The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 11 January 1912, Page 3

The Storyteller

'A VILLAGE SAINT' To everyone else she was only Kitty . Cooney —to r me she was a saint; ? She lived 7 ; in a little house at the top of : the- village street, a little "house consisting .of two small rooms that she kept as . neat as the* veritable * new pin.' / She had neither 'chick nor\mild,' as she expressed it, not 7 one but God and His Blessed Mother.- / Her white goat browsed on the village graves; no one objected to the widow's little cow feeding there; her ' God rest ye all: in th-? light an' glory o' Heaven ' was payment ?enough for- all of them, and", it was" tethered, first in the east, then in the west part of the churchyard, and the; little ; animal kept the herbage close, and -the graves for ever green. ''* Mrs. Coony was the first in the village to open her door every morning. The blue smoke, that, 'sweet . spirit of ; the sod,'. was: the first ; to curl up Irom her white chimney. And the first to enter the church door, morning after morning, for many a long year,-was 7 the 'Widow; Coony.' ; She was-always? to be "found in the same place—up near the Blessed Mother's altar; always kneeling erect h with her faded '.-. eyes-fixed 7 on that sweet face. And every, morning, since I first came to the village, she .was? at : the altar rails to receive her God. ■ Once my • good angel found me a place beside her, and I learned then how an Irish saint can pray 7 : Over and over again; she murmured, ' Cead mile failte, . my loving Lord, oh, welcome •;. and again and again : '•■ 1 0 Son of Mary, I love You—indeed 7 and 7 indeed- I do; sure who am I at all, that You should come, next or near me—me, old Kitty Coony?. 0 God of Heaven, make a weeshy corner for me in your Heart, an' never 7 while there's life in me, let me lose my place there; an' after death,' she whispered, 'have pity on me, O? Blessed Mother. Talk to my God for "me; tell Him I'm an ignorant poor craytur, full up o' .notkin' but [ misery—but that I love you, His own dear Mother—-? that I am your poor servant. An' for your sweet; sake to help me, an' to pity me.' So she prayed, on and on. And ?T felt small oh, very, 7 very small. How would God listen to •■ halfhearted prayers like mine, while there was one that loved Him so much, that was so full of faith, so 7 humble in her own eyes, to hearken to? ?Surely Kitty Coony, and others like" her, are?the very ' salt of the earth in holy Ireland. ; She made out life by spinning in the different farmhouses aroundthread for stockings; I mean—or Kitty's village was an old-fashioned corner of Ireland, and Had ,r not arrived at buying shop? goods, like; other and more advanced localities. - She knitted the stockings also during the long winter evenings by her own little fireside, for she was an energetic woman that depended on herself to: find the means l of living. ;She? had two sonsbut one rested among the dead in?the 7 little, churchyard,' and the other was away soldiering ? in foreign lands. -His mother had not heard from him for years, ? but night after ; night, % and morning? after ? morning, the names of the living and the dead were; wafted on their mother's prayers, to the foot of God's thronewafted there, with all the love - and pleading'? such a. heart as Kitty Coony's was capable of. ■'•■■'■ __. . That summer in Coolcullen ...was a very warm one. But even on the hottest day Kitty was on' the road. Glory be to God, but the weather is warm;'?she would? say, as she passed me, for I, as well as Kitty, had work to do that necessitated my being; always out of doors that - summer. We got to be friends after? some time, and she would stop to tell me the names of the families that lived near-by;,stop to tell me how long 'Hugh Kearny ' was married, or how long ' Pat Moran ' of the . Hollow was dead, what became of - ' Whelan's boy that went off to -America, or how well''..John Murphy ' got on in the world; but never a word; that was unkind never a word but .what was to each one's'credit although I am sure there were black sheep in Coolculleu as well as in every other quarter of the world. In

