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Show . i I IRISH CHARACTER SKETCHES. It was a warm day in the end of July, many more years ago "than I i ft-ould care to tell, that I first caught : a. glimpse of big Jim Keilly, the jobber. lini was big in heart, soul and body, ind the latter part of him was evident-y evident-y suffering from the heat if one can ; ludge by his&'slow gait and a plentiful ; application of a large red handkerchief to his brow. Jobbers, and by the word lobber I mean a man who deals In cat-Lie cat-Lie and pigs, are as a general rule 'leshy men, and Jim was about the f attest at-test man I ever saw. He was a na- i'.ive. of our village, but he was seldom amongst us. as the nature of his profession pro-fession obliged him to tramp up and 3ovn the country to the various fairs Hid markets. Jim dealt In cattle, sheep and ponies; in fact. In any four-footed four-footed animal he could make money out :if. The success of a good jobber lies ! in buying as cheaply as he can, and ihen soiling his purchase as quickly at I the highest figure he can get., Jobbers is a rule are gifted with a great deal of persuasion and bluster, and Jim was gifted with these two Qualities in a high degree. As I gaze upon him this July day. he is driving a herd of about twenty old cows, and to judge by their crippled gait and the feverish, way they browse on the rich tuffs of grass by I he wayside, you would imagine they had under the guidance of Jim just traversed the Sahara desert. As I gaze upon them and their owner the latter gives a gentle stroke of his stick to a lagging cow, remarking- as he does so: "Git along wud yeh, yeh ould divll. " I'll never make me own money out ov yeh. I must be asleep whin I bought yeh, for yer horn is as ould as Methu- salim." And then comes a burst of song: "Wan winter's day. long, long ago, "Whin I wps a li-ttle fellow. , piper wandered to our dure, C- TTl -.- It .wl , ,,1 1 . 1 .3 .,.. ,.,.11 I An', oh! how glad was my young heart, I Though earth an' sky looked dreary, To see the stranger an' his dog. Poor 'Pinch.' -nn' Coach O'Leary." An approaching gig puts an end to Jim's further burst of song, and on seeing the occupant of the gig Jim puts ) a business air as he mutters to 1 himself: "Iv I cur! only sell him a few ould i rows now, bud he's as cute as the divil in' as hard as nails." . "Good mornin', Mr. Mannerlng (the i local magistrate). Re the powders ov war, bud ye're lookin' as fresh as ripe strawberries." " "Good morning. Roilly. good morning. 5ou're dealins in old cows now, I see f pulling up his horse); old cows won't pay. Take my advice and buySome ?ood 2-year-old bullocks." "Me cows aren't ould. yer honor, for. siven years isn't an ould age for a cow, an' the oldest ov thim wants three weeks an a day ov that age yit. They're a bit worn out an' footsore for Hanagher is a far way from here, an (hit's where they kfm from. I was Ihinkin' they are the kind that wud suit yer honor's land, an' after three work's they'd be fit for the Dublin marklt." "They're not my class. gilly," and Mr. Mannering touches the horse with '.'20 whip, about to take his departure. "They're not yer class," echoed "Tteil-I "Tteil-I !y in surprise. "Re the powders ov war, they're any man's class. Why, Mr. Mannering, where's yer judgmint gone to: look at that yellow 5-year-ould cow (here. She has a back on her like a table, ta-ble, an' a head on her like a gazelle's. She's a pure Hereford, an' I'll be givin' her to yer honor chape, an' the black wan there wud the crooked horn, an' the red Man next her will be a good nntch. See here, yer honor," and Reil-ly Reil-ly looks round to see if there was any person within hearing distance, and tlu-n whispers: "I'll give the three to yeh for forty-five pounds, though I'm losin' money on thim." "I don't want any more cattle, Reil-'y. Reil-'y. an " "I'll give yer honor a dacint luck-pinny, luck-pinny, for ye're the right sort, an' I like to sell to yeh." x "Good-day, Reilly, good-day. ' I'm thankful to you all the same, but" "Hould out yer hand, yer honor. Be the powders fx war. bud I'm robbing meself compfately.; I'll give yeh the three for forty 'pounds, anl I'll lave it to me' frind here, Phil Maguire (the tailor had just come unon the scene), an' he'll tell yer honor they're for noth-!n'." noth-!n'." "I must say from