gives him the alertness of the primitive hunter, and the
long nights he spends fishing in his curagh bring him some of the
emotions that are thought peculiar to men who have lived with the
arts.
As Michael is busy in the daytime, I have got a boy to come up and
read Irish to me every afternoon. He is about fifteen, and is
singularly intelligent, with a real sympathy for the language and
the stories we read.
One evening when he had been reading to me for two hours, I asked
him if he was tired.
'Tired?' he said, 'sure you wouldn't ever be tired reading!'
A few years ago this predisposition for intellectual things would
have made him sit with old people and learn their stories, but now
boys like him turn to books and to papers in Irish that are sent
them from Dublin.
In most of the stories we read, where the English and Irish are
printed side by side, I see him looking across to the English in
passages that are a little obscure, though he is indignant if I say
that he knows English better than Irish. Probably he knows the local
Irish better than English, and printed English better than printed
Irish, as the latter has frequent dialectic forms he does not know.
A few days ago when he was reading a folk-tale from Douglas Hyde's
Beside the Fire, something caught his eye in the translation.
'There's a mistake in the English,' he said, after a moment's
hesitation, 'he's put "gold chair" instead of "golden chair."'
I pointed out that we speak of gold watches and gold pins.
'And why wouldn't we?' he said; 'but "golden chair" would be much
nicer.'
It is curious to see how his rudimentary culture has given him the
beginning of a critical spirit that occupies itself with the form of
language as well as with ideas.
One day I alluded to my trick of joining string.
'You can't join a string, don't be saying it,' he said; 'I don't
know what way you're after fooling us, but you didn't join that
string, not a bit of you.'
Another day when he was with me the fire burned low and I held up a
newspaper before it to make a draught. It did not answer very well,
and though the boy said nothing I saw he thought me a fool.
The next day he ran up in great excitement.
'I'm after trying the paper over the fire,' he said, 'and it burned
grand. Didn't I think, when I seen you doing it there was no good in
it at all, but I put a paper over the master's (the school-master's)
fire and it flamed up. Then I pulled back the corner of the paper
and I ran my head in, and believe me, there was a big cold wind
blowing up the chimney that would sweep the head from you.'
We nearly quarrelled because he wanted me to take his photograph in
his Sunday clothes from Galway, instead of his native homespuns that
become him far better, though he does not like them as they seem to
connect him with the primitive life of the island.