/ Kitty's thoughts, however, as well as in v her words, they were the whitest that were to be found anywhere. ■.■"■."" One morning when I was two months in the village, walking across. the .village churchyard, I found Kitty's ' little cow' stone dead. She had broken her tethering-cord during the night, and eaten a piece of the flourshing yew that grew over Martin Keegan's M*= ■ grave, and alas ! ._.-; :~y- : "-'■"■ -- . -'; :■• . Father' O'Brien was quite shocked. 'Dear me, ; . what will the poor creature do now, I wonder ? It gave her milk, and. she was quite independent -while it lived. r- She will be so troubled, poor woman.' ; ",:■;■ ' She will get another, no doubt,' I suggested. v .■■■■■■■■.' Get another ? Certainlv she will get another. V But, think how long it will be before it will milk like ■ Sally—' . ■ , ". " I looked across the graves; the old woman, with her shining can in her hand, was coming towards us she :; was looking around surprised.. . ■{■". / '..'" '";'•. V Father O'Brien went forward to meet her. :■/ ■ 'Kitty, woman, p have bad news for you,' he said gravely/ / Your poor goat got loose last night, and he paused and coughed. ' i 'ls she dead, Father ?' she asked quaveringly, r' while a little pink flush stole into her wrinkled cheeks and her faded eyes filled up with tears. : 'lam sorry to say it is,' he answered. 'Mr. Hinkson was coming across just now and found it. We must get you another as soon as possible.' ; .' The tears rolled slowly down her face. She brushed them off with her apron. ' Poor craytur,' she said, as she stood looking down at it; I reared her from a kid, Father, an' she was like a Christian she knew me k-/- .so well.' , ""■ "' ..'•'.;' - *■ had a second to give you a drop of milk -' --:, :-:'■. Well, welcome be the will of God,' she said resignedly. v> \ Sure He knows what's best; only I am sorry for the : poor craytur.' '"':■■. '■'■': 'Of course you're sorrywhy wouldn't you?' I ; answered. Z. 'Now, .if we only, knew where we could get another.' --.'•■ ' Maybe Mrs. Murphy would give me wan o' the kids,' she said hopefully. 'ln any case I'm obliged ." to you, sir, an' to you, Father, for lettin' me keep her ;: here so long. I'll get Paddy Morrissey to come take.her away, an bury her. Good mornin', Father, an' good luck.',, -.;. ■ ; - . .' .;_ She turned away, the tears still on her face, the empty can in her hand, not one word of repining or' ■',-. bemoaning, perfectly satisfied that it .'was"" the will of ?;;' God. C, : > ■.* :■ _ . ' •"-.''■'■.;.• , s ' That woman is a saint,'.-Father O'Brien remarked, as he took a pinch of snuff. 'I must see about another little cow for her.' ; : That-evening I "passed two small urchins whooping,; down the village street. One held a covered tin can,and both were making for Kitty Coony's—they werethe twin sons of Matty Murphy, and they were bringing a pint: of new milk to Kitty. Every evening during my stay in the village these two chaps went with a will down through the little street, and never without their tin can and its sweet contents to Kitty. ,',;'"-'_ ' Sure,' she remarked to me a fortnight later, -. 'God never forsakes wan, if they'll only have patience. There's Mrs. Murphy, now, that sends them two angels every evenin' with the sup o' milk, an' what do you s think, if the priest hasn't got me another milkin' goat. Oh, sir, I know you had a hand in it, for it's the" kind heart ye have.' • I laughed. 'l'll be going away to-morrow, Mrs. Coony,' I said. ' I hope you will sometimes think of me when you are saying your prayers in the little - church beyond; I will come back again, if I am alive, .'{Vnext summer.' —' *> -'An' welcome you'll-be, sir, an' proud we will be to see you,' she responded heartily 'an' as to praying".-. for you,; that's the least I can do. " May God 'an' His Blessed Mother protect you.' - , - : >'-~ = I shook her hand, and we parted smiling in the sunny hillside I never saw Kitty Coony again.\ Father O'Brien told me, when . I went to Coolcullen the following summer, how she died,

It was of a Sunday morning, and she had just returned from first Mass, and from receiving the Blessed Sacrament as usual, when the post-boy came up the little street and; put his head in at Kitty Coony's door. ~ 'Are you there, Mrs. Coony?' he asked gaily •;. here's a letter from foreign parts for you.' * She'was preparing lier breakfast, and had just put the tea to brew upon the hearth. "".'She turned round and went towards him. ■- "•'-;- r ■- ' V ..■;-; . ' Mark, alanha, you'll have to come in an' read it,' she said wearily, as she took it from him. I'm too near-sighted to see it, W I'm all of a tremble, too, at the sight of it. Who is it from, at all?' . ,".; Mark opened it, and turned to the end to see; it bore the signature of her long-watched for, long prayed for, forgetful son, James Coony. ,\ ' ' Oh,' she said softly, * oh, Mark, alanna, wait one rmnnit.;. ; ,0 Blessed Mother, I 'thank you; I knew you'd remember, I knew, I knew,' her voice; died s away' m a murmur, her tired head fell back against the back of the old wooden chair. Mark sprang forward to lift her _upright, but Kitty had no need of any. help" ever again. With that little prayer of thanksgiving upon her lips, surging up from her grateful loving heart, she slept the last long sleep of death. ' —Messenger of the Sacred Heart.•:-