me knowledge of cattle cat-tle an' me knowledge is evtinsive, that they're not clear an' not chape." replied Phil Maguire. putting his two thumbs mt: hs waistcoat pocket, at the same time shutting one eye and casting his head sideways, as if he were judging the levclness of a board, "bud may I ax veh. Jimmy, what yer'e axin' his honor for thim?" Reilly completely ignores the tailor's query, but presses a sale on Mr. Mannering Man-nering with: "Give me a hid. yer honor, an' thin we'll be on spakin' terms." , "I'm a man of few words. Reiily," and Mr. Mannering strokes his broad chest: "what I say I say. and say forever. for-ever. I don't want your cows, but if you like to part with them for thirty-five thirty-five pounds you can turn them into my farm." "Yeh might as well offer me thirty-five thirty-five halfplnce. Mr. Mannering," and Reilly makes three hasty steps forward for-ward in the direction of hiscows, whil? Phil Maguire hurriedly brings his right hand down on his left with a clap and the words: "Split the dlfh'rince, let yeh, an' don't brake me word." ! Mr. Menmring shook his head and Reilly gives three more hurried steps as if to depart, but the tailor has still a word to say. a 1 the words come: "Divide jigin." "I won't bif . r word. Phil Ma guire, for tho ..j don't know B Trom a bull's ; ve a great re gard for you.' -inu . rr. Mannering looks 'n the diiwion ri Reilly. "I won't break ., , word, aithcr. Phil Maguire." Mid H, Uy retraces his six steps, and re, -hi ,r Mr. Mannering he bids the Iatt?r rold out his hand, and then he brings Ms right down on Mr. Mannerng's right with a loud clap, ;.md: "Sowld agin, yer honor, an' I may tell yeh I didn't git me own out of "thim f same cows, bud I like to sell to yeh. for ve're a man ov judgmint and perspicuity." perspicui-ty." The magistrate departs, well pleased at the bargain, and Reilly and Maguire adjourn to Joe Cassidy's public house., where, over two frothing pints of juiness stout. Reilly declares that he got a wonderful price for three old cows that, as he expresses it: "Wor oulder than MethusaJim's grandmother." Jimmy Reilly was a perfect specimen nf the Irish jobber. His life was spent tramping from fair to fair buying and celling on the way. He could not settle set-tle down to the peace and quiet of a farm, for, like the old sailor who loves 1 the open sea and the stout timbers of I Me ship, Jimmy loved the din of fairs i and the excitement of making bargains. I Though a good judge of his profession, I still Jimmy never made any money. I t The passion for gambling on race ! ! , - . horses was stuck deep in his composition, composi-tion, and whatever money he mad? went on the wrong horse. After a heavy loss he would make the resolution resolu-tion of never putting a penny again on a horse, but the cry of "Even money on the field," "six to one bar one," was too much for him, and so Jimmy was sucked into-the gambling vortex and deprived, as every other gambler is sooner or later, of his money. I lil'.ed poor Jimmy, and I well remember how often I sat beside him on the roadside and listened with bated breath as he told me of fairs, markets, circuses and race horses, and he always wound up with: "Never be a jobber, avic machree, whatever else yeh be, for it's a hard life an' ye'll get more kicks than half-pince," half-pince," Jimmy could sing well, but he was a man of only one song, and that song he learned in the long ago from his mother. The song was "Poor Pinch and Coach O'Leary," and I well remember remem-ber how his eyes filled with tears as, bareheaded, these words came rich and mellow, from his throat: "Oh! God he wud those happy times, Oh! God he wud me childhood Whin I, bareheaded, roamed all day Bird nesting in the wildwood. I'll not forgit those sunny hours, However years may vary, I'll not forget me early frinds. Nor honist Coach O'Leary." .t Yes, Jimmy, God be with those happy hap-py clays. It is only in latter years that we see how happy they were, and God be with those dear old friends, for it is only in latter years, too, we find out how simple, pure and good they were, and though my "years may vary," I never can forget the dear old people of my youth who were "True as the truest, And gay as the gayest.. "Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood." BY CABIN. Next week. "The Bird Catcher." |